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Scanned  from  the  collection  of 
Karl  Thiede 


Coordinated  by  the 

Media  History  Digital  Library 

www.mediahistoryproject.org 


Funded  by  an  anonymous  donation 
in  memory  of  Carolyn  Hauer 


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CAROLE    LOMBARO 


GINI A  PEINE  -  GEORGE  RAFT  -  NORMA  SHEARER      how  AndY  Hardy  Reformed 
Their  Dramatic  Story  of  Modern  Love  and  Friendship  MICKEY  ROONEY' 


I-  IT  really  rue?  .  .  .  here  in  a  lovely  house,  with  a  car 
and  servants  .  .  .  and  the  nicest  man  in  the  world 
for  a  husband?    Sometimes  T  wonder  .  .  . 

It  seems  only  yesterday  that  I  was  one  of  an  army  of 

cleric and  a  very  lonely  one  at  that  .  .  .only  yesterday 

that  Anna  Johnson  gave  me  the  hint  that  changed  my 
entire  life.  Maybe  she  told  me  because  I  was  quitting 
and  she  wanted  me  to  have  a  good  time  on  my  little 
trip  to  Bermuda  that  I'd  skimped  and  saved  for. 

"Lil."  -he  -aid.  "in  the  three  years  we've  been  here. 
I've  only  seen  yon  out  with  a  man  occasionally.  I  know- 
it  isn't  because  you  don't  like  men  .  .  ." 

"The,\  do  'I  confessed. 

"That's  what  you  think  .  .  .  hut  you're  wrong.  You've 
got  everything-  i  any  man  would  like  you  if  it 
weren't  for  ..." 

"If  it  weren't  for 


"Gosh,    Lil,    I    hate    to    say    it    .    .    .    but    I    think    I 
ought  to  ..." 

And  then  she  told  me  .  .  .  told  me  what  I  should  have 
been  told  years  before — what  everyone  should  be  told. 
It  was  a  pretty  humiliating  hint  to  receive,  but  I  took 
it.  And  how  beautifully  it  worked! 

On  the  boat  on  the  way  down  to  the  Islands,  I  was 
really  sought  after  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  And 
then,  at  a  cocktail  party  in  a  cute  little  inn  in  Bermuda. 
I  met  HIM.  The  moon,  the  water,  the  scent  of  the  olean- 
der did  the  rest.     Three  months  later  we  were  married. 

I  realized  that  but  for  Anna's  hint  Romance  might 
have  passed  me  by. 

For  this  is  what  Anna  told  me: 

"Lil,"  she  said,  "there's  nothing  that  kills  a  man's 
interest  in  a  girl  as  fast  as  a  case  of  halitosis  (bad  breath).* 
Everyone  has  it  now  and  then.  To  say  the  least,  you've 


been,  well  .  .  .  cureless.  You  probably  never  realized 
your  trouble.  Halitosis  victims  seldom  do. 

"I'm  passing  you  a  little  tip,  honey — use  Listerine 
Antiseptic  before  any  date.  It's  a  wonderful  antiseptic 
and  deodorant  . .  .  makes  your  breath  so  much  sweeter  in 
no  time,  honest. 

"I'd  rather  go  to  a  date  without  my  shoes  than  with- 
out Listerine  Antiseptic.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  spells 
the  difference  between  being  a  washout  or  a  winner." 

And  in  view  of  what  happened,  I  guess  Anna  was  right. 


*  Sometimes  halitosis  is  due  to 
ally  and  fortunately  it  is  caused, 
fermentation  of  tiny  food  particlei 
quickly  halts   such  food  fermental 


conditions,  hut  usu- 
some  authorities,  by 
the  mouth.  Listerine 
and   then    overcomes 


the  odors  it  causes.  Your  breath  becomes  siveeter,  purer,  less 
likely  to  offend.  Always  use  Listerine  before  business  and 
social  engagements.  Lambert  Pharmacol  Co.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 


\^^<6UAA*vva4«  ^*£o/^**9^ 


FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 

By  Frances  Hughes,  New  York  Fashion  Editor 
Assisting    Gwenn   Walters,    Fashion    Editor 


1.  CAME  "THE  DAWN" 

A  new  kind  of  desk  light  incorporates  a  Seng, 
bush  self-closing   inkstand  and  pen.    Pen 
ever  ready  without  tipping  and  well  holds  c 
year's   supply   of   ink.     In    ivory   matelasse, 
brass  or  bronze  finish.   $19.50  each. 


2.  A  PICTURE  ESQUE  CHRISTMAS 

For  the  camera  addicts  on  your 
list,  Eastman  has  a  new  little  Ban- 
tam Kodak  that  takes  shots  in  full 
color  as  well  as  black  and  white. 
Present  the  projector,  too,  to  flash 
the  shots,  large  size,  on  any  screen 
or  white  wall  in  the  house.  $14.00 
for  the  camera;  $18.50  for  the  pro- 
jector. 


3.  CHRISTMAS  ON  THE  GOLD  STANDARD 

A  sentimental  Christmas,  too,  with 
Lisner's  flower  necklace  of  golden  roses 
festooned  around  a  glittering  golden 
chain.  A  bracelet,  too,  for  extra  oomph. 
They  call  the  rose  a  Victorian  flower, 
but  show  us  the  modern  minx  who 
wouldn't  dig  for  such  golden  treasure 
in  her  Christmas  stocking!  The  rose- 
necklace,  $2.00;  the  bracelet,  $1.00 
Absolutely! 


4.  FOUR  I'S  TO  EYE-APPEAL 

Orok  has  a  baby  blue  box  that's 
chock  full  of  ayes  for  the  eyes. 
I-Ease  Lotion,  I-Ease  Pads,  I-Grow 
Lashes,  and  I-Sparkle,  used  in 
about  the  order  mentioned,  will  pro- 
duce the  prettiest  pair  of  flashing 
orbs  on  any  scene.  $3.00  for  this 
complete  eye-beauty  regimen,  for 
the  girl  with  the  big  eyes  on  your 
list. 


5.  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS 

As  Lady  Esther  figures  it,  a  grow- 
ing girl  needs  4-Purpose  Face 
Cream,  a  box  of  Superfine  face 
powder  and  a  lipstick  to  make  her- 
self pretty  as  a  picture.  So  she 
joined  the  trio  in  a  rose-color  band- 
box tied  up  in  ribbons  and  called 
it  "Lady  Esther's  Gift  Set."  As 
much  a  present  to  you  as  the  one 
you  give  it  to,  for — believe  it  or 
not — -it's  only  20c! 


6.  THE  MUSICAL  SENSATION  OF 
THE  YEAR! 

Gulbransen's  little  white  console 
piano.  Ask  musicians  about  it  and 
they'll  speak  of  "sparkling  bril- 
liance" and  a  "rich,  abundant 
tone."  Ask  interior  decorators  and 
they'll  say  it  belongs  with  the  sim- 
ple, beautiful,  functional  furniture 
of  today.  Even  the  tiniest  home 
can  make  room  for  this  Supertone 
piano  gracefully,  and  enjoy  its  dul- 
cet tones  and  the  chic  of  its  stark 
white  Dupont  Fabrikoid  finish. 
Yours  for  $350 — and  sure  to  make 
the  wife  and  kiddies  happy. 


Then  she'll  love  these  Scotty  "Slipperettes," 
snug  little  woolen  booties  that  look  like  a  ball 
of  fluff  in  the  hand  but  stretch  to  fit  the  foot 
like  second  skin.  College  girls  can't  live 
without  'em;  convalescents  wear  them  in  bed; 
ladies  of  iron  constitutions  wear  them  'round 
the  house  for  exercising  the  arch;  and  trav- 
elers take  them  along  because  they  tuck  into 
less  room  than  a  handkerchief!  In  baby  pas- 
tels or  determined  darks,  $1.25.  You  ought 
to  check  at  least  six  names  on  your  list. 


8.  FOR  HIM! 

No  guesswork  either,  for  every  man 
on  your  list  will  think  of  you  and 
thank  you  every  morning  for  his  Col- 
gate Ribbon  Dental  Cream,  Rapid- 
Shave  Cream,  Talcum  and  soothing 
After  Shave  Lotion.  Thank  you,  too, 
for  choosing  such  a  jolly  Christmas 
box  with  a  he-man  snow  man  on  the 
cover.  Only  $1.00. 


Necessity  mothered  a  gay  invention — 
this  Early  American  Old  Spice  Tote 
Basket.  Perfect  dormitory  carry-all  for 
forgetful  collegiennes.  Shulton  assembles 
for  them,  in  a  hand-woven  Christmas 
Tote  Basket  lifted  from  a  page  of  Early 
American  history,  bath  soap,  bath  salts, 
toilet  water  and  talcum  in  Old  Spice's 
tangy  odor.  $2.50  totes  it  to  every  col- 
lege girl  on  your  list. 


You  guessed  it!  Jergen's  Lotion  for  the  hands 
you  love  to  touch.  It  makes  them  smooth  as 
velvet,  fragrant  as  flowers.  Once  a  lotion-lover, 
always  a  Jergen's  fan.  For  every  outdoor  girl 
on  your  list.    $1.00. 


11.  BAG  0'  TRICKS 

Here's  "functional  design"  for  Christmas. 
Beauty  in  a  bag,  and  yet  the  trimmings 
serve  a  very  useful  purpose.  See  how 
the  golden  wire  twirls  its  way  around 
the  bag  to  wind  up  in  a  "Shur-Tite" 
lock  that  snaps  securely  over  your 
treasures.  The  cut-out  handle  carries 
ke  a  little  satchel,  and  the  suede  comes 
in  every  important  costume-color  on  the 
winter  calendar.    Just  $5.00. 


12.  "LADY,  LET'S  SEE  YOUR 
LICENSE!" 

The  law  speaks  and  the  lady  trem- 
bles —  unless  she  carries  a  "La 
Garde."  In  the  gay  morocco- 
grained  young  calf  billfold  goes  her 
driver's  license  and  car  registra- 
tion. Bills  hide  away  in  the  zipper- 
compartment.  The  matching  ciga- 
rette case  has  a  zipper-bottom  and 
a  flap-up  top.  $2.00  for  the  set 
($1.00  each),  in  Robin  Hood  red  and 
green,  Knockout  blue,  dahlia  and 
ebony. 


{For  More  Christmas  Pr 


JANUARY,      I  940 


softo 


THRltLS 


MUSICAL  T 


RII/MPW 


Behold  the  beauty  of 
exotic  song-bird  llona 
Massey  as  she  hears 
throbbing  love-lyrics 
from  impassioned 
Nelson  Eddy !  (His  great- 
est role  since  "Naughty 
Marietta".) 


RUGGLES  •  MORGAN  •  ATWILL 

C.  AUBREY  JOYCE 

SMITH  •  COMPTON 

Screen  Play  by  Leon  Gordon, 
Charles  Bennett  and  Jacques  Deval 
Based  upon  the  Play  "Balalaika" 
Book  and  Lyrics  by  Eric  Maschwitz 

Music  by  George  Posford  and 
Bernard  Griin 

Directed  by  Reinhold  Schunzel 
Produced  by  Lawrence  Weingarten 
AN      M-G-M      PICTURE 


PHOTOPLAY 


MOTIOH 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN 

EXECUTIVE   EDITOR 


HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL 

ART   EDITOR 


RUTH  WATERBURY 

EDITOR 


FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 


On  the  Cover — Carole  Lombard,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse 

HIGHLIGHTS   OF   THIS    ISSUE 

How  Andy  Hardy  Reformed  Mickey  Rooney         ....  Ruth  Waterbury         8 

Filmland's  problem  child  becomes  its  greatest  potential  star 
Swiss  Family  Hollywood Gene  Towne  and  Graham  Baker       10 

An  hilarious  novelette,  fathered  by  that  madcap  writing  team 
Virginia  Peine — George  Raft — Norma  Shearer —  .        .        .        Roberta  Ormiston        12 

Their  dramatic  story  of  modern  love  and  friendship 
Round-Up  of  New  Faces Sara  Hamilton       14 

Sparkling  close-ups  of  ten  promising  newcomers  you're  asking  about 
Subject:  Lombard Claude  Binyon        17 

A  scoop  on  Carole — an  all-revealing  memo  from  a  famous  film  writer! 
Pinocchio  Vs.  Gulliver 18 

Walt  Disney  vs.  Max  Fleischer  in  a  fairy-tale  free-for-all 
Miracle  Men  at  Work — to  Make  You  Lovelier       .        .         Adele  Whitely  Fletcher       20 

Attention,  diamonds  in  the  rough!  Here's  a  chance  to  polish  up 
How  to  Put  a  Star  on  the  Spot Dorothy  Kilgallen       22 

When  celebrities  go  to  town,  so  does  this  two-gun  gal  columnist! 
Portrait  with  a  Russian  Accent Joseph  Henry  Steele       24 

A  "speaking  likeness"  of  Akim  Tamiroff 
Photoplay  Fashions Gwenn  Walters       41 

Style  highlights  headed  for  the  spotlight  of  public  approval 
Another  Thin  Man Fictionized  by  Lyon  Mearson       62 

Find  the  murderer,  in  our  novelization  of  the  new  hit  film! 
"What  I  Plan  for  My  Son  in  Today's  Troubled  World"    as  told  to  Barbara  Hayes 

A  Father  Talks Don  Ameche       66 

A  Mother  Talks Maureen  O'Sullivan       67 

The  Camera  Speaks: — 

Though  Winter  Comes 26 

Tennis  can  never  be  very  far  behind — in  Hollywood 
He's  the  Man  for  You — 30 

//  these  are  the  types  you  prefer  for  your  real-life  Romeo 
Change  Partners 32 

The  order  of  the  dance  plays  tricks  on  Sonja  Henie  and  Tyrone  Power 
Trademarks  that  Registered 34 

By  these  features  alone,  you'd  know  them  anywhere! 
Muni  Goes  Romantic 36 

Love  enters  Paul's  screen  life— in  the  person  of  Jane  Bryan 
Divorce  Takes  a  Holiday 37 

What's  going  to  happen  to  Joan  Crawford  and  Franchot  Tone? 
— And  a  Baby 40 

Extra!  Extra!  New  addition  to  the  "Brother  Rat"  family! 

NEWS,    VIEWS   AND    REVIEWS 

Christmas  Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars 1 

Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures 4 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury  5 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade  38 

Holiday  Build-Up Frances  Hughes  52 

Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 53 

The  Shadow  Stage 58 

Boos  and  Bouquets 60 

How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 61 

Choose  the  Best  Picture  of  1939 65 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 81 

June  in  January 84 


TMhtys  to.  £gvh£ 


IT  seems  to  me  that  never  before  have  coming  events 
on  the  production  lists  cast  a  more  promising  shadow. 
In  the  course  of  the  next  few  weeks  you  will  be  see- 
ing four  famous  children's  classics:  Pinocchio,  Gulliver, 
The  Blue  Bird,  Swiss  Family  Robinson. 

Several  great  English  novels  are  being  filmed:  The 
Way  of  All  Flesh,  The  Light  That  Failed,  Pride  and 
Prejudice,  The  Moon  and  Sixpence. 

Look  at  the  plays:  The  Enchanted  Cottage,  Major 
Barbara  (further  evidence  that  Shaw  has  succumbed  to 
the  cinema),  Waterloo  Bridge  and  Bill  of  Divorcement. 
And  the  modern  dramatic  successes:  Abe  Lincoln  in 
Illinois,  Our  Town,  No  Time  for  Comedy,  Susan  and 
God,  The  Philadelphia  Story. 

Never  before  have  the  movies  made  such  a  con- 
certed effort  to  bring  us  the  biographies  of  famous 
people.  We  are  to  see  the  lives  of  Victor  Herbert  and 
Father  Damien,  of  Doctor  Ehrlich,  Disraeli  and  Edgar 
Allan  Poe. 

The  story  of  Doctor  Morton,  who  discovered  ether, 
will  be  recorded  in  the  dramatization  of  Triumph  over 
Pain. 

Two  pictures  are  being  made  on  the  life  of  Edison: 
One  with  Mickey  Rooney  as  the  Young  Tom  Edison, 
the  other  with  Spencer  Tracy  as  Edison  the  Man.  Louis 
Bromfield's  life  of  Brigham  Young  is  an  important  addi- 
tion to  the  biographical  list. 

Let  us  not  forget  current  classics:  The  Grapes  of 
Wrath,  Rebecca,  Of  Mice  and  Men,  and  of  course, 
Gone  with  the  Wind. 

Has  there  ever  been  such  a  line-up? 


^M^T 


VOL.  LIV.,  No.  1,  JANUARY,  1940 


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111.,  under  the  act  of  March  3,  1879    Copyright,  1939.  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  do  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  oi  America 


Co* 


ADVENTURES  OF  SHERLOCK  HOLMES,  THE-20th  Century- 
Fox 

When  Professor  \loriarily  decides  to  steal  the  Crown  Jewels  from 
the  Tower  of  London,  he  doesn't  figure  on  Sheer-Luck  Holmes'  un- 
canny deductions.  Ba-il  Rathbone  and  Nigel  Bruce  play  Holmes 
and  Dr.  Watson.  Alan  Marshal  and  Ida  Lupino  are  the  lovers  and 
George  Zucco,  the  Professor.  Lots  of  murders  but  little  pace.  (.Nov.) 

•  ANDY  HARDY  GETS  SPRING  FEVER-M-G-M 

Easily  the  best  of  the  series.  Mickey  Rooney  faces  disillusion- 
ment when  he  falls  in  love  with  his  pretty  teacher,  new  Helen 
Gilbert.  There's  a  mild  counterplot  to  keep  the  Judge,  Lewis  Stone, 
busy.  But  your  throat  will  ache  with  wanting  to  bawl  over  Mickey's 
heartbreak,  the  while  you  laugh  at  him.    (Oct.) 

•  BABES  IN  ARMS-M-G-M 

They  don't  come  any  funnier.  Mickey  Rooney,  as  the  son  of  ex- 
vaudeville  artist  Charles  Winninger,  tries  to  change  the  family 
fortune^  by  organizing  his  own  -how.  With  the  aid  of  Judy  Garland, 
Betty  Jaynes,  June  Prcisser,  lie  puts  on  routines  that  will  have 
you  in  the  aisles.  Guy  Kibbee  is  the  kindly  judge  who  keeps  the 
kids  out  of  the  slate  work  school.  Don't  mis=  this.  (Xov.) 

BAD  LANDS-RKO-Radio 

pretty  bewildering.  It's  about  nine  men  sitting  around 
waiting  to  die.  A  sheriff  and  a  posse  go  out  t.i  search  for  a  killer,  and 
the  killer  traps  the  hunters.  No  females  in  the  cu-t.  either.  Robert 
Barral,  Noah  Beery.  Jr..  and  others  are  uninspired.  (Oct.) 

•  BEAU  GESTE-Paramount 

Remember  Ronald  Colman  as  Beau  Gesle?  This  time  it's  Gary 
Cooper  who,  with  his  loyal  brothers,  Ray  Milland  and  Robert 
Preston,  rushes  off  to  the  Sahara  when  accused  of  stealing  the  giant 
sapphire.  It's  a  man's  film,  since  romance  is  limited  to  a  few  yearn- 
ing glances  between  Milland  and  Susan  Hayward;  and  since  blood 
and  thunder  comprise  the  remainder  of  the  offering.  Brian  Donlevy 
is  excellent.    (Oct.) 

BLACKMAIL-M-G-M 

A  morbid  but  thrill-packed  movie  revolving  around  oil-well  fires 
and  the  methods  of  fighting  them.  There's  an  escaped  criminal,  a 


BLONOIE  TAKES  A  VACATION-Columbia 

Dagwood  takes  the  rap  while  Blondie  takes  a  vacation,  and  it's  all 
just  as  amusing  as  the  other  films  in  this  comic-strip  hit  series. 
Larry  Simms,  as  Baby  Dumpling,  keeps  disappearing,  but  he's  cute 
when  on  the  screen.  Penny  Singleton  and  Arthur  Lake  rattle  along 
as  the  Bumsteads.    (Oct.) 

CALL  A  MESSENGER-Universal 

The  Little  Tough  Guys  and  the  Dead  End  Kids  merge  in  this 
story  of  a  telegraph  official  (Robert  Armstrong)  who  thinks  he 
might  work  some  regeneration  by  giving  the  kids  jobs.  The  idea 
clicks.  Anne  Nagel,  Victor  Jory  and  Mary  Carlisle  support  the 
boys.   (Dec.) 


CALLING  ALL  MARINES-Republic 


Here's  a  strange  story  of  gangsters  who  attack  the  U.  S.  Marines 
to  steal  a  bomb.  There's  plenty  of  blasting  and  noise,  but  Helen 
Mack,  Donald  Barry,  Robert  Kent  and  Warren  Hymer  all  seem 
mildly  bewildered  at  what  they're  doing.  (Dec.) 

*  CAT  AND  THE  CANARY,  THE-Paramount 

A  thriller — and  funny!  Paulette  Goddard  is  heir  to  the  estate 
of  an  eccentric  millionaire,  but  there's  a  second  will  in  case  she 
should  die  or  become  insane  within  a  month.  With  a  dangerous 
lunatic  loose,  uncanny  noises  and  clutching  hands,  there's  plenty 
to  keep  you  screeching.  Paulette  makes  a  convincingly  frightened 
heiress  and  shares  a  hectic  romance  with  Bob  Hope.  (Dec.) 


•  CHALLENGE,  THE-Denham  Films 

The  villain  of  this  melodrama  is  a  mountain;  the  hero,  the  breath- 
taking escapes  from  snowslides  in  the  Alps  in  the  1860's.  The 
rivalry  of  an  Italian  and  an  Englishman  (Luis  Trenker  and  Robert 
Douglas);  the  rivalry  of  three  countries  to  be  the  first  to  scale 
the  Matterhorn  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.  It's  intense  drama.  (Dec.) 

CHARLIE  CHAN  AT  TREASURE  ISLAND— 20th  Century-Fox 

Routine   Chan   fare   with   philosophical   Charlie  uncovering  the 

hocu--pocus  of  one  Dr.  Zodiac,  mystic.    An  expose  of  fake  mediums, 

which   Sidney   Toler,   as   Chan,   does    admirably.    Cesar   Romero, 

Pauline  Moore  and  Wally  Vernon  help  the  plot.  (Nov.) 

(Continued  on  page  83) 


SHADOW     STAGE 
THIS  ISSUE 

ALLEGHENY  UPRISING-RKO-Radio  .59 

ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS-Paramount  58 

ANOTHER  THIN  MAN-M-G-M     ...  59 

BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL-M-G-M 82 

BALALAIKA-M-G-M   .         59 

BEWARE  SPOOKS-CoIurnMa 82 

BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY-Columbia  82 
DRUMS  ALONG  THE  MOHAWK-20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox   58 

END  OF  THE  DAY,  THE— Juno  Rims  ...  82 

FIRST  LOVE— Universal 58 

FLYING  DEUCES,  THE-RKO-Radio    ...  82 

INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY— Warners    .    .  82 
JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON-M-G-M              .59 

LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS—Paramourrt    ...  82 

LITTLE  ACCIDENT-Unlversal 82 

MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN— RKO-Radio  .59 

MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE-Monogram  82 

ON  YOUR  TOES— Warners 82 

REMEMBERT-M-G-M 58 

RENO-RKO-Radlo 58 

SCANDAL  SHEET-Columbla 82 

SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE,  THE-M-G-M    .  82 

SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING-Warners   .  82 

SUED  FOR  LIBEL— RKO-Radio 82 

THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE— Mayer-Burstyn  .     .  82 

THOSE  HIGH  GRAY  WALLS-Columbia  .     .  82 

20,000  MEN  A  YEAR— 20th  Century-Fox    .    .  82 


*  INDICATES  PICTURE  WAS  ONE 
OF  THE  BEST  OF  THE  MONTH 
WHEN    REVIEWED 


PHOTOPLAY 


**. 


Pe+erkin,  the  newest 
impish  cartoon  cre- 
ation, typifies  the 
Hollywood    of   today 


S?/< 


*A*, 


<A 


*/7 


**A 


e// 


VJi 


*y>es 


PrQ 


Werf 


CLOSE     UPS     AND 

LONG  SHOTS 


BY    RUTH    WATERBURY 


IN  the  saddened  world  of  today  Hollywood 
keeps  right  on  with  its  own  blend  of  goofi- 
ness  and  greatness  .  .  .  that's  why  I  con- 
tinue to  love  the  place  .  .  .  for  with  Europe 
gone  mad  who  shall  say  but  that  the  ability  to 
keep  on  laughing  may  not  prove  to  be  the  final 
sanity?  .  .  .  it's  not  my  business  to  write  of 
war  and  politics,  I  know  .  .  .  but  happy  nations 
do  not  go  to  war  .  .  .  and  the  ability  to  laugh 
is  one  characteristic  that  distinguishes  man 
from  the  rest  of  the  animal  kingdom  .  .  .  beasts 
can  think  and  feel  and  eat  and  bear  young  .  .  . 
only  man  can  give  expression  to  gaiety  and  the 
fact  remains  that  when  a  nation  is  gay  it  is 
greatest  ...  as  was  England  in  the  days  of 
Elizabeth  .  .  .  and  art  flourishes  then  and  sur- 
vives  dictators   and  upheavals  ...  as  witness 


the  sculpture  of  Greece  and  the  music  of  ancient 
Russia  .  .  .  and  thus  if  Hollywood  keeps  right 
on  with  its  dizzy,  giddy,  creative  pace  there  may 
be  hope  for  humanity  in  it.  .  .  . 

Take  Peterkin,  for  example  .  .  .  that's  Peter- 
kin  popping  about  at  the  top  of  this  page  .  .  . 
he's  new  and  merely  a  short  .  .  .  but  I  think 
you'll  want  to  see  a  lot  of  him  once  you've  seen 
him  at  your  local  theater  .  .  .  for  he  is  a  thing 
of  mischievousness  and  a  joy  forever  .  .  .  and 
he's  typical  of  what  goes  on  in  Hollywood  be- 
hind the  scenes.  .  .  . 

There  is  a  fantastic  amount  of  unsung  talent 
out  here  .  .  .  the  actors  get  all  the  fanfare  .  .  . 
which  is  all  right  in  a  way  for  they  are  extraor- 
dinary people,  what  with  their  handsomeness, 
their  charm  and  their  power  of  creating  illusion 


.  .  .  but  some  few  are  wise  to  themselves  .  .  . 
like  George  Brent  who  says  that  he  feels  no 
actor  should  take  an  Academy  Award  for  him- 
self but  should  state  publicly  that  it  belongs 
more  to  the  crew,  the  script  writer  and  the  di- 
rector than  it  does  to  the  performer  .  .  .  that  is, 
George  feels  that  the  Award  should  not  be  given 
to  the  individual  but  to  a  unit  .  .  .  which  is 
very  accurate  ...  it  is  the  group  spirit  out  here 
.  .  .  similar  to  that  of  the  Guilds  of  the  Middle 
Ages  .  .  .  that  puts  things  across  .  .  .  and 
makes  Hollywood  the  wonderful  place  it  is.  .  .  . 
This  month  .  .  .  discovering  Peterkin  .  .  . 
chatting  with  George  Brent  and  Jimmy  Cagney 
on  the  set  of  "The  Fighting  69th"  (with  Cagney 
calling  Brent  "Puss"  in  exactly  the  same  tone 
(Continued  on  page79) 


JANUARY,      I  940 


JS7;  VHSHES  YOU  A  MERRY  XMAS 


Adventure  with  the  shipwrecked  Gulliver  among  the 
tiny  people  of  Lilliput  land. ..25,000  of  them. 


gh  till  your  sides  ache  at  the  antics  of 
Gabby,  the  town  crier,  the  little  fellow  who 
discovered  the  giant  Gulliver  but  couldn't 
find  himself  in  the  dark. 


IVleet  King  Little  and  his  terrible  tempered  rival,  King 
Bombo.  Meet  the  charming  Princess  Glory  and  her  brave 
lover,  Prince  David  .  .  .  hear  them  sing  their  love  songs, 
"Forever"  and  "Faithful." 


Sneak,  Snoop, 

and  Snitch. 


kV 


_\___3ki      >^ec  the  tiny  Lilliputian  horses 
David  and  Princess  Glory.  drag  the  giant  to  King   Little's 

castle.     Sec  Gulliver,  single-handed,  capture 
the  entire  Lilliputian  battle  fleet! 


1  hrill  to  those  three  spies,  Sneak,  Snoop, 
and  Snitch.   Meet  Twinkletoes,  the  carrier  pigeon  .  .  .  Meet  them  all 
.  .  .  laugh  with  them  .  .  .  sing  with  them  eight  never-to-be-forgotten 
Leo  Robin  and  Ralph  Raingcr  songs:  "Faithful  Forever,"  "Bluebirds 
in  the  Moonlight,''  "I  Hear  a  Fh'eam,"  "It's  a  Hap -Hap -Happy  Day,"* 
"All's  Well,"  "We're  All  Together  Now,"  "Faithful,"  "Forever." 


A  PARAMOUNT  PICTURE  •  PRODUCED  BY  MAX  FLEISCHER  •  DIRECTED  BY  DAVE  FLEISCHER 


TTS  A  HAP-HAP-HAPPY  DAV '-Word,  and 


.  J.  Neiburg  and  Sammy  Timberg  &  Winston  Sharpies 


Copyright  1939.  Paramount  Pictures  Inc. 


PHOTOPLAY 


AND  A  VERY  MARY 


A  Paramount  Pictur 


Allan  Jones  •  Mary  Martin  •  Walter  Connolly 

Lee  Bowman  /  Judith  Barrett  •  Susanna  Foster  •  Produced  and  Directed  by  andrew  l.  stone 

Screen  Play  byWussel  Crouse  and  Robert  Lively  •  Based  on  a  story  by  Robert  Lively  and  Andrew  L.  Stone 


JANUARY,      I  940 


'">r- 


BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


THE  greatest  hit  that  the  mighty  Metro- 
Goldwyn-Mayer  has  had  in  years  is  the 
musical  comedy,  "Babes  in  Arms." 
It  stars  Mickey  Rooney  and  Judy  Garland. 
Their  two  names  are  up  there  in  equally  large 
type,  in  equally  brilliant  electric  lights.  But 
regardless  of  Judy's  good  work,  it's  Mickey's 
picture  virtually  from  the  first  shot  to  the  final 
fade-out.  He's  funny.  He's  pathetic.  He  works 
in  black  face  and  does  a  soft  shoe  dance.  He  is 
Gable  talking  to  Lionel  Barrymore  in  one  scene 
and  Lionel  talking  to  Clark  in  another.  He  is 
at  once  President  Roosevelt  and  a  goofy  kid 
sick  from  smoking  his  first  cigar.  He  runs  such 
a  gamut  as  would  kill  most  stars  and  the  result 
is  that  exhibitors  are  crying  for  him.  The  pub- 
lic is  yelling  for  him.  His  contract,  right  now, 
is  one  of  the  most  valuable  in  the  whole  movie 
world. 


HOW 


ANDY  HARDY 

REFORMED 

MICKEY 
ROONEY/ 


a 


lickey  adores  his  "Mom" 
-that  mother  who  dedi- 
ated  herself  to  taking 
are  of  a  little  boy  who 
suld  find  work  when  she 
Duld  not;  that  boy  who 
as  to  become  the  amaz- 
g  star  of  "Babes  in  Arms" 


The  heartwarming  story  of  an  adolescent  who  triumphed  oyer  the  temptations  of  too  sudden  riches 


ed  oyer 


Actually,  there  are  three  stars  in  "Babes." 
There  are  Mickey  and  Judy,  of  course.  But 
have  you  guessed  the  third?    He's  Andy  Hardy. 

For  while  Andy  Hardy  belongs  in  a  series 
and  therein  couldn't  possibly  have  been  the  boy 
he  is  without  Mickey,  equally  the  Mickey 
Rooney  of  today  couldn't  have  been  what  he 
now  is  without  Andy  Hardy. 

In  fact,  without  Andy  Hardy,  Mickey,  instead 
of  being  currently  triumphant,  might  very  well 
be  on  the  skids.  For  now  that  he  has  passed 
safely  through  a  dangerous  phase  it  can  be  told 
how  Mickey  Rooney  nearly  lost  his  head — and 
how  Andy  Hardy  saved  it  for  him.  An  amazing 
and  heartwarming  yarn  this  is,  this  story  of  a 
boy  of  veiy  lively  flesh  and  blood  who  was  saved 
by  a  make-believe  boy  in  a  shooting  script. 

Andy  Hardy  not  only  made  Mickey  Rooney 
a  star  but  gave  him  the  education  he  never  had 


had  a  chance  to  get,  taught  him  refinements  he 
hadn't  had  time  to  learn,  showed  him  a  better 
way  of  living  and  thinking.  Instead  of  allowing 
Mickey  to  go  Hollywood,  Andy  made  him  go 
genuine,  average  American.  Instead  of  letting 
him  be  a  flash  in  the  pan,  Andy  taught  him  how 
to  be  a  permanent  star. 

To  begin  with  you  have  to  remember  that 
Mickey  Rooney,  who  was  born  Joe  Yule,  Jr., 
has  had  it  tough  all  his  life.  He's  taken  off  just 
six  months — the  first  six.  Ever  since  then  he's 
been  self-supporting;  ever  since  he  was  five  he's 
been  taking  care  of  his  mother,  too. 

That  mother  is  a  swell  person.  She  didn't 
want  Mickey  to  work,  any  more  than  she 
wanted  him  growing  up  backstage  in  cheap 
burlesque  houses  or  knocking  around  studio 
casting  offices.  But  they  had  to  eat,  and  the 
little  boy  could  find  work  when  she  couldn't. 


So,  as  the  years  passed,  she  dedicated  herself 
to  taking  care  of  him,  while  he  dedicated  him- 
self to  being  funny. 

Week  by  week,  season  by  season,  they  barely 
managed  to  get  along,  until  the  lucky  day, 
nearly  four  years  ago,  when  Mickey  finally 
signed  his  M-G-M  contract  and  they  both  real- 
ized they  were  reasonably  secure  for  the  first 
time  in  their  precarious  lives. 

He  went  into  "Hideout"  and  was  very  good. 
He  went  into  "The  Devil  Is  a  Sissy"  and  was 
even  better.  He  went  into  "Stablemates"  and 
was  great.  Metro  took  away  his  first  contract 
and  gave  him  a  better  one,  for  more  money  and 
more  years.  The  little  boy  who  had  had  to  dye 
his  hair  with  shoe  blacking  (because  his  mother 
couldn't  afford  real  dye  and  he  had  to  be  a 
brunet  for  his  first  movie  work)  was  suddenly 
a  star,  a  big  shot,  a  hot  potato.  Boom  went 
his  hatband.  Bang  went  his  head.  He  got  cocky 
as  could  be.  It  wasn't  any  wonder.  It  would 
have  been  a  miracle  if  he  hadn't.  For  he  was 
just  sixteen. 

But  Hollywood  didn't  stop  to  consider  that. 
Hollywood  said  Rooney's  success  had  gone  to 
his  head.  That  was  true.  It  had.  But  the  fact 
that  similar  success  would  have  gone  to  almost 
any  sixteen-year-old  head — and  to  many  a 
sixty-year-old  head,  for  that  matter — nobody 
stopped  to  consider.  All  Hollywood  tried  to  do 
was  to  get  Rooney  out  of  its  hair.  But  it 
couldn't. 

The  kid  was  everywhere.  If  you  couldn't  see 
him  for  a  block  off,  you  could  hear  him.  He 
bought  a  big  blue  car.  He  bought  a  wardrobe 
of  clothes  that  made  a  forest  fire  look  pallid.  He 
hired  a  valet  (and  was  forever  forgetting  to 
call  him  when  he  wanted  to  dress).  He  organ- 
ized a  band.  He  jitterbugged  on  night-club 
dance  floors.  He  tried  to  date  every  girl  he  met. 
He  flashed  a  roll  of  bills.  Quickly,  new  friends 
sprang  up  around  him  and  he  swaggered  into 
places  with  this  silly  mob  at  his  heels.  The  gang 
told  him  he  was  terrific;  and,  of  course,  he  be- 
lieved it.  The  things  he  did  were  essentially 
harmless  to  other  people,  but  they  were  an- 
tagonizing— hence  bad  for  him. 

THEN,  to  Mickey's  eternal  good  fortune,  "A 
Family  Affair,"  the  first  of  the  Hardy  pictures, 
came  along,  and  through  the  medium  of  his  role 
he  made  his  first  real  acquaintance  with  a  true 
American  boy;  became,  in  the  studio,  the  mem- 
ber of  a  typical  American  family;  entered, 
through  his  sensitive  imagination,  the  life  of  an 
American  small  town. 

He  who  had  never  had  a  father  to  guide  him 
(for  while  Joe  Yule  is  now  under  contract  to 
Metro,  Mickey  hadn't  at  that  time  seen  him  for 
years)  suddenly  got  a  guiding  one  via  the 
screen.  He  who  had  never  had  a  sister  got  a 
very  interested  one  in  the  sweet  person  of  Ce- 
cilia Parker.  He  who  had  never  known  anyone 
who  wasn't  somehow  connected  with  acting, 
with  all  the  exhibitionism  and  competition  act- 
ing necessitates,  learned  through  scripts  a 
quieter  and  more  ethical  way  of  life.  In  other 
words,  through  the  Hardy  pictures,  Mickey  ac- 
tually entered  into  society  as  it  is  lived  in  the 
world  at  large.  It  is  to  his  eternal  credit  as  an 
actor  that  he  played  it  so  convincingly. 

Nothing  was  expected  of  the  first  Hardy  pic- 
ture and  less  of  Andy  Hardy  therein.  "A  Fam- 
ily Affair"  was  a  Lionel  Barrymore  starrer;  but, 
with  the  greatest  respect  to  the  distinguished 
Lionel,  it  must  be  said  that  it  was  Mickey's 
good  fortune  that  Lewis  Stone  went  into  the 
role  of  Judge  Hardy  in  the  second  Hardy  pro- 
duction. For  any  Barrymore,  is,  after  all,  all 
stage  and  three  yards  grease  paint  and  Lewis 
Stone,  though  an  actor  for  years,  is,  off  screen, 
very  much  the  social  gentleman.  He's  a  soldier, 
a  sailor,  a  philosopher  and  a  very  rich  man. 
He  mingles  with  all  types  of  people,  preferably 
not  actors,  and  he  began  giving  Mickey  the 
(Continued  on  page  SO) 


Brooksie  gazed  at 
Donaldson  and  said  to 
herself.  "He's  a  dear, 
if  only  you  can  get 
those  relatives  out  of 
what's  left  of  his  hair" 


Robinson  thought  HE  had  troubles  on  his  island — he  just 
hadn't  heard  about  our  hero  and  HIS  cuckoo  relatives! 

BY  GENE  TOWNE  and  GRAHAM  BAKER 

ILLUSTRATED       BY       WALLACE       MORGAN 


"We  can  choose  our  own  friends, 
But  God  gives  tis  our  relatives." 

— Poet  Anon. — From  the  Persian 

HOWARD  DONALDSON  watched  a  fly 
buzzing  industriously,  if  ineffectually, 
against  the  windowpane  and  wondered  if 
a  fly  buzzing  against  a  windowpane  might  not 
prove  something  symbolic  in  his  next  picture. 
There  was  a  light  rap  on  his  office  door  and 
Brooksie  came  in,  her  arms  loaded  with  papers. 

Brooksie  was  Donaldson's  private  secretary 
and  Donaldson  was  the  most  important  producer 
for  Atlas  Pictures'  gigantic  Hollywood  film  fac- 
tory. Brooksie  was  blonde,  with  large,  innocent 
blue  eyes  that  would  fool  you  if  you  didn't  know 
better.  She  had  been  with  Donaldson  for  five 
years  and,  although  her  boss  sometimes  made  a 
mistake,  she  never  did.  She  knew  Donaldson 
as  Edgar  Bergen  knows  Charlie  McCarthy. 

Brooksie  deposited  the  papers  on  the  desk 
prepared  to  start  the  day's  routine.  Ordinarily 
Donaldson  pitched  into  this  chore  with  the 
boundless  enthusiasm  of  Dagwood's  search  for 
a  midnight  sandwich,  but  on  this  particular 
morning  he  had  something  on  his  mind  even 
more  momentous  than  the  destinies  of  Atlas 
Pictures.    The  evening  before,  somewhere  be- 


tween his  decision  to  change  the  title  of  a  forth- 
coming picture  and  a  mental  resolve  to  get  more 
exercise,  it  had  come  to  him  quite  suddenly  that 
he  was  desperately  in  love  with  Brooksie. 

Being  alone  at  the  time,  it  seemed  a  grand  and 
glorious  vista.  He  had  promptly  begun  to  re- 
hearse the  perfect  proposal  of  marriage.  It 
would  be  a  combination  of  a  love  scene  from 
"Romeo  and  Juliet"  (latest  film  version)  and 
Robert  Taylor  and  Hedy  Lamarr  in  a  tropical 
setting.  Yet  it  would  be  even  more  tender  and 
convincing.  He  would  take  Brooksie  in  his  arms 
and  say:  "My  sweetheart,  it  was  fate  that 
brought  us  together — " 

Brooksie's  calmly  efficient  voice  brought  him 
back  to  the  present.  "How  about  Grace  Dar- 
ling's option?" 

"What  about  it?" 

"I'll  write  her  that  we're  not  taking  it  up." 

"Yeah,  go  ahead,"  Donaldson  replied  vaguely, 
then  determined  to  cross  the  Rubicon  in  one 
leap.  His  intentions  were  of  the  best,  but  his 
execution  was  way  off  the  Romeo-Juliet- 
Taylor-Lamarr  form.  He  sounded  exactly  like 
Howard  Donaldson,  the  efficient  producer,  when 
he  said: 

"Miss  Brooks,  do  you  think  marriage  and  a 
career  can  be  one  and  the  same  thing?" 


HOLLYWOOD 


If  Brooksie  knew  what  her  employer  was  try- 
ing to  stumble  into,  she  gave  no  outward  sign. 
"If  you  are  thinking  of  your  own  career,  Mr. 
Donaldson,  you  had  better  take  it  up  with  your 
sister.  She  seems  to  manage  that  side  of  your 
affairs  quite  well."  Donaldson  winced  and 
Brooksie  continued,  not  trying  very  hard  to 
keep  cattiness  out  of  her  voice,  "As  a  matter  of 
fact,  there's  a  letter  from  her  this  morning." 

Donaldson  realized  his  campaign  to  woo  and 
win  Brooksie  had  lacked  any  number  of  essen- 
tial Romeo-Juliet  ingredients  at  the  beginning 
and  this  flank  attack  made  it  even  more  clear 
that  he  was  in  the  position  of  a  man  who  has 
sat  up  all  night  cramming  his  head  full  of  facts 
on  television  to  find  the  next  day  that  his  listener 
had  invented  it. 

He  sighed  audibly  as  he  fingered  through  his 
mail  and  came  across  the  fat  envelope  addressed 
in  the  all-too-familiar  angular  scrawl  of  his  sis- 
ter, Christine,  and  then  carefully  placed  it  un- 
opened on  the  far  side  of  his  desk.  He  always 
did  this  with  his  sister's  letters.  He  felt  sure 
that  some  day  a  letter  from  Christine  would  be 
brushed  off  into  the  wastebasket  before  he  could 
read  it. 

For  a  brief  instant  a  look  of  maternal  compas- 
sion showed  on  Brooksie's  face,  but  it  was  a 
fleeting  one.    She  gave  no  quarter: 

"I'd  suggest  you  forget  love  in  a  cottage  for 


the  time  being  and  think  about  that  new  novel 
of  Brownfield's.  Are  we  going  to  buy  it  or  not? 
We've  only  till  tonight  to  decide.  Paramount 
wants  it  too,  you  know." 

With  an  almost  superhuman  effort,  Donaldson 
managed  to  cast  off  his  role  of  lover.  "Then 
somebody  at  Paramount  must  see  a  picture  in 
it.    We  better  beat  'em  to  it." 

"Paramount  only  wants  it  because  they  think 
you  see  a  picture  in  it,"  Brooksie  countered. 

"The  dopes,"  replied'Donaldson,  rather  incon- 
sistently. He  pondered  this  grave  question  for 
a  second  before  saying,  almost  petulantly,  "Well, 
have  Gardner,  if  he's  still  head  of  the  story  de- 
partment, see  me  right  after  lunch."  He  seemed 
to  have  entirely  forgotten  about  romance,  and 
as  he  hurled  himself  into  feverish,  efficient 
activity,  Brooksie  felt  a  bit  chagrined. 

DURING  the  morning  she  was  in  and  out  of  his 
office  half  a  dozen  times,  each  appearance  less 
important  and  each  stay  a  bit  more  lingering. 
But  he  missed  the  open  hint  completely.  Un- 
consciously and  unintentionally,  Donaldson  was 
doing  a  far  better  job  of  getting  Brooksie  to  co- 
star  with  him  forever  and  ever  by  using  these 
tactics. 

The  highly  efficient  secretary  had  just  fin- 
ished another  careful  scrutiny  into  her  vanity 
mirror,  preparatory  to  a  final  foray,  when  Don- 


EDITOR'S  NOTE:  Proudly  zee  present  the  comedy- 
fiction  scoop  of  the  month — an  hilarious,  movie- 
wise  novelette  by  Towne  and  Baker,  Holly- 
n-ood's  best-knouii  and  certainly  its  most  mad- 
cap team  oj  writers,  Adding  another  string  to 
their  bow,  this  energetic  pair  is  now  making  a 
debut  as  producers.  For  their  first  RKO-Radio 
release,  they  have  chosen  the  beloved  "Swiss 
Family  Robinson."  Not  to  be  confused  with  the 
present  ultra-modern  story  beginning  on  these 
pages,  "Swiss  Family  Robinson"  is  that  same 
serious  classic  which  has  been  translated  into 
every  language — including  the  Hindu — since  it 
was  written  in  1812-13  by  Johann  David  Wyss. 
Fur  their  film  version,  author-producers  Towne 
and  Baker  have  assembled  one  of  the  screen's 
best  cast  of  characters,  including,  among  others, 
Thomas  Mitchell,  Edna  Best,  Freddie  Bartholo- 
mew, Tim  Holt,  Terry  Kilburu  and  baby  Bobby 
Quillan.—E.V.H. 


aldson  called  her  on  the  interoffice  communica- 
tion. 

"Miss  Brooks,"  said  Donaldson. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Brooks. 

"Ahem  (sound  of  throat  being  cleared), 
Ahem!" 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Brooks. 

"Oh,  yes,  'um,  'er,  by  the  way.  Could  you 
arrange  to  have  lunch  with  me  today?  It's  kind 
of  important." 

Brooksie  smiled  to  herself. 

"Why,  of  course,  Mr.  Donaldson.  Shall  I 
bring  my  notebook?  I  mean,  will  you  have  some 
dictation?" 

"Yes,  that  is  no.  I  mean  I  have  something  im- 
portant to  say,  but  you  won't  need  a  notebook." 

The  Great  Man  swiveled  his  chair  back, 
lighted  his  cigar  carefully,  swung  his  feet  to  his 
desk  and  resumed  his  mental  self- rehearsal  of 
sweeping  the  incomparable  Brooksie  off  her 
well-shod  feet  into  his  expansive  heart  and  even 
more  expansive  bank  account. 

Life  was  pretty  good,  he  reflected  with  eyes 
(Continued  on  page  71) 


Donaldson  tried  to  put  heartiness  in  his 
voice.  "Swell,  Hughes,  swell  to  see  you." 
Hughes  held  out  a  hand  that  felt  like  a  de- 
composed eel  and  grinned  a  bit  foolishly 


IHA 


I 


S 

^ 


\* 


^ 


°^K, 


BY  ROBERTA  ORMISTON 


THE  story  of  George  Raft  and  Virginia  Peine 
and  their  love  could  have  been  told  any 
time  during  the  past  seven  years.  It  is  the 
change  in  their  relationship  that  has  come  about 
in  the  last  eight  months,  and  the  good  fortune 
I  had  in  securing  an  exclusive  interview  with 
Virginia  Peine  that  makes  this  story  one  which 
can  and  should  be  told  now. 

The  events  of  the  last  eight  months  include 
not  only  a  dramatic  and  heartbreaking  separa- 
tion between  George  and  Virginia  but  also  the 
growth  of  a  much-publicized  friendship  between 
George  and  Norma  Shearer. 

When  Virginia  and  George  met  seven  years 
ago  they  were  both  married.  Virginia  got  her 
divorce  almost  immediately.  George  still  isn't 
free.  Technically,  therefore,  through  all  the 
years  of  their  relationship  Virginia  was  "the 
other  woman."  But  only  technically.  For  those 
who  knew  her  saw  her  in  an  inspired  role. 
Beautiful  enough  to  be  loved  by  almost  any 
man  and  talented  enough  to  have  a  bright  ca- 
reer she  stood  unequivocally  by  George  Raft 
even  though  the  odds  nearly  always  were 
against  their  chances  of  marriage. 

It   was   one   night   last   spring   that   all   this 


changed  .  .  .  and  the  stage  then  was  set  for 
Norma  Shearer  to  come  on  and  play  her  part 
in  this  modern  story  of  love  and  friendship. 

That  night  George  and  Virginia  had  dinner, 
as  usual,  in  the  serene,  white-brick,  Georgian 
house  in  which  Virginia  lived  with  her  daughter, 
Joan.  Together  Virginia  and  George  had  bought 
the  land  and  built  this  house.  It  was  one  of 
those  times  when  they  were  confident  George's 
divorce  was  assured  and  they  soon  could  be 
married  and  share  the  house. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  Virginia  said  to 
George  after  dinner,  as  they  made  their  way  to- 
ward the  living  room. 

George  lighted  a  fire.  It's  chilly  in  Cold  Water 
Canyon  when  the  sun  goes  down.  Through  the 
windows,  open  behind  the  drawn  curtains,  came 
the  clean  smell  of  sage.  In  the  kitchen  the  serv- 
ants were  clearing  away  the  dinner.  Joan  was 
asleep  upstairs.  It  was  as  it  long  had  been.  But 
soon  it  was  to  be  different. 

Virginia  told  me  all  about  it  when  I  saw  her 
in  New  York  five  or  six  months  later,  by  which 
time  the  break  she  proposed  to  George  that  night 
had  been  made.  She  had  taken  a  furnished 
apartment  until  her  things  arrived  from  Cali- 


fornia. After  much  careful  inquiry  she  had  en- 
tered Joan  in  school.  And  eager  for  work  so 
she  would  have  no  time  to  think,  she  had  signed 
with  a  prominent  theatrical  agent. 

I'll  long  remember  Virginia  that  day.  There 
was  something  shining  and  splendid  about  her. 
Her  chin  had  a  brave  tilt.  It  was  only  an  occa- 
sional tone  in  her  voice  and  a  fleeting  expression 
in  her  eyes  that  hinted  what  went  on  in  her 
young  heart. 

Apropos  of  that  spring  night  when  she  told 
George  she  wanted  to  talk  with  him,  Virginia 
said  to  me:    "For  six  months,  since  the  last  time 


wm 


George's  divorce  had  failed  to  materialize,  I  had 
been  priming  my  courage  for  that  moment.  For 
years  George  and  I  had  lived  in  abeyance,  wait- 
ing for  something — like  a  mirage — that  disap- 
peared every  time  we  drew  near  to  it.  Obvi- 
ously we  couldn't  go  on  this  way  forever.  So 
the  healthy,  constructive  thing  for  us  to  do  was 
make  a  break.  And  it  seemed  to  me  the  sooner 
we  made  it  the  better — for  both  of  us." 

That  was  just  about  the  way  she  said  it  to 
George,  too,  disregarding  the  fine  speeches  she 
had  been  composing  and  revising  in  her  mind. 

And  George  must  have  been  proud  of  her  for 
having  come  to  a  conclusion  concerning  the 
very  things  about  which  he  was  still  in  doubt. 

It  wasn't  easy  for  either  of  them.  Seven  years 
they  had  loved  each  other  better  than  all  the 
world.  .  .  . 

IT  began  almost  as  soon  as  Virginia  arrived  in 
California.  She  was  in  her  early  twenties.  Her 
marriage  to  a  rich  Chicago  boy  had  failed  and, 
a  little  bewildered,  she  hoped  to  stake  out  a  new 
life  in  work.     Joan  was  only  an  infant. 

The  men  in  California  saw  Virginia's  bright 
hair  and  gentle  eyes,  and  her  social  success  was 
assured.  They  bought  her  pink  champagne  at 
the  Trocadero.  They  piled  chips  high  at  her 
place  at  the  Clover  Club.  They  implored  her, 
please,  to  borrow  their  cars. 

"And,"  to  let  Virginia  tell  her  own  story, 
"when  the  evening  was  over  and  those  men 
saw  me  to  my  door  they  always  suggested,  at 
least,  that  they  come  in  for  a  nightcap. 

"Then  I  met  George.  He  was  at  the  Clover 
Club  with  a  large  party,  but  he  remained  when 
the  others  went  home.  And  I  knew  why!  For 
all  evening  I  had  been  excited  and  happy — the 
way  I  hadn't  expected  to  be  excited  and  happy 
again  for  a  long  time — because  his  eyes  never 
had  left  me. 

"  'Like  to  meet  George  Raft?'  offered  a  girl  in 
my  party  who  was  sensitive  to  that  conscious- 
ness of  each  other  which  George  and  I  had. 
And  I  nodded — eagerly!' 

"He  was  so  sweet  the  first  time  he  took  me 
out.  We  went  to  the  fights.  On  the  way  home 
we  stopped  at  a  roadside  stand  for  Hamburgers. 
And  when  I  took  my  key  out  at  the  front  door 
he  didn't  even  mention  a  nightcap.  He  just 
tipped  his  hat  and  asked  if  he  could  see  me  soon 
again." 

It  wasn't  long  after  this  that  Virginia  had  to 
go  to  Chicago  to  get  her  divorce.  When  she 
came  out  of  court  George  was  waiting. 

"You  two  planning  on  getting  married?" 
asked  the  reporters. 

"Right!"  George  said.     "As  fast  as  we  can!" 

He  had  been  separated  from  his  wife  for 
years.  It  didn't  occur  to  him  there  would  be 
any  difficulty  on  this  score.  But  had  he  been  a 
little  less  in  love  he  might  have  known  that  it 
is  not  always  easy  to  arrange  a  mutually  satis- 
factory divorce. 

It  always  was  the  same.  George  never  could 
hide  his  love  for  Virginia  or  pretend  it  was  any 
less  than  it  was.  Again  and  again  his  offers 
were  refused  and  his  hopes  of  freedom  crashed. 
But  not  once  did  he  haul  down  his  proud  colors. 

The  years  passed.  The  relationship  between 
these  two  became  the  better  part  of  a  marriage. 
Every  night  they  dined  together.  Neither  ever 
raised  eyes  to  another  man  or  woman.  Joan 
grew  into  a  charming  little  girl  and  you  saw 
the  three  of  them  together  everywhere— every- 
where a  little  girl  should  go.  And  most  of  the 
Lime,  I  think,  George  forgot  Joan  wasn't  his 
child. 

(Continued  on  page  77) 


George  took  Virginia's  advice  and 
sailed  for  a  European  vacation. 
Aboard  ship  were  several  Hollywood 
people,  among  them — Norma  Shearer 


<^  Ji 


John    Sutton —  born    in    New 
Jersey,  with   an   English   accent 


Mary    Martin — Hollywood    pas 
her  up  once,  but  her  "Daddy,r 
and  a  strip  tease  made  her  famous 


ang 


Photoplay  brings  you  sparkling  close-ups  of  ten  prom- 
ising newcomers  who'll  have  you  asking  your  movie 
companion  /'Who's  she?"  and  "What's  his  name?" 

BY  SARA  HAMILTON 


THAT  Hollywood  is  a  wench!  Sly,  clever,  cunning  as  the  dickens, 
wearing  a  face  as  blandly  innocent  as  a  round  of  rattrap  cheese, 
she  can  be  at  the  same  time  as  tricky  as  a  relaxed  garter,  letting 
loose  with  some  new  bit  of  chicanery  just  when  one  expects  it  least. 
But  this  time  we're  ahead  of  her.  We've  found  out  her  little 
scheme  for  confounding  the  public  with  a  united  mass  of  new  and 
startling  talent  to  be  sprung  almost  to  the  exact  minute  as  a  sort  of 
holiday  surprise  for  us  little  kiddies.  A  surprise  destined  to  leave 
all  of  us  in  the  usual  dither  of  sleeve  pulling  in  the  middle  of  a  pic- 
ture to  ask  our  neighbor,  "Who's  she?"  "What's  his  name  again?" 
"How  long  has  this  baby  been  going  on?"  And  getting  nothing  but 
shshsh's  and  "be  quiet,"  and  dirty  looks  for  our  interest. 

So  ahead  of  time  we  know  the  answers.  Smug — my  gosh,  are  we 
smug  in  our  knowledge  that  includes  the  fact  the  new  girl,  Mary 
Martin  in  Paramount's  Victor  Herbert  picture  is  the  "My  Heart  Be- 
longs to  Daddy"  girl,  and  Maureen  O'Hara  in  "The  Hunchback" 
nightmare  is  nuts  for  "the  little  people  of  Ireland."    But  nuts!    Just 


Laraine   Day — sings   off-key,   is   roller-skate 
crazy  and  can't  get  away  from  the  redskins 


NEW  FACES 


^>\^y 


go  on,  ask  us  something,  try  to  trip  us  up  once. 
Ask  us  something  like  "Is  it  true  that  Ingrid 
Bergman  has  a  dimple  in  her  right  cheek?"  And 
we'll  come  back  just  like  a  flash,  "Oh  no,  it's  not 
a  dimple,  it's  a  mole  and  it's  on  Mary  Martin's 
left  leg."  • 

But  to  get  back  to  Miss  Bergman — and  to  be- 
gin at  the  beginning  of  a  brief  but  beautiful 
friendship) — one  year  ago,  in  a  small  downtown 
theater  in  Los  Angeles,  we  saw  on  the  screen  a 
girl  who  was  as  clear-cut  as  the  fjords  of  Nor- 
way, as  different  as  an  unfaithful  old  geyser,  and 
as  alluring  as  a  warm  night  in  Bali.  She  was 
performing,  and  doing  it  beautifully,  in  a  Swed- 
ish film  called,  "Intermezzo."  The  program  said 
her  name  was  Ingrid  Bergman.  We  never  for- 
got her.  Couldn't,  for  only  a  year  or  so  later, 
Ingrid  was  startling  America  playing  her  same 
role  in  the  Hollywood  version — which  wasn't 
half  as  good,  believe  me. 

Ingrid  Bergman.  The  name  reveals  so  little  of 
the  approachable  warmth  and  kindliness  of  her. 
Yet,  how  eloquently  it  speaks  of  things.  Of  her 
homeland — Sweden.  Of  Stockholm  where  she 
was  born  while  the  European  war  raged  about 
her.  But,  of  course,  we  have  to  admit  there's  lit- 
tle about  the  name  that  suggests  she'd  one  day 
become  Hollywood's  champion  corn-on-the-cob 
eater.  The  vegetable  simply  fascinated  her.  She 
ate  tons  of  it.    And  never  gained  an  ounce. 

Her  sense  of  humor  enchants  us.  When  we 
complimented  her  on  her  perfect  English,  she 
said,  her  eyes  dancing,  "You  see  I  was  a  student 
for  eleven  years  at  the  'Stockholm  Lyceum  for 
Flicker.'  " 

"For  Flicker?"  we  gasped,  "you  mean 
movies?" 

It  was  then  the  laugh  bubbled  over.  "I  thought 
you  would  say  that.    No.    It  was  nothing  to  do 


with  pictures.  It  is  a  public  school  where  I 
learned  English  and  German." 

By  the  way,  she  speaks  French,  too,  plays  the 
piano  exquisitely,  as  you  will  note  in  the  film, 
and  has  an  adorable  baby.  Her  own.  She 
couldn't  wait  to  get  back  to  it  after  the  picture 
was  over.  Her  husband  is  an  engineer  in  Stock- 
holm. 

Gregory  Ratoff,  the  director,  furnished  her 
with  several  moments  of  amusement. 

"Quviet  please,"  Gregory  would  shout  on  the 
set.    "Quviet." 

"Dot  is  quviet,"  Ingrid  would  say  slyly,  above 
the  din,  to  Leslie  Howard,  "very  quiet." 

If  you  ask  me,  she  kinda  put  the  Hollywood 
boys  in  their  place.  But  quuietly,  of  course.  For 
instance,  they  tacked  up  on  her  dressing  room 
door,  a  sign  reading,  "Keep  Out.  This  Room  for 
Miss  Bergman  Only." 

"It  seems  rude,"  she  said,  "please  take  it 
down." 

The  sign  on  her  door  then  read,  "Miss  Berg- 
man."   That's  all. 

She  killed  them  on  the  clothes  thing,  too.  One 
elaborate  gown  was  cast  aside,  in  typical  Holly- 
wood fashion,  because  it  didn't  fit.  Imagine 
everyone's  face  when  Ingrid  insisted  upon  tak- 
ing the  gown  home  to  remodel  herself.  "Here 
we  come  a-sewing,  a-sewing,  a-sewing,  so  early 
in  the  morning!" 

And  the  gloves!  They  came  out  to  measure 
Miss  Bergman's  long,  slim  hands  for  pigskin 
gloves  to  be  used  in  one  scene.  She  was  horri- 
fied.   "I'll  wear  my  own,"  she  said,  and  did. 

"That  girl  would  save  this  town  a  lot  of 
dough,"  a  prop  man  shrugged.    "A  lot  of  dough." 

Her  father  is  a  prominent  photographer  in 
Stockholm.  He  knew  her  clear  beautiful  skin, 
light  well-brushed  hair,  clear  hazel  eyes  beneath 


John  Russell — deflater  of  adult 
ego  and  outsmarter  of  Shirley  T. 


sr>. 


**£x 


*>* 


«S 


Vincent   Price — mention   movies  to   him 
and   he  talks  about  his  wife's   big   eyes 


natural  eyebrows  were  a  dramatic  dream.  So 
when  at  fifteen  she  wrote  and  directed  a  school 
play  that  drew  the  attention  of  the  director  of 
the  Royal  Dramatic  Theater  School  and  they 
came  to  get  her  to  enroll,  he  gave  his  permission. 
A  talent  scout  for  a  film  company  (they  have 
them  in  Sweden,  too)  saw  her  and  in  no  time 
Ingrid  was  a  star  in  Sweden.  A  star  who  spoke 
four  languages,  worked,  dreamed,  studied  and 
did  land  in  Hollywood. 

She  wore  no  screen  make-up.  Only  lipstick. 
Taller  than  most  film  girls,  five  feet  six,  she 
weighs  a  healthy  120  pounds.  Never  diets.  Her 
tastes  are  simple  in  clothes.  White  is  her  fa- 
vorite color.  Unlike  her  fellow  countrywoman, 
Miss  Garbo,  Ingrid  is  always  ready  to  laugh  and 
yet,  somehow  she,  too,  stands  alone  in  quiet  sim- 
ple dignity.  Under  contract  to  Selznick  Inter- 
national, they  expect  her  to  return  as  soon  as 
they  find  a  suitable  picture. 

Put  this  down  as  the  biggest  faux  pas  of  my 
life — I  forgot  to  ask  her,  before  she  returned  to 
Sweden — what  she  calls  her  baby. 

He's  Got  Everything 

Remember  the  movie  where  the  rich  young 
man,  dashing,  handsome,  clever,  loves  the  girl 
and  actually  gets  her?  Know  who  that  boy  was? 
He  was  Robert  Stack — the  Robert  Stack  who  has 
come  into  movies  for  the  first  time  as  Deanna 
Durbin's  leading  man  in  "First  Love."  I  can't 
make  up  my  mind  whether  that  distinction,  or 
the  fact  Robert  taught  Carole  Lombard  how  to 
shoot  is  the  more  important.  And  this  while 
Carole  resided  in  Lake  Tahoe  for  the  purpose  of 
divorcing  Bill  Powell.  And  you  thought  Gable 
taught  her,  didn't  you? 

At  the  age  of  twenty,  Robert  is  only  one  of  the 
five  best  shots  in  the  world— that's  all.  Gable 
and  Fred  MacMurray  were  his  friends  long  be- 
fore movies  saw  him.  He  plays  polo  like  mad,  or 
did,  until  he  broke  his  arm  three  times  and 
Mother  said,  "Dismount."  It's  hard  to  believe  all 
this  glamour  was  born  in  the  person  of  one  lad 
right  here  in  Los  Angeles.  His  father,  now  de- 
ceased, headed  the  advertising  firm  of  Stack  and 
Goebel.  When  very  young,  he  went  with  his 
mother  to  Paris  to  live,  and  here's  an  amusing 
incident  that  followed.  When  Robert  was  about 
seven  they  decided,  after  four  years,  to  return 
home.  At  the  immigration  office,  however,  it 
was  discovered  the  boy,  a  blond,  could  speak  no 
English.  Only  French.  Instantly  they  accused 
the  mother,  a  brunette,  of  bringing  an  alien  into 
the  country.  It  was  terrible.  Telephone  wires 
buzzed  to  Los  Angeles  for  the  data  on  the  boy's 
birth  certificate,  and  after  two  days,  the  Stacks 
were  admitted  to  their  own  country. 


Maureen  O'Hara — "Baby" 
to  some,  "The  Menace"  to 
those  who  play  opposite  her 


Robert  went  to  Carl  Curtis  prep  school  in  Los 
Angeles  and  then  Los  Angeles  High  School.  He 
went  to  the  University  of  Southern  California 
two  years  just  for  the  polo.  But  in  his  blood 
was  music  and  drama,  so  he  tried  Henry  Duffy's 
Little  Theater  school,  and  in  a  play,  "Personal 
Appearance,"  was  seen  by  a  Universal  scout  and 
signed  as  Deanna's  first  screen  lover.  He  had 
had  several  other  offers  but  his  guardian  turned 
them  down.  His  list  of  clubs  would  fill  a  blue 
book.  His  athletic  accomplishments,  skiing, 
swimming,  motor  boating,  shooting,  golfing,  polo, 
are  of  national  record.  He's  even  been  "sports 
interviewed"  on  the  radio.  But  his  mother  al- 
ways wanted  to  be  an  actress,  and  with  Richard 
Bonelli  for  an  uncle  and  his  only  brother  mar- 
ried to  Guy  Bolton's  daughter,  Robert  couldn't 
get  away  from  the  stage.  But  typical  of  all  rich 
boys,  he  did  work  in  a  lumber  camp  one  sum- 
mer, and  owns  a  coupe  that  has  to  be  shoved  to 
be  started.  I  tell  you,  he's  wonderful.  How 
Durbin  can  resist  him,  we'll  never  know.  His 
eyes  smile  and  his  blond  hair  is  crisp  and 
straight.  "They  want  Deanna  to  go  to  the  pre- 
view of  'First  Love'  with  me,"  he  said,  "but  I 
know  she  won't."  He  said  it  wistfully,  I  thought, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  Miss  Cobina  Wright,  Jr.,  is  the 
girl  friend.  He  loathes  padded  shoulders,  and 
has  a  figure  like  a  god.  Here's  how  he  Stacks  up 
(pun  intended):  hat  IV4,  shoes  size  10,  collars 
15y2,  socks  11,  clothes  40,  shirts  15y2. 

He's  the  screen's  next  big  moment  or  I'm 
Charles  Laughton's  earache. 

Menace  from  Dublin 

Speaking  of  Laughton — though  not  of  his 
aches  and  pains! — there's  Maureen  O'Hara,  his 
protegee,  who  gathered  such  critical  kudos  to 
herself  when  she  appeared  with  Charles  in  Eng- 
land's "Jamaica  Inn,"  and  is  expected  to  repeat 
when  she  appears  with  him  in  Hollywood's  "The 
Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame."     The  afore-men- 


tioned "Jamaica  Inn"  was  certainly  a  high-water 
mark  in  the  life  of  this  nineteen-year-old  lass 
from  Dublin.  Not  only  did  it  mark  her  debut  as 
a  screen  heroine,  but  it  also  marked  her  debut  as 
a  bride,  for  she  married  George  Brown,  a  tech- 
nician on  the  production,  just  before  she  left 
England  for  Hollywood. 

Several  amazing  things,  beside  these  all-im- 
portant happenings,  stand  out  about  youthful 
Miss  O'Hara,  whose  real  name  is  Fitzsimon, 
spelled  all  in  one  word,  please.  She  isn't  afraid 
of  a  soul  alive — including  Laughton,  who  scares 
the  pants  off  us — and  she's  far  from  being  in  a 
state  of  hysteria  over  Hollywood  and  its  sur- 
rounding territory  known  as  The  United  States. 
She  takes  it  in  her  stride  and  she  objects  to 
England  in  spots.  She  has  four  sisters  and  two 
brothers  and  misses  the  big  family.  She's  fresh, 
natural,  argumentative,  alive,  lovely  to  look  at, 
plump  for  Hollywood,  and  thinks  Ireland  origi- 
nated Hollywood  slang,  because  she  knows 
words  like  "skedaddled"  and  "smithereens." 
Her  mother  accompanied  her  daughter  west. 
Rather  than  admit  to  the  expansive  grandeur  of 
the  United  States,  Maureen  complained  the  long 
trip  merely  made  her  bottom  tired.  She  did  love 
the  sunset  over  the  desert,  however.  Like  a  kid, 
she  wears  scars  on  her  knees,  low-heeled  sandals 
because  she's  tallish,  has  a  diploma  in  elocution, 
and  misses  the  balls  in  Dublin — the  hunts  ball, 
the  College  of  Surgeons'  ball,  and  whatnot. 
Irish  girls  dress  more  simply,  she  thinks,  and  pay 
less  attention  to  clothes. 

"Mother  saw  to  it  that  all  us  children  had  mu- 
sic and  elocution  lessons,"  she  says.  "At  home 
we  used  to  have  our  own  shows.  When  it  came 
time  to  try  out  for  the  Abbey  group,  I  walked  on 
the  stage  and  was  given  a  piece  to  read  from 
Shakespeare  (she  can't  remember  what)  and  a 
plpylet  (ditto).  I  was  not  nervous  and  T  was 
chosen.' "  Now  here  comes  the  remarkable 
thin^,.  She  was  even  chosen  for  a  lead  in  an 
(Continued  on  page  68) 


BY  CLAUDE  BINYON 


THE  man  asked  me  to  write  about  Carole 
Lombard,  star  of  RKO's  "Vigil  in  the 
Night,"  and  I  said  yes.  He  asked  me  if  I 
knew  her  and  I  said  yes.  Then  he  went  back  to 
New  York  and  left  me  in  California  with  a  bub- 
ble in  my  brain. 

Sure,  I  know  Carole  Lombard.  I  know  her 
like  you  know  somebody  you  met  at  a  summer 
resort  and  can't  remember  whether  it  was  Mich- 
igan or  Wisconsin,  or  whether  you  promised  to 
send  a  post  card  or  save  up  enough  money  to 
get  married. 

I  wrote  one  picture  for  her  and  we  went  to 


Lake  Arrowhead  on  location.  She  started  talk- 
ing big  about  guns  one  afternoon,  and  right 
away  I  talked  bigger,  because  a  woman  is  a 
woman  outside  of  Annie  Oakley.  Then  she  in- 
vited me  to  shoot  clay  targets  with  her  in  com- 
petition and  I  took  her  up. 

I  hit  two  of  my  first  ten  targets.    She  hit  nine. 

"Binyon,"  she  said,  "you  stink." 

So  we  can  put  down  that  the  lady  is  frank. 

Fred  MacMurray  and  I  went  duck  hunting 
last  fall  in  a  spot  where  the  wind  blows  alkali 
dust  in  your  eyes  and  the  sun  beats  down  on 
your  head  with  all  the  subtlety  of  a  pile  driver. 
We  sat  and  sweated  in  fifty-gallon  oil  tanks 
which  were  sunk  in  the  middle  of  a  mucky 
pond  of  water,  and  we  looked  into  the  sun  until 
our  eyes  burned  red-hot,  but  there  were  no 
ducks.    Then  the  sun  sank  and  it  was  as  cold 


as  a  mother-in-law's  kiss.  The  cabin  where  we 
would  have  dinner  was  two  miles  away,  through 
mud  and  sand  and  mud  and  sand. 

MacMurray  stood  up  finally  and  stretched; 
his  teeth  chattered  a  message  to  pneumonia. 

"Anybody,"  he  said,  "who'd  pay  money  to  sit 
in  a  tin  can  in  the  desert  is  nuts." 

In  two  tanks  fifty  yards  away  sat  Lombard 
and  Gable. 

So  we  can  put  down  that  the  lady  is  nuts. 

We  were  in  Miss  Lombard's  home  and  I  had 
never  met  her.  She  had  asked  that  I  be  bor- 
rowed to  write  a  script  for  her,  so  I  was  flattered 
and  I  had  on  my  best  suit. 

We  sat  waiting,  the  director  and  I,  and  finally 

she   came   down  the   stairs   in   a   white,   satiny 

robe    trimmed    with    fur    like    the    girls    wear 

(Continued  on  page  11) 


P I N  0  C  C  H 1 0 


•A** 


>•  o*c 


.  G*X  v\A<^ 


oG<x    V 


J&F 


At  opposite  ends  of  the  United 
States  two  brilliant  rivals — Walt 
Disney  in  Hollywood  and  Max 
Fleischer  in  Miami  (he  was 
the  father  of  the  first 
life  -  like  animated  drawings 
on  the  screen) — coaxed  their 
artist-assistants  to  finish  film 
versions  of  two  beloved  classics 
for  your  winter's  entertainment 


fit 


>  Pi 


of<':?^ 


r°»>6, 


o/i 


'Pet    "*nc/s 


Woe  to  those  boys  who  run  away  from  home," 
inocchio's  conscience,  Jiminy  Cricket,  warns  him 


"^V 


Villains — Giddy,  J.  Worthington  "Honest  John"  Foulfellow  and  Coachman 
hio,  Figaro  and  Geppetto  outwit  Monstro,  the  whale 


To  some  unknown  genius  in  the  dim  past 
we  are  indebted  for  this  story  of  "Pin- 
occhio"  which  has  charmed  legions  of 
children  through  many  generations,  for 
it  was  Italian  folklore  long  before  Carlo 
Lorenzini,  using  the  pen  name  of  C. 
Collodi,  put  it  on  paper  in  1870.  While 
this  RKO  film  is  pure  fantasy,  Jona- 
than  Swift's  classic,  "Gulliver's 
Travels,"  the  story  of  a  man  in  a  land  of 
midgets,  written  in  the  early  eighteenth 
century  and  now  being  filmed  by 
Paramount,  has  the  distinction  of  be- 
ing a  story  for  children  and,  at  the 
same  time,  a   bitter  satire  on  mankind 

©H'oil  Disney  rrod. 


GULLIVER 

Following  close  on  the  heels  of  the 
path-blazing  "Snow  White"  two  more 
beloved  childhood  classics  come  to  life 
through  the  genius  of  those  masters  of 
cartoon— Walt  Disney  and  Max  Fleischer 


V<^ 


Gulliver  plays  cupid  to  di- 
minutive Princess  Glory  and 
her  lover,  Prince  David, 
when  he  settles  a  quarrel  be- 
tween their  warring  fathers 


AT  WORK 


Don  "J  be  a  diamond  in  the  rough — 
These  Hollywood  oracles  pass  on 
their  secrets  for  that  indefinable 
something   that   clicks   at  a    glance 

BY  ADELE  WHITELY  FLETCHER 


B' 


I^EAUTY  is  only  skin  deep."  It  is  indeed! 
'Pretty  is  as  pretty  does.'"  No  argu- 
ment there  either! 
But  there's  another  equally  venerable  adage 
that  insists  first  impressions  last  longest.  It  cer- 
tainly deserves  consideration.  And  in  Holly- 
wood it  certainly  gets  it.  Leave  it  to  the  wise 
citizens  of  that  town  to  realize  others  are  as 


20 


strongly  influenced  by  the  first  impression  they 
offer  as  they  are  by  the  first  impression  others 
offer. 

All  the  miracle  men  of  the  studios — the  make- 
up experts,  the  hairdressers,  the  dress  design- 
ers, and  the  health  and  charm  experts — work 
together  to  invest  the  stars  with  that  indefin- 
able something  which  makes  individuals  per- 
sonable at  a  first  glance;  personable  in  appear- 
ance and  in  attitude. 

Movie  stars  are  their  own  showcases.  They 
cannot  risk  an  inferior  first  impression.  Neither 
can  anyone  else,  of  course.  And  neither  need 
anyone  else.  For  here  the  Hollywood  miracle 
men  not  only  list  the  details  of  attitude  and  ap- 
pearance which  create  favorable  first  impres- 
sions, but  they  tell  how  these  details  may  be 
taken  care  of  simply  and  surely. 

Since  some  experts  appear  here  for  the  first 
time  we  again  seize  the  opportunity  to  boast 
about  our  source  of  supply. 

Max  Factor,  Junior,  when  he  was  a  little 
lad,  before  his  beard  was  grown,  assisted  his 
father  with  the  make-up  of  headliners  like 
Mary  Pickford,  Mabel  Normand,  and  the  Gish 
girls.     And  when  he  was  eighteen  years  old, 


working  with  his  father,  he  evolved  the  "color 
harmony"  theory  which  gave  women  powder, 
rouge  and  lipstick  that  really  were  of  a  color 
and  a  tone  to  blend  with  their  individual  col- 
oring. No  wonder  it's  young  Factor  the 
movies  seek  as  make-up  supervisor  for  color 
films  like  "Northwest  Passage"  and  "Wizard 
of  Oz." 

Jack  Dawn,  beauty  consultant  to  Jeanette 
MacDonald,  Myrna  Loy,  Judy  Garland  and 
other  lovelies  on  the  Metro  lot,  is  intolerant 
of  women  who  are  unattractive.  Today,  he 
insists,  no  woman  need  be  unattractive.  Con- 
sequently, he  contends  that  the  unattractive 
woman  is  the  lazy,  indifferent  woman. 

Perc  Westmore,  Beauty  Czar  at  Warner 
Brothers,  talks  to  girls  like  Bette  Davis  and 
Ann  Sheridan  like  a  Dutch  uncle.  He  doesn't 
pull  his  punches.  And  they  love  it.  Because 
he  shows  them  the  way  to  greater  attractive- 
ness always. 

Adrian  needs  no  introduction.  His  name  is 
forever  flashing  on  the  screen  as  the  creator 
of  clothes  worn  by  Metro  stars.  And  his  ef- 
fects are  so  simple  usually,  that  you  think: 
"Why    couldn't    I    have    thought    of    that?" 


1_ 


Rolled-top  stockings   are  as 
out  of  date  as  a   roll-top  desk 


Adrian,  however,  owes  his  fame  to  the  fact 
that  nobody  else  ever  does  think  of  that. 

Edith  Head  is  a  little  bit  of  a  thing,  but,  oh 
my,  oh  my!  It  isn't  only  when  girls  like 
Claudette  Colbert  and  Joan  Bennett  have  Big 
Moments  on  the  screen  that  they  run  to  La 
Head.  They  also  camp  on  the  doorstep  of  her 
couturier  department  at  Paramount  when  they 
look  forward  to  a  Big  Moment  off  the  screen. 
They  know  they  can  count  upon  her  for  chic 
and  also  for  clothes  with  a  restraint  that  will 
make  them — of  all  things — soignee. 

Orry-Kelly,  responsible  for  the  little  num- 
bers the  girls  wear  in  Warner  pictures,  is  al- 
ways taking  something  away  from  his  stars. 
It  may  be  a  buckle  or  a  pleat  or  a  hunk  of 
novelty  jewelry.  But  after  he  does  this  every- 
one is  always  agreed  the  effect  has  been  im- 
proved a  hundredfold.  And  he  tells  how  you 
can  go  and  do  likewise. 

Malvina  Dunn  does  very  well  indeed  for 
herself  through  her  ability  to  recognize  a 
diamond  in  the  rough.  It  is  to  her  Warner 
Brothers  entrust  the  young  people  who  their 
talent  scouts  think  have  the  making  of  stars. 
Among  other  very  important  things,  she  knows 
how  to  smooth  quirks  out  of  people  who  do 
perfectly  dreadful  things  just  because  they're 
trying  to  conceal  an  inferiority  complex. 

Lillian  Burns  has  a  little  bungalow  on  the 
Metro  lot  which  is  a  Mecca  not  only  for  young 
players,  but  also  for  established  stars.  If  you 
doubt  she  can  perform  miracles  for  human 
beings,  ask  those  who  have  worked  with  her 
and  come  away  with  their  personalities  all 
brushed  and  shining. 

(Continued  on  page  73) 

Don't  say,  "Lovely  little  place  you 
have  here."  You'll  be  forgiven 
self-consciousness,    but   never  that 


ILLUSTRATED      BY      BARBARA      SHERMUND 


mm 


£50  w  m 


'V*       *^ 


/ 


«9K 


Bob  Taylor  dances  now  and  then 
but    (bitter    truth)    not    too    well 


Mickey  Rooney  (with  New  York's  Mayor  LaGuardia)  whose  escapades 
in  swing  joints  make  him  this  writer's  nominee  for  public  pixie  No.  I 


Femme  scribes   go  for   Menjou 
— but  what  about  the    males? 


HOW  TO  POT  A  STAR 


Bring  him  to  Manhattan, 
turn  him  loose,  then  let 
this  merciless  gal  column- 
ist tell  a  few  startling 
truths  about  his  behavior 


'SJJJp£~ 


BY  DOROTHY  KILGALLEN 


MANHATTAN  is  the  place  where  Holly- 
wood goes  under  the  microscope.  Bev- 
erly Hills  athletes  become  Broadway 
night  owls,  glamour  girls  get  out  of  their  slacks 
and  into  their  Schiaparellis,  and  the  celluloid 
Dream  Princes  whose  Sunset  Boulevard  rou- 
tine is  a  chocolate  soda  at  nine  p.m.  become  mid- 
night revelers  in  the  Stork  Club  and  dawn 
prowlers  in  the  Swing  Street  dens. 

Most  of  the  stars  love  New  York  but  not  a  few 
are  frightened  of  it.  It  puts  them  on  the  spot, 
exhibits  them  to  a  strange  new  curious  public, 
puts  their  casual  doings  on  page  one,  photo- 
graphs them  from  breakfast  to  bedtime,  sub- 
mits them  to  a  large  and  persistent  army  of 
autograph  hunters,  and  at  times  even  exposes 
them  to  threats  of  extortion  and  kidnaping.  In 
return,  it  gives  them  more  fun  and  gaiety  in  a 
week  than  they  can  get  in  Hollywood  in  a  year. 
The  train  that  brings  a  star  into  Grand  Cen- 
tral Station  transplants  him  from  a  small  town 
where  everybody  knows  him  to  a  big  town 
where  nobody  knows  him  but  everyone  is  look- 
ing at  him.  How  he  stands  the  metropolitan 
spotlight  depends  on  a  great  many  things,  but 


22 


chiefly  on  himself;  in  general,  the  stars  who  are 
nice  in  Hollywood  are  nicer  in  New  York,  be- 
cause they  are  more  relaxed,  and  those  who  are 
dull  and  disagreeable  at  Hollywood  and  Vine 
are  infinitely  more  dull  and  disagreeable  at 
Broadway  and  Forty-second  Street. 

But  the  town  changes  them;  it  may  sharpen 
them,  dress  them  up,  urge  too  many  cocktails 
into  their  hands,  make  them  self-conscious, 
erase  their  inhibitions,  inflate  their  egos,  or 
search  out  their  true  dispositions — but  it  does 
something  to  them,  something  that  is  tangible, 
and  describable  and.  amusing  to  watch. 

Sonja  Henie,  who  even  in  Hollywood  could 
scarcely  by  typed  as  casual  in  her  public  ap- 
pearances, becomes  a  great  "entrance"  girl  when 
she  hits  New  York.  She  swirls  into  the  night 
spots  looking  every  inch  the  Ice  Queen,  all  white 
chiffon  beaded  with  pearls  and  rhinestones, 
white  fox  from  her  ears  to  her  knees,  orchids 
on  her  shoulders,  diamonds  on  her  wrists,  and 
on  her  lips  an  unalterable  smile.  She  always 
wears  orchids  and  usually  she  buys  them  for 
herself.  Sometimes  she  buys  them  for  her 
mother,  too.  She  invariably  puts  on  a  show; 
whatever  room  she's  in,  she  is  the  most  viva- 
cious gal  in  it.  When  she  dances  she  looks  like 
a  supercharged  little  Scandinavian  doll. 

Even  in  the  daytime,  she  wears  more  ermine, 
pastel  fox  and  feathers  than  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land or  anybody  else  you  can  name.  And  in 
case  you  aren't  sure  it's  Sonja  Henie,  you  can 
tell  by  the  little  diamond  miniature  of  Sonja 
Henie  she  always  wears  on  her  dress  or  her 
hat.     She  wins  all  awards  for  thrift — although 


she  is  one  of  the  wealthiest  film  stars  in  the  in- 
dustry, she  has  been  known  to  call  up  Ted  Deg- 
lin,  press  agent  at  Madison  Square  Garden,  and 
ask  for  free  tickets  to  sporting  events. 

Fred  Astaire,  the  gay  guy  of  the  dancing 
films,  is  the  gloomy  gus  of  the  night-club  cir- 
cuit. Thin  of  pate  and  of  frame,  impeccably 
dressed,  he  sits  around  the  Monte  Carlo  and  El 
Morocco  on  occasional  evenings  in  Manhattan, 
looking  pale  and  glum.  His  wife,  who  is  some- 
what livelier,  is  obviously  the  boss  of  the  fam- 
ily; she  engineers  everything,  even  the  taking 
of  photographs,  and  usually  can  be  heard  ask- 
ing Fred  to  put  on  his  hat  before  the  shutter 
clicks. 

BlNNIE  BARNES,  who,  until  Mike  Frankovich 
— to  whom  her  engagement  has  just  been  an- 
nounced— swam  into  her  life,  frequently  didn't 
have  dates  in  Hollywood  and  used  to  tag  along 
with  her  agent  Ralph  Blum  and  his  wife,  Carmel 
Myers,  on  gala  Coast  nights,  is  the  belle  of  the 
ball  in  the  Stork  Club-La  Conga  circuit.  Some- 
thing happens  to  Binnie's  sex  appeal  during  that 
3,000  mile  trek  from  Sunset  Boulevard  to  Broad- 
way, and  the  gal  who  was  more  or  less  a  wall- 
flower type  in  Beverly  Hills  has  the  Manhattan 
playboys  swooning  in  her  perfumed  wake,  ring- 
ing her  telephone  bell  at  all  hours,  and  yearning 
to  buy  sapphire  bracelets  to  fit  her  wrists. 

Probably  the  most  unpopular  actor  with  the 
Times  Square  midnighters  is  the  taciturn  Ray- 
mond  Massey,   who,   along  with  his  wife,   the 
former  Dorothy   Whitney,   hates  to  be  photo- 
(Continued  on  page  80) 


Errol  Flynn,  at  La  Conga  with  his  sister  and  socialite  Randy  Burke, 
migrates  with  democratic  ease  from  golden  arenas  to  Latin  bistros 


It's  maddening — the  discretion  of  Norma  Shearer  (above  at  the  Stork 
Club    with    Mrs.    Julien    Chaqueneau)    at    psychological    moments 


Five  A.M.  finds  George  Raft  (above  with  the  Mark  Hellingers)  looking 
for  a  good  spot  to  rhumba — even  if  he  can't  keep  time  to  the  music 


She  doesn't  give  a  rap  for  glamour,  but  the  Dawn  Patrol  has  fun 
watching  Miriam  Hopkins,  with  Bennett  Cerf  at  Colbert's,  just  talking 


The  "entrance"  girl — Sonja  Henie,  who  wears  more  ermines  than  Eng- 
land's Queen,  at  the  Stork  with  the  models'  delight,  Franchot  Tone 


Was  she  really  Hollywood's  "wallflower" — this  Binnie  Barnes  (at  the 
Stork  Club  with  Dan  Silverberg)  who  took  Manhattan  lads  into  camp? 


23 


*7ri  a  t»**NV*.y 


A  striking  silhouette 


,f* 


W 


BY  JOSEPH   HENRY  STEELE 


HE  likes  to  visit  the  San  Diego  Zoo  and 
spend  hours  watching  the  gorillas. 
He   is   a   pushover   to   borrow   money 
from,  and  hates  the  people  who  take  advantage 
of  his  weakness. 

He  doesn't  know  how  tall  he  is. 

He  has  abhorred  night  clubs  ever  since  he 
worked  in  one  in  Chicago. 

His  name  is  Akim  Michaelovitch  Tamiroff. 

He  is  always  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with  him- 
self when  he  is  not  working.  He  is  a  chain 
cigarette  smoker,  and  deprecates  the  formula 
of  American  pictures. 

He  doesn't  like  birds  in  cages. 

He  hates  eating  alone. 

He  always  puts  his  script  under  his  pillow  in 
the  belief  that  it  helps  him  remember  his  lines. 
He  is  only  thirty-nine  years  old. 

He  thinks  colored  people,  children  and  dogs 
are  the  finest  actors,  because  they  don't  try  to 
act. 

He  will  knock  on  wood  a  dozen  times  during 
a  conversation,  and  his  frank,  childlike  in- 
genuousness is  reminiscent  of  Albert  Einstein, 
the  scientist. 


He  believes  that  life  lived  well  today  takes 
care  of  tomorrow,  that  there's  too  much  con- 
centration on  the  future.  His  only  lucky  charm 
is  an  old  black  tie  which  he  wears  on  the  first 
day  of  every  picture,  because  it  was  associated 
with  his  first  American  success,  "The  General 
Died  at  Dawn." 

He  was  born  in  Baku,  the  Russian  oil  capital, 
of  Russian-Armenian  parents.  He  says  he 
would  be  scared  to  death  to  milk  a  cow. 

He  was  awarded  a  badge,  a  sticker  for  his  car 
and  five  dollars  in  cash  for  his  record  in  careful 
driving. 

He  never  indulges  in  alcoholic  beverages. 

AKIM  TAMIROFF  labors  violently  at  his  tele- 
phonic conversations,  feeling  that  he  must  do 
all  the  talking  though  he  has  nothing  to  say, 
thus  giving  his  listeners  no  opportunity  to  ex- 
press themselves.  He  dreads  the  blank  of  a 
conversational  pause,  fearful  lest  something  has 
gone  wrong. 

He  is  very  fond  of  pilav,  which  is  Turkish  rice, 
yet  he  has  never  tasted  yoghurt,  their  famous 
curdled  milk. 


Akim  Tamiroff,  now  playing  in  "Untamed,"  adores 

his  wife,  is  a  strong  believer  in  matrimonial  vaca- 

^W^        tions  ...  is  self-conscious  when  introduced  to  stran- 

W  gers,  can't  be  alone  .  .  .  reads  music,  sings  badly 


He  likes  the  spicy  odors  of  an  Oriental  bazaar. 

He  likes  to  hear  a  concertina. 

His  hair  is  thinning  rapidly  and  greying  at  the 
sides. 

He  has  a  genuine  passion  for  his  profession. 
His  eyes  are  green. 

He  loves  wearing  uniforms. 

He  has  never  had  an  operation. 

He  is  bad  at  guessing  games. 

He  has  never  carried  a  walking  stick,  and  his 
favorite  book  is  "Brothers  Karamazov." 

nE  never  attends  his  own  previews  if,  in  his 
opinion,  the  picture  is  bad.  He  plays  no  indoor 
games,  has  never  worn  a  tiepin,  and  wishes  he 
could  fly  an  airplane. 

He  is  an  unconscious  and  voluble  wit.  He  is 
punctual  only  in  his  work,  and  never  reads  the 
funny  papers. 

He  dislikes  wearing  a  flower  in  his  lapel. 

He  hates  double-bills  and  B  pictures. 

He  calls  Spencer  Tracy  the  greatest  actor  in 
pictures. 

His  eyebrows,  when  listening,  converge  at  an 
angle  in  a  quizzical,  childlike  manner.  He  came 
to  America  in  1923. 

He  is  quick  to  criticize,  always  rides  hunches, 
and  feels  he  has  had  more  from  life  than  he  ever 
expected. 

He  knows  too  well  the  pitfalls  of  Hollywood 
and  so  is  careful  with  his  money.  He  prefers, 
when  at  home,  to  lounge  in  his  wife's  workroom, 
adjoining  her  bedroom.  He  never  dreams  when 
asleep. 

He  sings  badly,  delights  in  argumentation  and 
shaves  once  or  twice  a  day. 

Akim  Tamiroff  adores  his  wife  to  whom  he 
has  been  married  six  years.  His  favorite  cheese 
is  Swiss. 

He  is  embarrassed  at  his  total  ignorance  of 
wines,  sfnd  he  is  extremely  self-conscious  when 
introduced  to  strangers. 

He  has  many  suits  of  clothes,  but  he  becomes 

attached  to  one  which  he  uses  until  it  wears  out, 

(Continued  on  page  79) 


24 


i 


J 


/ 


THIS  AND  THE 


FOLLOWING   PAGES   PHOTOPLAY 


BRINGS   YOU   HOLLYWOOD   AT 


ITS    PICTORIAL    BEST 


Stop-pr 

fans — Eleanor  Powell  am 
Astaire    are    teamed    at    lasl 
in    Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer'i 
-adway   Melody  of    1940' 


Tennis  champ  Alice  Marble 
with  Clark  Gable.  You  may 
see  her  in  the  movies  soon 
if    present    tests    work    out! 


More  star-fans  snapped  by 
Fink  at  the  Pacific  South- 
west Tennis  Tournament — 
Bing   and    Dixie   Lee   Crosby 


Tennis  is  only  tennis,  but  a  cigarette  is  a  smoke  to  Jimmy  Stewart 
and  Dick  Foran — though  they  were  intent  enough  during  actual  play 


Nicest  news  from  the  iuvenile  front  is  that 


/  t 


h 


Typical  American?  Jimmy  Stewart  piles  up  votes  with  his  campaign 
in  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington"  (which  may  make  him  Academy 
Award  candidate)  and  the  new  "Destry  Rides  Again."  Still — better 
look  at  that  line-up  on  the  next  page  before  casting  your  ballot! 


29 


HE'S  THE  MAN 


FOR  YOU- 

Playing  make-believe  (one/  forgetting  existing  marriages!), 
Photoplay  picks  out  just  the  right  Romeo  for  your  tastes — 


>e 


**<& 
,«<>* 


New  faces,  new  teams 
— Music,  Maestro, 
the  dance  goes  on! 


\ 


Once  upon  a  time  Sonja  Heme  and 
Tyrone  Power  were  newcomers  and 
rose  to  first  popularity  together. 
Now  a  big  star,  Sonja  offers  a  help- 
ing hand  to  young  Bob  Cummings 
in  "Everything  Happens  at  Night" 


PARTNERS 


■ 


And  once  upon  a  time  there  were  stories 
of  a  Henie-Power  romance.  But  now  Ty's 
married  to  Annabella — and  teamed  with 
pretty   Linda    Darnell   in    "Daytime  Wife" 


Characteristics  so  {irmly  engravet 
on  the  hearts  of  their  countrymen 
that  they  don't  need  to  be  patented 


EL 

Mouth  without  cupid's  bow — Bette   Davis'      Dick  Greene's  dimples 


Ox: 


Legs  that  had  Broadway  writing  lyrics — Zorina's 


MUNI  GOES  ROMANTIC 


Paul  finds  love  at  last!  Forgetting  historical  characters  de- 
voted to  the  alleged  Better  Things  in  Life,  he  comes  down  to 
earth — to  the  "little"  tragedies  of  "little"  people  in  love — 
in  "We  Are  Not  Alone."  This  is  Warners'  film  version  of  the 
James  Hilton  novel,  with  their  surprising  new  dramatic  star, 
Jane  Bryan,  as  the  other  half  of  the  title.  But,  looking  at 
Paul's  mustache,  we'll  bet  he's  working  his  way  back  from 
smooth-shaven  "Juarez"  to  those  bushily-bearded  biographies! 


/ 


Mystery  man  of  the  hour — Franchot  Tone. 
That  Tone-Crawford  divorce  is  supposed  to 
become  final  in  April.  His  contract  with 
M-G-M  expired  with  "Fast  and  Furious,"  and 
he's  due  for  a  new  play  on  Broadway.  But 
Hollywood's  ready  to  bet  on  his  triumphal  re- 
turn both  to  movies  and  to  Joan — it  you're 
still  willing  to  gamble  after  a  glance  at  them 
(inset)    snapped    at   the    Cocoanut    Grove! 


■ft 


TAKES   A   HOLIDAY 


•••#, 


E    COVER 


*,^ 


^** 


ed    MacMurray   gets   all   the   breaks 


ducking  Alice  and 


C 


LOSED!"  warns  the  sign  on  the  "Grapes 
of  Wrath"  set  at  Twentieth  Century- 
Fox.  "ABSOLUTELY  NO  VISITORS!" 
But  we  are  already  inside  and  Director  John 
Ford  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"All  right,"  he  consents.  "But  you'll  be 
sorry!" 

Mystery,  deep  and  dark,  has  swirled  around 
"The  Grapes  of  Wrath"  ever  since  Zanuck 
bought  it  for  $72,000  and  announced  it  for  pro- 
duction. Then  the  mystery  of  the  Hays  Office 
censorship  stretched  to  the  limit  to  okay  the 
fiery  dialogue.  There's  still  the  mystery  of  the 
script  kept  under  lock  and  key  in  Zanuck's 
office.  And  now  that  the  mystery  of  the  guarded 
set  is  exploded  for  us,  what  we  see  is  equally 
baffling.    On  a  vast,  shiny  sheet  of  tin,  property 


men  are  shoveling  a  pile  of  fine  dirt.  "What's 
that?"  we  ask  John  Ford. 

"H-m-m-m-m,"  he  replies  mysteriously.  Such 
creepy  stuff  gets  us!  We  grab  a  few  facts  for 
support.  This  much  we  know  for  sure  about 
"The  Grapes  of  Wrath": 

That  John  Steinbeck  has  personally  okayed 
the  script,  the  cast,  the  sets  and  the  wardrobe. 
That  a  Twentieth  Century-Fox  camera  caravan 
has  already  traveled  the  exact  "Okie"  trail  of 
the  Joads,  from  Oklahoma  to  California,  shoot- 
ing everything  in  sight.  That  a  giant  location 
camp  is  already  built  near  Bakersfield,  in  the 
heart  of  the  California  migrant  fruit-pickers 
country.  That  the  final  cast  is:  Tom  Joad, 
Henry  Fonda;  Ma,  Jane  Darwell;  Casey,  the 
preacher,  John  Carradine;  Rosasharn,  Dorris 
Bowdon;  Grandpa,  Charlie  Grapewin;  Muley, 
John  Qualen;  and  Connie,  Eddie  Quillan.  And 
that  you  won't  see  the  finished  picture  until 
1940.  As  for  the  set  and  scene,  there's  nothing 
very  secret  about  the  dilapidated  old  farmhouse, 
although  the  empty  windows  and  the  caved-in 
porch  make  it  look  spooky  enough. 

Henry  Fonda,  in  stiff,  ill-fitting  prison  issue 
clothes,  and  John  Carradine,  in  rags,  stand  out- 
side the  lonesome  shack.  Henry  has  just  come 
home  from  the  pen  to  find  his  family  kicked 


out  by  the  bank,  his  old  home  filled  with  owls 
and  bats. 

When  John  Ford  shouts,  "Places!"  Hank  and 
John  Carradine  step  upon  the  rickety  porch. 
"Okay,"  continues  Ford.  "Wind!  Storm!  Ac- 
tion!" 

Well,  that's  practically  all  we  see,  because 
right  behind  the  dirt  pile  a  wind  machine  starts 
with  a  whine  and  suddenly  the  set  is  blotted 
out  in  a  stinging,  brown  fog  of  dust.  The  wind 
machine  is  shooting  it  right  at  us,  over  us, 
through  us — and  everybody  else,  of  course. 
How  the  camera  catches  the  actors'  we'll  never 
know.  But  some  smai-t  sound  man  will  have  to 
cut  out  our  sneezes,  chokes  and  gasps.  We  fight 
for  the  door,  looking  like  the  original  chimney 
sweep.  "What  was  that  for?"  we  rasp  at  John 
Ford. 

"That  was  a  Dust  Bowl  dust  storm,"  he  grins. 
"How'd  you  like  it?    Glad  you  came?" 

We  refuse  to  commit  ourselves. 

We  could  certainly  use  a  good  bath  when  we 
show  up  on  the  "Little  Old  New  York"  set,  and 
before  we  leave  we  darned  near  get  one,  too. 
Everybody  else  does. 

Marion  Davies'  famous  old  movie  has  been 
sponged,   pressed  and  given   a  tuck  here  and 


38 


DIOS 


Children  on  the  "Vigil  in  the  Night"  set 
and  Carole  Lombard  (hiya,  Mrs.  G^.!_did  ) 


there  to  present  Alice  Faye  with  the  most  slam- 
bang  part  of  her  career.  Alice  plays  a  hell- 
raising  water-front  barmaid  in  1807  New  York, 
a  lusty  wench  who  bootlegs,  battles  and  busses 
with  equal  polish  and  poise.  The  gentleman  on 
the  kissing  end  is  Richard  Greene,  or  Robert 
Fulton,  for  "Little  Old  New  York"  draws  its 
major  drama  from  Fulton's  invention  of  the 
steamboat  and  his  struggles  to  convince  a  world 
of  doubting  Thomases. 

Alice  is  done  up  in  a  gingham  dress,  with  a 
black  laced  bodice  and  an  up-curled  coiffure  of 
the  period.  Dick  Greene  is  elegant  in  skin-tight 
fawn  trousers,  tail  coat,  stock  and  a  beaver  top 
hat.  Fred  MacMurray,  the  other  man,  isn't 
around  today,  and  lucky  he  is,  too. 

Because,  in  a  minute  every  actor  and  extra 
on  this  set  is  in  deep  distress.  There's  a  ship- 
wreck. 

Since  we're  out  on  the  bleak  back  lot  of  West- 
wood  Hills  at  the  time,  the  whole  thing  seems  a 
little  silly.  But  a  mammoth  artificial  ocean  is 
lapping  away  at  the  wharves  and  on  it  seven  or 
eight  movie  ships  are  floating  peacefully  at 
anchor.  One,  tied  at  the  dock,  is  being  loaded 
by  extra  stevedores  while  Dick  Greene,  Alice, 
and  extra  passengers  trip  up  the  gangplank,  to 
sail  for  Europe.    Director  Henry  King  is  trying 


"Here's  make-up  in  your  eye!"  Jimmy  Cag- 
ney  gets  what  he  deserves  for  the  mean  kind 
of  character  he  plays  in  "The  Fighting  69th," 
while  William  Lundigan  grins,  at  the  right 


for  a  long  shot  of  the  sailing.  Pretty  soon  the 
loaded  boat  draws  away.  A  minute  later  the 
ship  starts  to  roll  gently.  Everybody  screams. 
Another  minute  and  Alice,  Dick,  everyone  on 
board  is  floundering  around  in  the  water.  Dick, 
looking  like  a  wet  rooster,  helps  Alice  walk 
across  to  the  shore.  The  "harbor"  is  only  three 
feet  deep  with  a  very  comfortable  concrete  bot- 
tom! 

They  discover  a  hole  in  the  boat's  flat  wooden 
bottom  as  Alice  and  Dick  sit  on  the  shore  to  dry. 

"Torpedoed,"  says  Dick. 

Next,  we  find  Nancy  Kelly  trying  comedy 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


Meet  Ann  Sothern  and  Bill  Gargan,  making 
Damon  Runyon's  "Joe  and  Ethel  Turp  Call 
on  the  President."  Nobody's  more 
surprised  than  Ann  to  find  herself  in  the 
White  House — except  possibly  Lewis  Stone! 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  "Brother  Rat"  return! 
The  aforesaid  Mrs.  and  Mr.  being, 
of  course,  Jane  Bryan  and  rubber- 
faced  Eddie  Albert.  The  new  film 
makes  them  full-fledged  parents 
of  our  latest  Glamour  Boy — the 
fourteen-months-old  towhead 
with  the  bewitching  cogno- 
men of  Peter  B.  Good.  The 
77th  tested  for  a  "Brother 
Rat   and    a    Baby"   title 
role,    Peter   won    by    a 
length  of  gaily-exposed 
baby  teeth  and  a  smile 


■ 


*m 


tr*A^ 


BY  GWENN  WALTERS 


■ 


&W& 


The  "cover-up"  trend  distinguis 
this  heavy  black  crepe  eveni 
gown  with  long,  tight  sleeves  and 
covered  shoulders  designed  by  Bar- 
nard Newman  of  Beverly  Hills  for 
Joan  Bennett's  personal  wardrobe. 
Three  bows  of  self  material  deco- 
rate the  front  — one  finishes  tlu 
banded  neckline,  two  others  tie  the 
inset  corselet  girdle.  The  flowing 
skirt  is  released  from  tiny  gathers 
at  a  low  waistline.  Joan  discards 
jewelry  and  makes  dramatic  con- 
trast with  "vivid  pink"  ostrijli 
plumes  in  her  hair.  'Green  Het* 
a  Famous  Production  (Univerft 
release),  is  Joan's  next  picture 


r 


VN 


Travis  Banton  s  host* 
pink  satin  were  designed  for  Olivia  de 
Havilland  to  wear  in  Goldwyn's  "Raf 
fles."  Styled  like  an  artist's  smock,  th 
jacket  fullness  is  released  from  a  deep 
yoke  which  closes  in  front  with  bow  ties. 
'  tailored  trousers  are  set  on  a  deep 
stband.  These  original  Banton  pa- 
lauias  are  not  available  in  the  shops 


M' 


.  ••    '  •  •  ,>«. 


Edith  Head  designed  this  nightie  and  bed 
jacket  inspired  by  the  fashions  of  the  Gay 
Nineties.  Mary  Martin  wears  them  in  "The 
Great  Victor  Herbert."  The  hooded  bed 
jacket  that  is  edged  with  ruffles  is  of 
flowered  silk.  The  quaint  nightie  of  fluff 
crepe  has  a  tucked  yoke  and  Val  lace  trim. 
Both  the  nightie  and  the  bed  jacket  are  avail- 
able   in    smart    shops    from    coast    to    coast 


K 


A  simple  sport  frock  is  first  requisite 
for  sunny  resort  wear.  Howard  Shoup 
designed  this  one  of  natural  Shantung 
with  a  gay  rust,  green  and  yellow 
striped  silk  belt  for  Rosemary  Lane.  No- 
tice the  overlay  collar  of  white  silk 
pique  and  the  skirt  yoke  which  releases 
fullness  at  a  low  waistline.  He  also 
designed  this  sport  frock  of  rust  and 
beige  sheer  woolen  (left)  which  Rose- 
mary wears  in  Warners'  "Four  Wives  " 
The  rust  colored  all-around  pleated  skirt 
is  topped  by  a  beige  jacket  that  is 
edged  and  trimmed  with  rust — a  white 
silk  pique  blouse  peeks  through  the 
button  closing.  These  studio  designed 
frocks  are   not  available  in  the  shops 


^•^^«fcS^ 


Mrfifa.'***''*      $    ,©/•  e/V  <V    °ex  "'ex 


/  </ 


■  *  % 


:f 


, 


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45 


Carole  Lombard  gives  you  a  long  shot  of  the  evening 
gown  she  wears  on  Photoplay's  cover.  It  is  of  striped 
brick  and  rust-red  and  gold  brocade  and  was  created 
for  her  personal  wardrobe  by  Irene  of  Bullock's- 
Wilshire,  Los  Angeles.  The  bodice,  cut  out  in  front, 
swings  free  in  back  to  effect  a  bolero.  Carole's 
"Gold  Pear"  costume  jewelry  was  created  by  Joseff 
of  Hollywood.  The  pendant  of  the  necklace  may  be 
worn  separately  as  brooch  or  lapel  ornament.  Carole 
soon  appear  in  RKO-Radio's  "Vigil  in  the  Night" 


47 


Dorothy  Lamour,  appearing  in  Para- 
mount's  "The  Road  to  Singapore,"  se- 
lects a  Sully  Brothers  Samar  suede  cos- 
tume designed  by  Voris  for  spectator 
sport  and  street  wear.  The  tailored 
coat  with  buckle  closing  is  of  blue, 
matching  the  six-gore  skirt  which  is 
topped  by  a  rust  blouse.  The  turban 
matches  the  coat  and  skirt,  the  bag 
and  gloves  repeat  the  blouse  con- 
trast color.  This  costume  is  available  at 
Henri  Bendel,  Inc.,  New  York  and  Saks 
Fifth  Avenue,  Beverly  Hills,  California 


GOES    FOR 


/ 1 


i. 


a  IfU^ 


otsstsr     § 


HIV 


Deanna  Durbin's  evening  gown 
is  champagne  colored  taffetarized 
slipper  satin.  A  golden  chain  slips 
through  the  high  back  neckline  of 
the  button-trimmed  basque  bodice 
to  fill  in  the  square  decolletage  in 
place  of  jewelry.  The  luxurious 
evening  coat  of  Howlett  and  Hock- 
meyer's  red  twill  -  back  velveteen 
is  styled  with  basque  bodice  and 
flowing  skirt — the  hood,  favorite  of 
the  younger  generation,  is  edged 
with  fur.  Deanna  is  currently  appear- 
ing in  Universal's  "First  Love." 
The  Nona  Modes  wrap  and  the  Fash- 
ion Set  Junior  gown  are  available 
at  Franklin  Simon,  New  York,  and 
J.    W.    Robinson,    Los    Angeles 


7 


Photog  r  af>hy— Jones 


FORMULA 


^W'v'MS*t*'!*l?-"'eB^ 


V 


! 


■' 


i 


„*<** V*  Vs  V* 


50 


"Hurrah  for  holidays,"  says  Betty  Field,  soo 
to  be  seen  in  Paramount's  "Seventeen,"  and  i 
Hal  Roach's  "Of  Mice  and  Men."  Betty  pose 
in  a  siren  dinner  dress  that's  a  froth  of  net  am 
brilliants  (above  left).  Wear  the  all-ove 
studded  bolero  of  rayon-and-cotton  faille  t 
dinner,  shed  it  when  dancing  begins,  cine 
your  swirl-skirt  frock  of  rayon  net  with  a  rhine 
stone-studded  corselet  girdle.  Pin  a  sequin 
rose  to  your  hair.  In  black,  all  white,  or  I 
white  with  a  Toreador  red  bolero.  To  be  th 
belle  of  the  ball,  Betty  prescribes  a  snow-whit 
ballerina  evening  gown  (above)  with  a  molde 
bodice  of  brocaded  silk-and-acetate  lame,  an 
a  ballet-dancer's  billowing  skirt  of  rayon  ne 
with  a  bustle-bow.  In  stark  white,  baby  pir 
or  blue — or  devil  red  for  drama!  Wear  lus 
roses  clipped  to  a  velvet  headband  slipped  b< 
hind  your  ears.  To  look  demure,  wear  an  ii 
genue  frock  (left)  with  pink  lace  ruffles  ca 
cading  to  the  high  corset-laced  waist  of 
merry-go-round  rayon  taffeta  skirt.  In  pin 
white  with  black,  or  aqua  with  black.  Perch 
golden  lace-edged   butterfly  among  your  cur 

All  Frocks  by  Jeanne  Barrie 
Flowers  and  Headdresses  by  Herman  Plant 

Photography — Lazarnkk 


, 


Remember  — ■  for  the  name  of  the 
store  nearest  you  that  carries  the 
gifts  you  crave,  please  write  to: 
Frances  Hughes,  Photoplay, 
122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  City 
And  do  it  now! 


13.  HERE'S  A  HOT  ONE 

A  serving  oven  that's  elegant 
enough  to  come  to  the  table  with  a 
cargo  of  hot  rolls,  hot  biscuits,  hot 
potatoes,  hot  anything  that  ought 
to  come  to  the  table  hot.  But  that's 
not  all.  It  doubles  in  the  kitchen  for 
crisping  crackers  or  wilted  cereals; 
freshens  left-overs — even  bakes  po- 
tatoes and  apples  on  top  of  the 
stove.  In  West  Bend  aluminum — 
easy  to  clean,  easy  on  the  eye, 
easy  on  the  purse  —  at  around 
$2.00. 


14.  NEEDLEPOINT  AND  NAILS 

The  ladies  of  literature  who  did 
needlepoint  always  had  flashing 
white  hands  and  delicate,  pink- 
tipped  fingers.  Remember?  Per- 
haps that's  why  Cutex  stowed  this 
new  manicure  kit  into  a  needle- 
point bag — a  gentle  reminder  to 
inspire  nail-grooming  in  the  busy 
ladies  of  the  present.  The  innards, 
as  you  see,  come  out  completely 
and  sit  up  by  themselves — a  goodly 
supply  of  nail  polish,  polish  re- 
mover, cuticle  oil,  cuticle  remover, 
a  cotton  caddy  and  five  fine  imple- 
ments. The  bag  itself— in  crepe 
with  needlepoint  medallion  —  is 
smart  to  carry  in  the  afternoon.  A 
lot  for  the  little  sum  of  $5.00.  isn't  it? 


15.  DINNER  AT  8:00 

Your  hostess  says  "Don't  Dress," 
but  show  us  the  gal  who  won't 
dress  anyhow,  in  something  festive 
even  though  it  isn't  very  formal! 
For  instance,  this  Helen  Harper 
dinner-sweater — a  peekaboo  black 
chenille  basque  with  gold  galloon 
glitter-border  and  golden  balls  and 
chains  for  extra  flash.  Team  it  with 
short  skirts  or  with  long.  Around 
$4.00. 


16.  "VANITY  FAIR" 

As  businesslike  a  Hartmann  ward- 
robe case  as  ever  we  saw,  with  a 
hanging  system  all  its  own  that 
gets  a  girl  places  with  blouses, 
jackets  and  tailored  suits  as  fresh 
as  she  took  them  from  her  closet! 
If  you've  $35.50  and  want  to  do 
the  really  handsome  thing,  give  her 
"The  Brigadier,"  famous  for  its 
striped  tweed  covering,  rawhide 
binding,  streamlined  clasps,  velvet 
hangers,  cellophane  bags  and 
striped  Celanese  rayon  curtain  and 
lining.  Not  to  mention  a  well  like 
a  bottomless  pit  inside  for  the 
longer  things  that  simply  must  have 
leg  room. 


17.  A  CR0SLEY  FOR 
CHRISTMAS 

And  what  a  Christmas! 
A  tiny  car  for  the  best- 
beloved  lady  on  your  list. 
Something  to  run  her 
around  in  style  at  the 
tiny  toll  of  a  penny  a 
mile.  Santa  can  bring 
this  bantam-weight  car 
down  the  chimney  on  his 
back — in  fact,  he  will  for 
$350,  F.O.B.  Richmond, 
Indiana. 


18.  CARRYING  ON  THE 
DU  BARRY  TRADITION 

The  Du  Barry  beauty  box 
will  travel  in  the  best  so- 
ciety, filled  with  Hudnut's 
special  Du  Barry  cleansing 
cream,  tissue  softener,  skin 
freshener,  foundation  1  o  - 
tion,  powder,  rouge,  eye- 
shadow, mascara,  eye- 
brow pencil  — ■  yes,  even 
manicure  preparations  and 
implements.  $15.00  in  Mo- 
rocco leather. 


19.  JUST  WHAT  THE  DOCTOR 
ORDERED! 

there  a  convalescent  or  some 
nice  old  lady  on  your  list?  For  them 
we  prescribe  this  North  Star  warm, 
light  woolen  throw.  Even  the  ex- 
perts think  it's  hand-knit  (though 
between  you  and  us  it  really  isn't). 
Everyone  marvels  at  the  luscious 
pastel  colors — deep  tones,  too — 
and  no  one  believes  the  tiny  price 
of  around  $4.00. 


20.  POND'S  BEAUTY  BOX 

As  full  of  beauty  and 
value  as  they  come!  The 
famous  cold  cream  that 
ladies  of  quality  have 
used  for  years,  plus  Van- 
ishing Cream,  plus 
Danya,  the  famous  cream 
lotion,  plus  face  powder, 
PLUS  a  bundle  of  Pond's 
tissues.  A  lot  of  plusses 
that  leaves  you  minus 
only  50c. 


21.  TIME  ON  YOUR  HANDS 

Perfect  timing,  too,  from  a 
swell  little  pink-faced  7-jewel 
Alvin  watch,  and  the  Alvins, 
you  know,  have  been  marking 
time  since  1849!  A  dainty  little 
Colonial  square  with  a  two- 
tone  pink  dial,  a  golden  border 
and  glistening  copper  links. 
Surprisingly  inexpensive,  too, 
at  $18.75. 


22.  A  BONNY  CHRISTMAS 
FROM  BONNIE  BELL 

Bonnie  Bell  has  assembled  every- 
thing in  a  handy  little  leather 
zipper  kit,  that  starts  with  Bonnie 
Bell's  "Ten-O-Six,"  the  wonder 
lotion,  and  winds  up  with  creams 
galore  for  cleansing,  softening 
and  vanishing,  eyeshadow,  lip- 
stick, powder,  rouge.    $13.50. 


23.  FUN  FOR  THE  FAMILY 

They  call  this  Shwayder  card 
table  "Samson"  because  you  can 
stand  on  it.  Note  the  top  in  "Cedar 
of  Lebanon"  finish  with  an  inlaid 
walnut  border-effect,  the  perma- 
nent checkerboard  center,  and  the 
twin  coaster-ash  trays.    $3.00! 


24.  SKATER'S  HEAVEN 

Marinette's  brushed  mohair  jacket 
— ■  warm  as  toast,  gay  as  a 
checkerboard!  Note:  red,  black 
and  white  squares  to  dazzle  your 
friends;  patch  pockets  to  keep 
your  fingers  cozy,  and  a  pixie 
hood  to  blight  all  breezes.  Under- 
neath it  all,  an  Earl-Glo  lining  to 
prevent  even  a  soupcon  of 
woolen-itch!      Around  $8.00. 


Another  "change  of  props" — 
velvet  grapes  in  her  hair  and 
a   matching  drawstring  pouch 


fH*^ 


and  ^6 


s\ar  °  •-'"  years1 


^^^Uce^040 


$3^"" 


THAT  cute  little  Mary  Martin  whose  "heart 
belonged  to  Daddy"  for  a  whole  season  in 
the  highly  entertaining  musical  "Leave  It  to 
Me,"  and  who  has  since  rung  up  new  laurels  for 
herself  in  the  new  musical,  "Nice  Goin',"  will 
make  her  motion  picture  debut  in  Paramount's 
"The  Great  Victor  Herbert"  on  New  Year's  Eve. 
It's  down  in  big  red  letters  on  Mary's  calendar, 
along  with  a  number  of  holiday  parties  with 
which  Mary  will  celebrate  this  big  event. 

So  Mary's  been  thinking  about  clothes.    Who 


wouldn't!  And  she  worked  out  a  wonderful  sys- 
tem of  quick  changes.  "Changing  props,"  she 
calls  it,  so  that  even  if  she  wants  to  wear  the 
same  dress  over  and  over  again — you  know  how 
it  is  with  your  favorite  dress — her  mood  and  ap- 
pearance are  different  as  she  shifts  from  flowers 
to  fruits. 

Mary  hit  on  this  dream-dress  of  copper-col- 
ored lame  and  tulle — full  of  holiday  glamour 
even  though  it's  under  $40.00.  Criss-crossing 
bodice-drapery  makes  the  most  of  Mary's  tiny 


waist,  emphasized  again  by  the  whooshing, 
whirling  skirt. 

Now  we'll  show  you  some  of  Mary's  props  and 
how  she  rings  her  clever  changes.  .  .  . 

A  necklace  and  bracelet  of  make-believe 
golden  leaves  on  golden  cords  (above  left) — 
soft  as  kid  and  just  as  easily  twined  into  the 
size  and  shape  you  like  best  for  the  neckline  of 
your  gown.  Wear  it  as  a  choker  if  you  want  to! 
The  necklace  $2.95;  the  bracelet  $1.50. 

You've  heard  of  vine  leaves  in  the  hair!  Well, 
Mary  chose  the  fruit  of  the  vine  instead  (above 
right),  velvet  grapes  dripping  in  two  lush  clus- 
ters from  a  velvet  band  that  clings  to  the  back 
of  her  head.  From  her  wrist  she  slings  a  pert 
little  drawstring  pouch  of  velvet  grapes  to 
match.    The  headband,  $4.95;  the  bag,  $5.95. 

In  addition  to  the  props  illustrated  here,  Mary 
has  other  favorites  for  wear  with  her  basic  dress 
— and  you  may  well  follow  her  suggestions.  If 
you  want  to  look  like  Velasquez'  portrait  of  the 
Spanish  Infanta,  build  out  your  headdress  with 
sage  green  ostrich  tassels  clipped  with  tiny  vel- 
vet bows  to  your  curls.    The  twin  tassels,  $2.95. 

And  here's  a  conversation  piece — necklace  and 
hair-bustle  of  dripping  ermine  tails  (and  we 
mean  real  ermine)  and  a  bracelet,  too,  for  good 
measure.  The  necklace,  $5.95;  the  hair-bustle, 
$3.95;  the  bracelet,  $2.25. 

Why  don't  you  see  what  you  can  do  with 
Mary's  props?  Ring  these  changes  on  your  very 
simplest  frocks,  for  there's  holiday  build-up  in 
each  and  every  one  of  them! 

The  dress  and  all  props  by  Lord  &  Taylor,  New 
York. 


52 


At  the  Philharmonic — Hedy  Lamarr  and  Arthur  Hornblow 
take  back  seats  while  their  spouses,  Gene  Markey  and 
Myrna  Loy,  sit  in  the  row  ahead  with  Rosalind  Russell 


% 


\ 


Our  own  Intelligence  Service  peeks 
into  the  private  life  of  filmland,  and 
we  give  you  the  latest   reports! 


( 


PHOTOGRAPHS      BY      HYMAN      FINK 


Sphinx  Story 

JOAN  CRAWFORD  wins  the  gold-plated  arti- 
choke for  the  best  Garbo  story  to  come  our  way. 
Seems  Joanie  had  often  wondered  just  what 
she'd  do  if  one  day  she  should  come  face  to  face 
with  Greta,  the  chatterbox.  Only  last  week  it 
happened.  Coming  out  of  a  sound  stage  as  Joan 
was  about  to  enter,  they  met. 

"Good  morning,"  Joan  chirped.  Garbo  said 
nothing.    Garbo  stalked  on. 

Next  week  it  happened  again. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Joanie  and  again  Greta 
silently  strode  on. 

Well,  pish-tush  to  her,  thought  Joan,  so  when 
the    third    meeting    happened    last    week   Joan 


passed  right  by,  saying  nothing.  Like  a  flash 
Garbo  wheeled  and  catching  Joan  by  the  shoul- 
ders whirled  her  around, 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked.  "Why  do  you 
not  say  'good  morning*  to  me?" 

For  once  Crawford  was  as  speechless  as  the 
Sphinx.  She  couldn't  think  of  a  thing  to  say! 
Could  you  have? 


Pride  Goeth  .  .  . 

JOEL  McCREA  tells  this  one  on  himself  and 
Cesar  Romero.  Seems  they  got  to  talking  about 
track  one  day  when  Cesar  dropped  in  on  the 
"He  Married  His  Wife"  set  at  Twentieth  Cen- 


tury-Fox, where  Joel  was  working.  One  thing 
led  to  another  and  finally  they  found  themselves 
discussing  their  own  prowess  as  sprinters. 

"I  could  do  a  hundred  yards  in  ten,  three," 
Cesar  boasted. 

"Hell,  that's  nothing,"  Joel  told  him.  "I  used 
to  do  it  in  ten,  one!" 

The  upshot  of  the  thing  was  that  they  decided 
to  stage  a  race.  Director  Roy  Del  Ruth  was  to 
be  the  timekeeper,  and  to  make  the  event  a  little 
more  imposing,  the  two  "sprinters"  asked  Ro- 
land Young  to  run  with  them.  "Just  for  color," 
they  explained. 

Whereupon,  with  the  entire  company  looking 
on,  and  placing  bets,  the  Big  Event  came  off. 

Roland  won. 


S3 


Tfe 


v* 


*  _ 


^ 


1\* 


Music-lovers,  sartorial  ex- 
perts, philanthropic  souls, 
program-scanners:  Adolphe 
and  Verree  TeasdaleMenjou 


Studying  the  program  at  the  concert  for  Polish 
medical    relief — Patricia    Morison    and    brother 


Sister  Act 

I  HAT  friendly  professional  feud  between  sisters 
Olivia  de  Havilland  and  Joan  Fontaine  goes 
merrily  on  to  the  amusement  of  Hollywood,  with 
Joan  the  winner  in  their  last  skirmish.  It  hap- 
pened when  Olivia  was  called  back  to  Selznick 
Studios  for  added  scenes  for  "Gone  with  the 
Wind,"  and  found  herself  seated  before  a  rickety 
old  make-up  table  with  a  cracker  box  to  sit  on. 

"But  why  can't  I  have  my  usual  dressing 
room?"  Olivia  cried. 

"Oh,  our  star,  Miss  Fontaine,  is  using  that  for 
'Rebecca,'  "  was  the  awed  answer. 

Olivia  burned.  She  sputtered  and  stuttered. 
Of  course,  when  Joan  invited  Olivia  over  to  use 
her  room,  Olivia  discovered  she  had  been  badly 
ribbed. 


Fire  Chiefs 

AND  now  we  have  firemen  Gable  and  Taylor, 
proud  proprietors  of  their  own  fire-fighting  ap- 
paratus, by  cracky!  While  posing  for  pictures 
for  publicity  recently  with  the  swanky  M-G-M 
fire  truck,  Gable  and  Taylor  were  struck  with 
the  idea — and  intrigued,  too,  so  to  speak — that 
a  fire  company  of  their  own  to  protect  their 
property  in  the  Valley  wouldn't  be  such  a  bad 
notion.  So,  upon  the  recommendation  of  the 
fire  chief,  they  purchased  a  neat  secondhand 
job  in  the  way  of  a  chemical  truck  and  are  now 
offering  their  services  to  all  their  friends  and 
neighbors.  And  to  make  the  thing  official  Greer 
Garson,  who  is  now  appearing  with  Robert  Tay- 
lor in  "Remember?,"  donated  fire  hats  to  the 
cause  with  ceremony  and  flourish. 


News  Flash 

A  LITTLE  actress  by  the  name  of  Miss  Shirley 
Temple  is  once  again  facing  motion-picture 
cameras  after  six  long  months  vacation.  Oh, 
you  know  her?  Pardon  me,  but  Cal  must  con- 
tradict.   You  see  this  is  a  new  star,  taller,  slim- 


>>^ 


Why  editors  get  grey:  Ruby  Keeler  and  Al  Jol- 
son  at  Beverly-Wilshire's  Florentine  Room — 13 
hours    later,    they    announced    their    separation! 


mer,  wiser  and  more  reserved  than  the  roly- 
poly  little  bundle  of  delight  we  once  knew  as 
Shirley  Temple.  Without  our  realizing  it,  we 
bade  adieu  forever  to  that  little  cherub  in  "The 
Little  Princess"  and  "Susannah  of  the  Moun- 
ties."  In  her  place  has  come  a  young  lady  with 
deep  bronzed  hair  (no  more  goldilocks),  and  a 
deep  contentment  in  her  brown  eyes. 

I  sat  with  her  mother  one  very  hot  day  on 
the  back  lot  of  Twentieth  Century-Fox  studios 
for  outdoor  scenes  for  "The  Blue  Bird." 

"The  decision  to  go  on  with  her  career  as  an 
actress  rested  entirely  with  Shirley,"  her  mother 
told  us.  "It's  the  thing  she  wants  to  do  more 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  That's  why 
I'm  here  on  this  set  today." 

The  way  Shirley  glanced  up  at  Director  Wal- 
ter Lang  after  her  first  take  and  said,  "I  was  so 
afraid  I'd  forgotten  how.  But  you  see  I  haven't," 
showed  how  deeply  she  thought  of  her  work 
while  away. 

Yes,  it's  a  new  Shirley  Temple,  we  can  prom- 
ise you  that.  Not  only  in  appearance  with  her 
two  added  inches  in  height  and  pounds  lost  to 
slimness,  but  in  mind  and  soul.  She's  become 
a  real  little  girl  now,  interested  in  angel  food 
cake  baking  and  the  delight  of  whipping  egg 
whites  to  foaming  froth.  Alone,  she  made  the 
decision  as  to  which  way  her  life  should  go. 
She  has  chosen  pictures  and  at  eleven  is  coura- 
geously following  her  heart's  desire.  You'll 
note  the  physical  change  instantly,  and  I  feel 
sure  you'll  note  the  change  within  when  once 
again  Shirley  steps  out  on  the  screen  in  "The 
Blue  Bird." 


Seeing  It  Through 

RUMMAGING  through  a  stack  of  old  film  mag- 
azines the  other  day,  we  came  upon  a  strange 
and  rather  frightening  story:  "She  Lives  in 
Shadows." 

It  was  the  story  of  a  girl  newly  risen  to  star- 
dom and  the  tragedy  that  stalked  her.  It  told 
how  she  could  scarcely  see  without  her  gro- 
tesque, thick-lensed  spectacles.  It  prophesied 
only  fleeting  success  in  pictures  because  of  her 
affliction. 

"She  will  never,"  the  writer  insisted,  "be  able 
to  overcome  that  obstacle  characteristic  of  acute 
myopia  (better  known  as  near-sightedness)  the 
tendency  to  squint.  Klieg  lights  are  vicious. 
She  may  have  managed  to  face  them  for  one  or 
two  pictures,  but  year  in  and  year  out — that  is 
another  story.  Comparatively  soon,  she  will 
either  have  to  wear  her  spectacles  all  of  the  time 
or   abandon'  herself   to   this   disfiguring   habit. 


4s* 


And  which  ever  it  may  be,  she's  through  in 
pictures." 

Well,  that  story  was  published  more  than 
six  years  ago,  and  yet  that  girl  is  still  one  of  our 
top  stars.  True,  she  wears  her  glasses  when- 
ever she  is  away  from  the  camera.  But  when 
you  see  her  on  the  screen,  you'd  never  dream 
there  is  anything  wrong  with  her  eyes.  She 
doesn't  squint  at  all. 

"I  made  myself  stop.  I  knew  I  was  through 
if  I  didn't,"  she  told  us  when  we  asked  her  about 
this  apparent  miracle.  She  added,  "You  can  do 
anything  if  you  try  hard  enough." 

Her  name?     Oh,  pardon  us!     Joan  Bennett. 


Things  We  Never  Knew  About  Cartoons 

WE'RE  just  fresh  from  a  talk  with  Walter  Lantz 
who  makes  animated  cartoons  for  Universal — 


you  know,  Oswald,  the  Rabbit;  Speedy,  the 
Mouse;  "Li'l  8-Ball";  and  the  new  brush  and 
paint  star,  "Andy  Panda."  Seems  there  are  a 
lot  of  tricks  to  the  cartoonist  trade  which  don't 
exactly  meet  the  eye.  Or  rather,  they  do  meet 
the  eyes,  but  you  don't  realize  it. 

For  instance:  Animators  draw  only  a  thumb 
and  three  fingers  on  a  hand;  the  fourth  finger 
gets  in  the  way.  The  same  goes  for  toes.  Char- 
acters seldom  have  freckles  in  cartoons:  they 
are  too  hard  to  repeat.  Characters  are  dressed 
in  as  few  clothes  as  possible;  it  saves  work  for 
the  animators.  Buttons  and  buttonholes  are 
practically  taboo.  Almost  everybody  in  the  pro- 
fession shuns  sea  pictures  due  to  the  amount 
of  work  involved  in  animating  the  waves. 
Beards  are  allowed,  only  if  solid;  the  work  in- 
volved in  the  drawing  of  individual  hairs  is  pro- 
hibitive. Dialogue  is  kept  to  an  absolute  mini- 
mum, since  very  few  cartoons  are  translated  for 


55 


Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood  <&*-« 


Posies  for  the  wife's  hair,  dark  glasses  for  them  both — the 
Gary  Coopers  are  all  set  for  the  Beverly  Hills  Tennis  Club 


foreign  consumption.  In  cartoons,  as  in  flesh 
pictures,  there  are  plenty  of  faces  on  the  cutting 
room  floor;  approximately  50,000  drawings  are 
made  for  one  cartoon,  while  the  number  finally 
used  is  about  15,000.  Cartoon  factories  rarely 
show  characters  wearing  shoes  with  laces;  again 
too  much  detail.  Instead  they  wear  slip-on 
gaiters.  Hound  dogs  are  favored;  it  would  in- 
crease production  cost  $300  to  use  a  dog  with 
long  hair.  However  (and  don't  ask  an  anima- 
tor why),  it's  easier  to  draw  chickens  with 
feathers  than  follow  the  anatomy  lines.  One 
suspender  strap  is  the  order  when  galluses  are 
needed;  the  other  strap  gets  in  the  way  in  ani- 
mating and  also  runs  up  the  cost.  Animators 
keep  away  from  tigers,  leopards  and  zebras  if 
possible;  same  reason  as  freckles — too  many 
spots. 

To  those  technical  taboos,  the  Hays  Office  adds 
a  few  of  its  own,  i.e.,  cows  with  large  udders, 
nude  babies,  "Chic  Sales,"  bank  robberies. 

Orange  Blossoms 

00  Andrea  Leeds  is  in  love  at  last  and  wedding 
bells  have  rung  and  maybe  she  isn't  even  going 
to  continue  her  screen  career.  .  .  All  of  which 
must  mean  that  when  Andrea  said  yes  to  Bob 
Howard,  she  had  found  something  she  had  been 
looking  for  a  long  time.  We  are  particularly 
sure  that  she  must  be  simply  head  over  heels  in 
view  of  a  conversation  we  had  with  her  a  year 
ago.  She  got  to  talking  about  why  she  hadn't 
married,  and  even  though  she  was  then  terribly 
cut  up  about  the  death  of  Jack  Dunn,  whom  she 
had  been  going  around  with,  she  was  very  def- 
inite about  saying  that,  really  and  truly,  she  had 
never  been  in  love. 

"I  am  waiting  for  something  the  likes  of  which 
so  far,  I  haven't  even  glimpsed,"  she  told  me.  "I 
mean  a  romance  like  my  father's  and  mother's. 
They're  really  in  love,  as  much  in  love  today  as 
they  were  when  they  were  married  more  than 
twenty-five  years  ago.  And  I  shall  never  marry 
unless  I  have  found  the  same  thing.  My  mar- 
riage is  going  to  be  for  keeps — like  theirs." 

She's  a  swell  girl,  Andrea.  We  hope  this 
dream  come  true  will  last. 

Jinx  Day 

HeDY  LAMARR  is  afraid  of  Friday;  considers 
it  her  unlucky  day.    This  is  why: 


56 


She  signed  up  for  "Ecstasy" 
on  that  day  and  it  was  also  re- 
leased on  a  Friday.  Her  father 
died  on  a  Friday.  The  first 
time  she  ran  away  from  her 
too-possessive  husband,  Fritz 
Mandl,  the  munitions  baron,  it 
was  Friday — and  she  was 
caught.  Her  most  serious  ill- 
ness began  on  a  Friday.  She 
went  to  work  in  "I  Take  This 
Woman,"  which  was  later 
shelved,  on  a  Friday.  During 
filming  of  "Lady  of  the 
Tropics,"  she  barely  escaped 
death  from  a  falling  beam — 
on  a  Friday. 

Small  wonder,  then,  that 
whenever  she  can,  she  spends 
Fridays  in  bed,  to  thwart  the 
jinx. 

Cal  Breathes  Easier 


ffE  sat  with  our  chair  as  far 
away  as  possible  from  the 
gruesome  countenance  of  one 
Boris  Karloff  on  the  "Tower 
of  London"  set  and  watched 
Basil  Rathbone  stride  about,  handsome  in  black 
tights.  But  one  thing  fascinated  us  beyond 
words,  and  that  was  why  nobody  paid  the  slight- 
est attention  to  the  largish  round  hole  in  the 
back  of  Basil's  tights.  Surely  this  choice  bit  of 
Rathbone  wouldn't  be  preserved  for  posterity 
by  way  of  the  films,  we  thought.  Surely  not. 
At  last  we  could  bear  it  no  longer  and  leaning 
over  to  the  unit  man,  we  drew  his  attention  to  it. 
"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  shrugged,  nonchal- 
antly. "Nobody's  ever  been  able  to  get  Rath- 
bone's  back  to  the  camera  yet,  so  it  will  never 
be  seen." 

We  breathed  easier. 


Small  Fry  Secrets:    . 

BlLLY  HALOP  and  Bobby 
Jordan  dressed  in  their  best, 
went  calling  on  Judy  Garland 
the  other  evening.  They'd  no 
sooner  arrived,  than  Judy  had 
them  pulling  taffy.  Billy  got 
most  of  it  on  his  new  red 
necktie  and  Bobby  is  still  try- 
ing to  get  it  out  of  his  hair 
.  .  .  Mickey  Rooney  danced 
every  dance  he  could  get  with 
Lana  Turner  after  the  pre- 
miere of  "Babes  in  Arms." 
But  Mickey  claims  it's  only 
because  Lana's  a  swell  step- 
per. That  new  streamlined 
Judy  Garland  has  set 
Mickey's  heart  off  on  a  dou- 
ble-quick pace.  (And  don't 
miss  the  Mickey  Rooney  story 
on  page  8)  .  .  .  Helen  Parrish 
is  turning  her  lovely  brown 
orbs  on  Robert  Stack,  that 
handsome  new  leading  man  of 
Deanna  Durbin's  who  can't 
keep  away  from  Deanna's  set 
even  when  he's  not  working. 
But  Vaughn  Paul  is  still  De- 
anna's true  love  if  one  can 
judge  by  the  glances  that  pass 
between  the  two  at  luncheon. 

Entertainment  Chez  Gable 

THE  funniest  thing  in  all  Hol- 
lywood, to  Cal's  notion,  is  that 


loud  speaker  attached  to  the  locked  gates  lead- 
ing into  Clark  Gable's  ranch  home.  Since  his 
experience  with  an  impudent  intruder,  Clark  is 
taking  no  chances.  The  speaker  in  itself,  which 
connects  with  a  telephone  inside  the  house  isn't 
funny  of  course,  but  the  conversations  that  pan 
be  heard  for  acres  around  are  a  panic. 

Andy  Devine's  cracked-voiced  pleas  of, 
"Clark,  it's  me — open  the  gates,"  scare  even  the 
chickens  out  of  their  feathers. 

"Here's  your  steak,"  comes  the  booming  voice 
of  the  butcher  through  the  speaker.  But  the 
pay-off  came  when  a  car  salesman  went  through 
his  whole  sales  speech  over  the  loud  speaker, 
with  cows  wandering  up  to  the  fence  to  see  what 
it  was  all  about.  "And  you  should  see  the  paint 
job,  Mr.  Gable,"  he  yelled. 

"Okay,  sounds  good.  Think  you've  made  a 
deal,"  came  back  Gable's  booming  voice  and 
with  that  the  salesman  tripped  head  on  into  a 
passing  load  of  hay.    He  was  that  excited. 

Bennett  and  Son 

I  00  bad  the  world  can't  know  Connie  Bennett 
the  mother  as  well  as  Connie  the  glittering 
sophisticate.  Too  bad,  we  thought  as  we  watched 
Connie  and  her  ten-year-old  son,  Peter  Plant,  at 
the  airport  the  other  day.  Peter,  resplendent  in 
his  school  military  uniform  had  come  in  from 
boarding  school  to  bid  his  mother  good-by. 
There  was  a  look  of  longing  in  the  boy's  face  so 
like  his  mother's. 

"Now  remember,  dear,"  we  heard  her  say, 
"it's  not  always  the  easiest  things  in  life  that  are 
best  for  us.  I  expect  you  to  go  back  to  school 
and  work  hard.  I  want  good  report  cards.  And 
I  want  you  to  be  a  real  soldier  even  without  the 
uniform." 

The  boy's  shoulders  straightened  as  he  waved 
good-by. 

Incidentally,  those  blue  ribbons  won  by  Peter 
for  his  outstanding  horsemanship  are  as  great  a 
source  of  pride  to  Connie  as  they  are  to  Peter. 


Children's  horse  show  at  Riviera  Country 
Club — and  Peter  Bennett  Plant  leads  out 
Mary  Brown,  Joe  E.'s  daughter.  Cal  has  a 
fine  story  to  tell  you  here  about  Peter  and 
mama  Constance  Bennett — and  uniforms 


Dead  Pan  Kids 

WHAT  a  relief  it  is  for  us  to  meet,  in  pictures,  a 
couple  of  kids  who  aren't  paragons  of  virtue. 
Meaning  those  ornery  little  brats  who  brought 
down  the  house  in  "The  Under-Pup."  When 
they  were  not  playing  the  accordion  and  bass 
fiddle,  which  they  did  with  remarkable  virtu- 
osity, they  were  being,  merely  for  camera  pur- 
poses, of  course,  as  generally  obnoxious  as  the 
Katzenjammer  Kids,  whom,  indeed,  they  seemed 
to  resemble  in  appearance  as  well  as  actions. 

The  obstreperous  pair  includes  Billy  Lenhart, 
aged  8,  and  Kenneth  Brown,  better  known  as 
Kennie,  aged  7.  The  two  got  together  one  day  in 
October,  1938,  when  both  had  been  called  to  a 
studio  for  auditions.  Billy  had  his  "slap  fiddle" 
with  him,  of  course,  and  Kennie  his  accordion. 
First  thing  others  present  knew,  they  began 
playing  duets,  and  proved  so  good  their  parents 
figured  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  to  team  them. 

Yes,  both  had  had  experience  in  vaudeville, 
charity  benefits,  children's  orchestras  and  so  on, 
but  hadn't  been  able  to  make  the  grade  in  pic- 
tures .  .  .  nor  did  they  have  any  luck  for  a 
long  time  after  they  joined  forces.  They  tried 
every  studio  in  Hollywood  and  got  nowhere.  In- 
cidentally, having  employed  them  to  perform  at 
a  party  for  Jane  some  time  ago,  Mrs.  Withers- 
went  wild  over  them  and  tried  her  best  to  get 
Twentieth  Century-Fox  to  sign  them — without 
avail.  Finally,  however,  Joe  Pasternak,  pro- 
ducer of  "The  Under-Pup,"  gave  them  an  audi- 
tion and  was  so  excited  over  them  he  had  "spots" 
written  in  the  picture  for  their  benefit.  You  who 
have  seen  "The  Under-Pup,"  know  how  they 
went  over.  They  now  have  a  long-term  contract 
with  Universal. 

Kenny  was  born  in  Baltimore,  Maryland,  and 
he  began  playing  his  accordion,  his  mother  says, 
almost  before  he  was  big  enough  to  hold  it  prop- 
erly. In  1937  he  won  a  scholarship  at  a  Balti- 
more conservatory  of  music.  Billy  comes  from 
a  family  of  vaudevillians  and  his  mastery  of  his 
"slap  fiddle"  also  dates  back  practically  to  baby- 
hood. Billy  is  the  one  who  looks  like  a  diminu- 
tive Ned  Sparks  and  particularly  is  his  "dead 
pan"  brand  of  comedy  like  the  sour-pussed 
Ned's. 

Besides  playing  anything  you  ask  for  on  their 
unusual  instruments,  the  kids  can  dance  a  mean 
rhumba,  and  sing.  That  is,  it  is  rumored  they 
can  sing.  For  some  reason,  they  don't  like  to 
and  only  do  it  when  they  feel  like  it. 

Reckless  Romeo 

Twentieth  century-fox  officials  don't 

know  this,  but  their  big,  money-at-the-box- 
office  star,  Tyrone  Power,  is  addicted  to  the 
reckless,  sometimes  fatal  habit  of  taking  chances. 
We  refer  to  the  flying  Ty  has  been  doing  lately. 
Of  course,  Darryl  Zanuck  doesn't  like  this  very 
well,  but  what  can  he  do?  This  is  a  free  country 
and  other  screen  glamour  boys  such  as  Jimmy 
Stewart,  Errol  Flynn  and  Brian  Aherne  blithely 
pilot  their  own  planes  all  over  the  country.  It 
was  even  rumored  recently  that  Errol  was  going 
to  try  something  like  Corrigan's  "wrong-way 
stunt" — fly  over  to  Ireland.  .  .  . 

But  as  we  were  saying  .  .  .  Seems  that  Ty  is  a 
very  good  flier;  has  a  definite  knack  for  it,  and 
was  at  home  at  the  controls  practically  the  first 
time  he  took  'em  over.  But  that  recklessness 
keeps  cropping  up  .  .  .  Like  the  time  his  flying 
instructor,  Marion  McKeen,  took  Ty  and  Anna- 
bella  to  the  Grand  Canyon  for  the  four-day 
honeymoon  they  had  right  after  they  were  mar- 
ried. While  they  were  there,  Ty  went  flying  in 
that  very  intriguing,  to  any  flyer,  but  very  dan- 
gerous airway  between  the  canyon  walls.  Seems 
the  down-draught  there  is  terrible.  One  flyer 
was  caught  in  it  so  completely,  he  couldn't  gain 
altitude  again;  had  to  make  a  forced  landing  on 
a  shelf  near  the  bottom  and  have  his  plane 
hauled  out,  piecemeal,  by  mule.  Others  have 
been  wrecked  by  these  same  currents. 


But  nevertheless  Ty,  then  more  of  a  novice 
than  he  is  now,  took  over  the  controls  and  went 
sailing  gaily  down  the  canyon  for  miles  .  .  . 
And  then  flew  back  again. 

Wouldn't  Mr.  Zanuck's  hair  have  turned  grey 
if  he  had  known  that? 

Professor  Quiz  I.  Cal,  If  You  Please 

WHAT  Hollywood  biggee  was  so  burned  up  over 
a  recent  marriage  he  almost  threw  a  bomb  into 
the  proceedings?  And  would  that  bomb  have 
shaken  the  landscape  from  here  to  China! 

What  star  has  become  so  high-society  minded, 
all  of  a  sudden,  he's  forgotten  all  his  causes  and 
isms  and  justice-for-all  ideas? 

What  comedian  has  a  very  red  face  because 
Hollywood  kindness  and  sympathy  forced  him 
into  a  bad  situation  he  otherwise  wouldn't  have 
had  to  face? 

What  actor  who  recently  came  of  age  wishes 
he  hadn't  because  of  that  determined  young 
pursuer? 

The  studio  of  what  he-man  star  lives  in  con- 
stant dread  the  hot-tempered  lad's  many  pranks 
may  one  day  lead  to  an  investigation  that  will 
reveal  he  was  not  the  knight  so  bold,  as  we've 
been  told,  but  only  a  mild-mannered  young 
typewriter  salesman? 

Summer  Idyl 

PERHAPS  if  we  hadn't  been  at  Margaret  Lind- 
say's when  the  postman  came,  that  afternoon, 
we  shouldn't  have  heard  the  story  back  of  the 
postcard    she    received    from    "somewhere    in 
France."     As  it  was,  she  read  the  card  slowly, 
tears  bright  in  her  eyes,  then  quoted  it  to  us— 
"Quand  Vavenir  nous  apparent 
sombre,   e'est   alors   que   nos 
pensees   se   tournent  vers   le 
passe." — "When  the  future  is 
dark,  thoughts  turn  back  to 
yesterday.  .  .  ." 

It  happened  several  years 
ago  when  Maggie,  after 
studying  for  the  stage  in  Lon- 
don, had  traveled  to  glamor- 
ous Capri  for  a  brief  vacation 
before  returning  to  America 
and  laying  siege  to  Holly- 
wood. On  the  morning  after 
she  arrived,  she  had  difficul- 
ties with  the  hotel  clerk.  Per 
the  custom  of  every  hostelry 
in  Italy,  he  had  taken  over  her 
passport  upon  her  arrival 
that  it  might  be  recorded,  and 
had  failed  to  return  it  to  her. 
As  she  found  out  later,  noth- 
ing was  amiss  except  the  for- 
getfulness  of  island  authori- 
ties, but  she  spoke  no  Italian 
and  the  clerk  very  little  Eng- 
lish. They  had  reached  an  im- 
passe when  a  handsome  young 
Frenchman  came  to  her 
rescue.  He  spoke  Italian  flu- 
ently and  since  Margaret 
knew  French,  the  passport 
matter  was  quickly  straight- 
ened out. 

Wasn't  it  natural,  then,  that 
the  two  of  them — young,  at- 
tractive, lonely — should  re- 
main in  each  other's  company 
throughout  that  long  and 
lovely  day?  Anyway,  that  is 
exactly  what  happened.  To- 
gether they  rode  down  the 
steep  mountainside  on  the 
funicular  for  a  swim  in  the 
blue  Mediterranean.  To- 
gether, they  took  a  carozza, 


one  of  those  picturesque,  pony-drawn  carriages 
which  abound  in  the  land  of  Italia,  and  went 
jogging  along  that  fabulous  road  around  the  side 
of  the  mountain  to  Munthe's  San  Michele.  To- 
gether they  ate  wild  strawberries  drenched  in 
vireo  at  a  tiny  table  on  the  Piazza  Vittorio 
Emanuel,  listening  to  music  that  never  ceased, 
laughing  because  Capri  is  pronounced  "Cah- 
pree,"  with  the  accent  in  the  "cah,"  and  not  at 
all  the  way  it  must  be  sung  in  the  American 
song,  "Isle  of  Capri,"  which  every  Italian  on  the 
island  knows  by  heart.  Together  they  visited 
the  incredible  Blue  Grotto. 

That  night,  on  the  eve  of  the  young  man's  de- 
parture for  France,  as  they  stood  by  the  piazza 
wall  high  above  the  sea,  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her.  "Marry  me,  and  we  shall  go 
home  to  Paris  together,"  he  begged  her. 

But  Margaret  was  very  ambitious,  then,  and 
very  young.  She  put  him  off.  "Perhaps  I  shall 
return  next  summer,"  she  told  him  and  prom- 
ised to  write. 

But,  somehow,  she  never  did,  and  he,  sensing 
perhaps  that  this,  for  her,  was  only  a  summer 
idyl,  never  wrote  to  her  .  .  .  Until,  a  soldier  of 
France  facing  war  and  its  tragic  exigencies,  he 
sent  her  the  postcard  which  made  her  cry. 

Torch  Carriers 

THEY  say  it's  the  women  who  pay  and  pay,  but 
strangely  enough  it's  the  men  of  Hollywood  who 
pay  most  in  heartaches  from  broken  marriages 
and  romances  .  .  .  Anatole  Litvak,  who  knew 
nothing  of  Miriam  Hopkins'  divorce  until  it  was 
filed,  is  crushed  over  the  affair  .  .  .  "Ham" 
Nelson  makes  no  bones  over  the  fact  his  love  for 
Bette  burns  on  despite  the  fact  he  divorced  her 
.  .  .  Wallace  Beery  shed  tears  over  Rita's  di- 
vorce, and  Jackie  Coogan  has  been  depressed 
and  moody  since  Betty   Grable  said  good-by. 


Cocoanut  Grove-ing  with  "Prince  Mike"  Romanoff  and  Cesar  Ro- 
mero, Joan  Crawford  looks  stunning  in  a  crepe  dinner  costume 
created  by  Gladys  Parker.  Half  aqua  and  half  white,  it  features 
a  high  waistline,  shirred  bodice,  bias  skirt — and  a  draped  turban! 


57 


ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS-Paramount 

In  Paramount's  new  picture  with  a  college  back- 
ground, football  gives  way  to  the  problems  of  un- 
dergraduate marriages.  The  story  revolves  around 
the  marital  woes  of  three  couples:  Joseph  Allen  Jr. 
and  Jean  Cagney,  John  Arledge  and  Betty  Moran, 
Peter  Hayes  and  Virginia  Dale.  None  of  the  cou- 
ples is  financially  secure,  and  when  Miss  Cagney, 
because  of  her  delicate  condition,  loses  her  extra- 
curricular job,  and  husband  Joe  has  to  give  up  his 
because  of  his  studies,  that  couple's  future  looks 
particularly  gloomy.  When  Joe  has  an  opportunity 
to  do  further  research  work  in  Europe,  Jean  plans 
on  going  home  to  live  with  her  stepmother — but 
that  lady's  a  righteous  old  battle-ax  who  will  allow 
Jean  to  come  back  only  after  a  trip  to  Reno. 


RENO-RKO-Radio 

I  HAT  square  jaw  of  Richard  Dix's  is  more  outthrust 
than  ever  before.  The  film  was  undoubtedly  in- 
tended to  be  an  epic  of  Reno  when  it  was  a  silver 
mining  town,  but  somehow  you  can't  get  worked 
up  about  its  past.  Dix  brings  the  piece  up  to 
date  by  thinking  up  the  "Easy  Divorce"  plan. 
Then  Gail  Patrick,  his  wife,  divorces  him  and  later 
his  daughter,  Anita  Louise,  comes  west  to  get  a 
divorce,  too.  She  runs  up  a  debt  at  his  gambling 
joint,  proves  the  tables  are  crooked — all  because  she 
is  unaware  she  is  prosecuting  her  own  pappy.  The 
muddle  ends  on  a  somewhat  happy  note.  Miss 
Louise  has  not  much  of  a  role;  Miss  Patrick  does 
good  work;  Laura  Hope  Crews  has  one  of  her  char- 
acter sequences  to  do.    The  picture  lacks  pace. 


N  A  L     GUIDE     TO     MOTION     PICTURES 


■B^^^^^^""       .  C~v 

§*$•-'- 

mmJIT 

^^ttflr            -""JHi 

|H  - 

i  Ml 

•  DRUMS  ALONG  THE  MOHAWK— 
20th  Century-Fox 

I  HE  newness  of  this  picture  is  in  the  magnificent 
use  of  color  and  in  the  approach,  which  is  simple 
and  clear  cut — not  in  the  story,  which  is  not  so  much 
a  story  as  a  picaresque  tale.  Incidents  of  adventure 
and  heroism  are  strung  together  on  hyphens  of 
peaceful  romance.  The  descendants  of  hardy  up- 
state New  York  pioneers  will  get  a  particular 
bang  out  of  the  gory  defense  their  progenitors 
made  of  the  old  homestead — a  fight  that  would 
make  the  plight  of  latter-day  Poland  look  like  a 
prayer  meeting.  Those  Mohawk  Indians  were  mean 
fellows. 

Claudette  Colbert  plays  the  highly  bred  city  girl 
who  leaves  her  luxurious  home  for  Henry  Fonda's 
log  cabin;  naturally,  at  first,  the  crudeness  of  it 
all  gets  her  and  she  simply  has  hysterics.  One  can- 
not blame  her,  with  murderous  Indians  burning 
her  house  around  her  head.  Homeless,  she  and 
Hank  hire  out  to  Edna  May  Oliver,  a  widow;  and 
after  three  or  four  raids  by  Tories  and  Mohawks, 
met  with  great  loss  of  life  by  the  villagers  and  loss 
of  blood  by  Fonda,  near-loss  of  sanity  by  Claudette, 
comes  the  Revolution's  end.  Fonda  and  Miss  Col- 
bert are  at  their  best,  but  then  all  the  performances 
are  electrifying,  particularly  those  of  Miss  Oliver 
and  Jesse  Ralph.  John  Ford  directed,  with  his 
characteristic  good  touch.  The  picture  looks  as  if  it 
cost  a  fortune,  it's  that  grand.  Most  charming  inci- 
dent is  that  in  which  Parson  Arthur  Shield  gives 
his  prayer  in  the  church,  speaking  with  God  as  to 
a  neighbor. 


REMEMBER?— M-G-M 

IT  seems  months  now  that  people  have  been  saying, 
"What  Bob  Taylor  needs  is  a  good  picture."  This 
was  supposed  to  be  it.  Certain  forms  of  audiences, 
and  those  fans  of  Bob's  who  are  staunchly  loyal,  will 
believe  what  they  see;  certainly  for  an  unsophisti- 
cated audience  there  should  be  some  entertainment. 
Critically  speaking,  the  film  has  many  mistakes  in  it 
and  would  be  better  for  a  bit  of  shrewder  writing. 
Taylor  is  cast  as  an  advertising  genius  who  steals 
Greer  Garson  away  from  her  fiance,  Lew  Ayres. 
Bob  and  Greer  marry  and  later,  because  of  his  de- 
votion to  business,  quarrel  and  get  a  divorce.  Ayres 
is  upset  about  the  entire  thing  and  doses  both  of 
them  with  a  drug  that  makes  them  forget.  Where- 
upon the  piece  becomes  a  bedroom  farce  and  there 
are  a  lot  of  naughty  allusions — which  should  get 
you  into  the  theater  out  of  curiosity.  All  three  of 
the  principals  work  away  at  their  roles  with  every- 
thing they've  got,  although  Miss  Garson  is  some- 
what incongruous  in  a  comedy  part  after  the  dra- 
matic debut  in  "Mr.  Chips."  However,  she's  a  good 
sport  and  gives  it  as  much  as  possible  of  that  shin- 
ing charm  which  first  captivated  American  audi- 
ences. Billie  Burke  fares  rather  better  in  one  of 
those  fluttery  roles  which  she  handles  so  inimitably. 
The  pity  of  it  all  is  that  Greer — who  needed  a  good 
story  for  her  first  American-made  film — and  Bob — 
who  needed  a  good  story  for  a  change — were  handed 
such  a  silly  plot.  "Remember?"  has  its  sparkling 
moments — but  the  trio  of  Taylor,  Garson  and  Ayres 
deserves  more  than  mere  "moments." 


•  FIRST  LOVE— Universal 

I F  one  had  not  set  such  a  standard  for  Deanna  Dur- 
bin  one  would  merely  start  raving  about  her  new 
picture.  It  may  be  the  change  from  child  to  charm- 
ing young  lady,  a  grown-up  quality  in  that  lovely 
voice  of  hers— some  subtle  difference  of  that  sort 
which  lets  you  down  just  a  little.  Then,  too,  there 
is  no  conflict  or  suspense  in  the  story  since  it  is 
frankly  the  Cinderella  yarn.  Now,  with  those  mild 
criticisms  out  of  the  way  we  can  tell  you  how  supe- 
rior otherwise  the  film  is.  It  is  gay.  It  has  climactic 
moments  of  charm  and  pathos  that  will  make  you 
say  "Aaaaah,"  quietly  and  wipe  away  a  pleasurable 
tear.  Deanna,  of  course,  plays  the  very  modern 
Cinderella  who  graduates  from  a  swank  school 
where  she  has  been  kept  by  a  rich  uncle;  her  Prince 
Charming  is  new  and  attractive  Bob  Stack,  catch  of 
the  season;  the  servants  in  the  uncle's  house  are  the 
collective  Fairy  Godmother,  who  get  Deanna  to  the 
ball  despite  the  fact  she  has  been  ordered  to  stay  at 
home  by  her  aunt,  screwy  horoscope  addict,  and  her 
cousin,  glamour  debutante.  Universal  has  followed 
the  famous  tale  even  to  the  extent  of  having  Deanna 
lose  her  slipper  on  the  staircase  just  after  midnight. 
Much  of  the  piece  is  done  with  Producer  Joe  Paster- 
nak's tongue  in  his  cheek.  Lively  and  exceptional 
performances  are  turned  in  by  Leatrice  Joy  as  the 
aunt  (it's  a  comeback),  Helen  Parrish  as  the  meany 
deb,  Eugene  Pallette  as  the  uncle  and  Kathleen 
Howard — at  her  very  best — in  the  role  of  the  eccen- 
tric schoolmarm.  Deanna  sings  a  Viennese  waltz 
and  an  aria  and  "Home  Sweet  Home." 


53 


•  JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON-M-G-M 

I  HAT  incomparable  father-and-son  team  gets  bet- 
ter with  each  chapter  of  the  Hardy  saga,  by  golly. 
When  a  little  old  lady  and  gentleman  are  about  to 
lose  their  home,  they  appeal  to  Judge  Hardy  for 
help.  He's  pretty  sure  they  have  a  daughter,  and 
Andy  gets  himself  into  difficulties  trying  to  help  find 
her.  Being  a  little  too  cocksure  about  winning  a 
prize  for  an  essay,  the  kid  goes  in  debt  before  he 
finds  the  cash  prize  is  offered  to  girls  only.  His 
father  has  said  that  finding  the  above-mentioned 
daughter  would  be  worth  money  to  him,  so  Andy 
sets  out  forthwith  in  order  to  collect  his  father's 
reward  in  time  to  avert  financial  disaster.  Martha 
O'Driscoll,  a  new  character,  is  excellent,  and  you 
know  what  to  expect  from  Mickey  and  Lewis  Stone. 


MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN-RKORadio 

nKO  has  converted  the  radio  serial,  "Dr.  Christian," 
into  celluloid  drama.  Jean  Hersholt  plays  the  vil- 
lage practitioner  who  heals  his  patients  with  word 
as  well  as  pill.  This  first  offering  concerns  itself 
with  Hersholt's  efforts  to  establish  a  hospital  in  the 
town.  Balancing  the  serious  adult  squabbling  are 
several  adolescent  romantic  intervals — and  through 
the  whole  production  runs  a  vein  of  uninvolved, 
unsophisticated  humor.  Marcia  Mae  Jones  and 
young  Jackie  Moran  both  do  very  good  jobs,  and 
in  the  supporting  cast  are  Dorothy  Lovett,  Robert 
Baldwin,  Paul  Harvey  and  others.  Of  course  the 
Hersholt  bedside  manner,  that  voice,  and  that  kindly 
face  are  eminently  adaptable  to  such  a  role  as  this 
lovable  doctor  allows  him. 


ALLEGHENY  UPRISING-RKO-Radio 

IACED  with  the  need  for  picturization  of  purely 
American  backgrounds  since  the  new  war  killed 
so  many  European  markets — and  remembering  John 
Wayne's  work  in  "Stagecoach,"  RKO  offers  you 
this.  It  is  adequate  for  the  first  contingency,  but 
Mr.  Wayne  is  certainly  wasted.  You  students  of 
history  may  remember  that  fifteen  years  before  the 
American  Revolution  a  group  of  Allegheny  Valley 
settlers  worked  up  a  minor  rebellion  in  an  attempt 
to  keep  industrialists  from  selling  supplies — ammu- 
nition and  such — to  the  Indians.  Wayne  plays  Jim 
Smith,  the  leader  of  the  protesting  settlers.  Claire 
Trevor  is  very  pretty  as  Wayne's  woman.  Recom- 
mended with  reservations  to  audiences  who  always 
go  to  see  historical  films,  good  or  indifferent. 


SAVESYOUR     PICTURE 


E     AND     MONEY 


THE    BEST   PICTURES   OF  THE   MONTH 

Drums  Along  the  Mohawk 

First  Love 

Another  Thin  Man 

Balalaika 

Judge  Hardy  and  Son 

Bad  Little  Angel 

Indianapolis  Speedway 

The  End  of  a  Day 

BEST   PERFORMANCES    OF   THE    MONTH 

Claudette  Colbert  in  "Drums  Along  the  Mohawk" 
Edna  May  Oliver  in  "Drums  Along  the  Mohawk" 

Deanna   Durbin   in   "First   Love" 

Helen  Parrish  in   "First  Love" 

Kathleen  Howard  in  "First  Love" 

William  Powell  in  "Another  Thin  Man" 
Myrna  Loy  in  "Another  Thin  Man" 

Nelson  Eddy  in  "Balalaika" 
Nona  Massey  in  "Balalaika" 

Mickey  Rooney  in  "Judge  Hardy  and  Son" 

Virginia  Weidler  in  "Bad  Little  Angel" 

Zorina  in  "On  Your  Toes" 

Louis  Jouvet  in  "The  End  of  a  Day" 
Michel  Simon  in  "The  End  of  a  Day" 


*  ANOTHER  THIN  MAN-M-G-M 

I  HIS  title  is  synonym  for  another  sparkling  pic- 
ture, of  course.  It  is  Bill  Powell's  first  since  his 
long  illness,  and  he's  swell,  you'll  be  glad  to  know. 
The  Myrna  Loy-Powell  family  life  is  now  blessed 
with  a  baby.  C.  Aubrey  Smith  is  a  bombastic  old 
millionaire  with  a  questionable  past,  a  slew  of  ene- 
mies, and  lovely  Virginia  Grey  as  his  daughter.  She 
proves  to  be  no  nicer  than  her  daddy  was — before 
the  great  bumping  off,  we  mean.  Which  brings  in 
Otto  Kruger  as  police  inspector,  aided  and  hindered 
by  Nat  Pendleton,  to  solve  the  mystery  of  Smith's 
murder.  Otto  Kruger  provides  an  excellent  foil  (al- 
though he  doesn't  look  as  if  he  enjoyed  his  role),  for 
Powell's  witticisms.  Everyone's  after  a  gentleman 
who  has  nightmares  about  how  his  victims  are  go- 
ing to  get  killed. 

As  usual  in  "Thin  Man"  epics,  the  picture  glitters 
with  smart  talk,  cocktail  glasses,  well-dressed 
women;  and  additionally  a  Cuban  Club  atmosphere 
which  surrounds  villain  Sheldon  Leonard  and  his 
Cuban  stooge,  Dum-Dum.  It  is  in  the  Cuban  night 
club  that  Powell  and  Loy  are  at  their  funny  best. 

The  murder-dreamer  doesn't  carry  out  his  latest 
nightmare  about  Powell  because  somebody  shoots 
him — thus  adding  to  the  confusion  of  the  finale, 
wherein  things  are  solved  but  not  too  clearly.  The 
hows  and  whys  of  the  mystery  are  impossibly  in- 
volved, and  you  may  be  left  in  a  fog,  doubting  that 
even  William  Powell  could  have  unraveled  the  mys- 
tery without  help  from  the  director  and  scenario 
writers.    But  that's  a  trifle.    The  film's  a  honey. 


*   BALALAIKA-M-G-M 

OINCE  you're  undoubtedly  wondering  what  that 
unpronounceable  title  stands  for,  we  may  as  well 
say  at  the  beginning  that  it's  a  cafe.  It's  a  cafe  in 
Russia  in  1914,  and  Ilona  Massey 's  Pa,  Lionel  At- 
will,  owns  it.  Which  brings  us  to  Ilona,  who  is 
more  fun  to  talk  about  anyway,  being  as  she's  so 
stunning  and  has  such  a  swell  voice.  She's  teamed 
with  Nelson  Eddy,  who  has  to  look  and  act  like  a 
Cossack  prince.  This  he  does  quite  well,  besides 
singing.  Of  course,  there  are  some  leaders  of  a 
revolutionist  plot,  including  Atwill  and  Dalies 
Frantz,  the  famous  pianist.  Now  Nelson  knows 
being  a  Cossack  doesn't  put  him  in  too  good  a  light 
with  Ilona's  family,  so  he  disguises  himself  to  get 
her  an  audition  in  the  Imperial  Opera;  a  street 
brawl  happens,  and  Frantz  is  killed,  and  Ilona  dis- 
covers all  about  Eddy,  and  there  is  just  hell  to  pay. 
At  this  psychological  moment,  along  comes  the  war. 
and  forth  to  battle  goes  Nelson.  Shift  scene  to 
Paris,  1923.  Charlie  Ruggles,  who  used  to  be  the 
hero's  valet,  has  a  Cafe  Balalaika  of  his  very  own 
there,  and  practically  the  whole  cast  is  celebrat- 
ing when  there  is  a  knock  on  the  back  door  and 
guess  who  it  is?  Ilona  Massey!  Shes  been  in 
prison  and  she  thought  Eddy  was  dead,  and  here  he 
isn't  a  Cossack  any  more.  .  .  So  they  all  sing. 

Nelson  really  does  a  fine  job  and  you  couldn't 
expect  to  find  him  in  better  voice.  Miss  Massey  is 
a  Discovery  and  a  pretty  important  one.  Frantz  is 
exciting  at  the  piano.    You'll  like  this. 

(Continued  on  page  82) 


5^ 


BOOS 


> 

t  ■■•  6 

HsuQvJtX^ — -^. 

THAT  DIET  QUESTION  AGAIN! 

I  WANT  to  write  an  answer  to  Rayburn  Davis 
of  Lawrenceville,  Illinois,  regarding  Bing 
Crosby's  being  somewhat  on  the  fat  side. 
Evidently  Bing  has  been  on  a  diet,  because  in 
his  latest  picture,  "The  Star  Maker,"  he  looked 
so  thin,  especially  his  face,  and  he  looked  years 
older.  He  wasn't  the  old  Bing;  the  charm 
seemed  to  be  gone  from  his  voice. 

His  face  looked  so  tired  and  drawn,  fairly 
shouting  of  melba  toast  and  lamb  chops,  while 
you  could  tell  his  heart  belonged  to  a  thick 
steak. 

Please,    Bing,    get    pleasingly — and    I    mean 

pleasingly — plump  again.    Enjoy  life  and  let  the 

women  of  Hollywood  do  the  dieting   (some  of 

them  could  really  stand  to  lose  a  few  pounds). 

Mildred  Coady, 

Tulsa,  Okla. 

HYMN  OF  HAPPINESS 

I'M  glad  because — 

Our  Greta  has  come  back  to  us. 

Joan  Crawford,  in  "The  Women,"  has  shown 
us  she  still  can  act. 

William  Powell  is  in  good  health  again — 
maybe  it  was  my  prayers. 

I  can  look  on  a  face  as  beautiful  as  Hedy  La- 


One  of  the  reasons  why  Paramount's 
"The  Great  Victor  Herbert"  should 
not  be  missed  —  Betty  Bryson,  fea- 
tured ballerina,  better  known  in  private 
life  as  Mrs.  LeRoy  Prinz,  wife 
of    the    studio's    dance    director 


The  movies  have  given  us  two  new  stars — 
Greer  Garson,  whose  warm,  vivid  personality 
captivates  us,  and  "Baby  Sandy"  Henville,  one 
female  star  who  isn't  glamorous! 

Bernice  Morton, 
Regina,  Sask.,  Canada. 

MIRACLE 

rLEASE  send  me  the  casts  of  every  picture  re- 
viewed in  the  October  Photoplay.  Your  excuse 
for  omitting  this  feature  because  of  so-called 
unusual  features  is  getting  monotonous  and 
wearing  thin. 

The  "Casts  of  Current  Pictures,"  "The  Shad- 
ow Stage"   and  Cal  York's  "Gossip  of  Holly- 


wood" are  your  three  best  features  and  there 
are  three  more  you  should  add — (1)  a  foreign 
film  department,  (2)  a  "shooting  schedule"  for 
every  month,  and  (3)  a  serial  department  in 
which  you  would  give  us  every  bit  of  serial 
news  you  could  lay  your  hands  on,  besides  titles 
and  synopses  of  every  chapter  of  every  serial 
released,  good  or  bad.  You  should  carry  these 
six  features  permanently. 

Perhaps  some  day  a  miracle  will  occur  and 
the  letter  which  I  sent  to  the  editor  will  be 
printed  in  Photoplay.  .  .  . 

John  Wasso,  Jr. 
Pen  Argyl,  Pa. 

SISTER  ACT 

nE  have  always  adored  Deanna  Durbin  and 
dreaded  the  day  when  she  grew  up,  but  now  it's 
all  right  because  we  have  another  edition  of  her 
in  charming  little  Gloria  Jean!  She  even  walks 
like  her! 

Why    not    cast    them    in    a    sister    picture? 
Wouldn't  it  be  lovely  to  hear  them  sing  to-  " 
gether?    Or  why  not  produce  "Elsie  Dinsmore" 
— as  some  fans  suggested — with  Gloria  Jean  as 
Elsie  at  eight  and  Deanna  as  Elsie  in  her  teens? 

It  would  be  a  big  drawing  card.  Nearly  ev- 
ery girl,  regardless  of  age,  loves  the '  "Elsie" 
books,  whether  she  admits  it  or  not.  And  those 
who  don't  will  change  their  minds  when  they 
see  Deanna  and  her  miniature  in  the  role! 
Three  Grammar  Seniors, 
Elizabeth,  N.  J. 

FLAG  WAVING 

RECENTLY,  my  father  and  I  attended  the  show- 
ing of  a  Paramount  picture  entitled,  "Our  Lead- 
ing Citizen,"  featuring  Bob  Burns.  That  wag 
one  of  the  finest  productions  I  have  seen  for 
quite  some  time. 

The  next  afternoon,  I  was  glancing  through 
Photoplay  and  noticed  a  review  of  this  picture. 
The  writer's  comments  about  "flag  waving"  and 
the  organization  I  believe  to  be  the  finest  patri- 
otic organization  in  the  country — The  American 
Legion — greatly  surprised  me.  I  refer  to  the 
"American  Legion  Rally"  comment.  If  a  few 
more  people  thought  about  and  acted  upon  the 
principles  for  which  the  American  Legion  was 
organized,  there  would  be  little  suffering  due 
to  war. 

I  feel  especially  deeply  about  this  most  vital 
subject  because  my  father  is  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States  by  choice,  migrating  here  in  1910 
and  going  to  war  against  his  own  brothers  in 
1918.  He  is  a  member  of  the  American  Legion, 
40  et  8,  and  a  Disabled  American  War  Veteran, 
having  been  gassed,  lost  the  use  of  one  lung, 
and  finally  an  entire  eye. 

May  I  suggest  that,  if  you  continue  to  use  as 
a  motto  "The  Aristocrat  of  Motion  Picture  Mag- 
azines," you  discontinue  criticism  of  any  patri- 
otic organization?  If,  however,  the  printing  of 
that  comment  was  an  error,  I  would  like  to  know 
of  it  so  I  can  once  again  enjoy  Photoplay  as  I 
have  so  many  years  in  the  past. 

Irene  C.  Hennington, 

Sioux  City,  Iowa. 

[If  Photoplay's  reviewer  sounded  critical  of 
any  patriotic  organization,  sincere  apologies. — 
Ed.] 


THE  supreme  test  of  an  actress  lies  in  her  ability 
to  make  a  series  of  characters,  diverse  in  mind 
and  body,  become  real  in  the  minds  of  the  be- 


60 


holders.  Hence,  this  big  Boo  for 
Dorothy  Lamour.  She  hasn't  even 
the  faintest  conception  of  the  job  of 
creating  characterizations.  She  is 
simply  a  gal  with  a  deep  and  not 
very  true  voice,  a  svelte  figure,  and 
useless  yards  of  long  and  not  very 
pretty-textured  hair,  who  wears 
either  very  few  or  very  many 
clothes  quite  well.  It's  rather  a 
pity,  too,  for  it  is  evident  she  has 
the  desire  to  act,  and  to  act  well. 
Two  things  only  hamper  her — lack 
of  instruction  in  acting  by  a  com- 
petent coach,  and  her  continual 
consciousness  of  that  haystack  of 
hair.  Her  mind  is  on  it  all  the  time, 
no  matter  if  it  is  up  or  down;  if  up, 
to  balance  her  head;  if  down,  to  dis- 
play it  as  though  it  were  a  personal 
triumph  to  have  grown  it,  which  it 
isn't,  since  Nature  will  do  as  much 
for  any  gal,  however  dumb,  if  left 
alone  for  two  to  four  years.  So,  for 
Dorothy,  here  is  the  prescription: 
First,  six  months  or  so  with  the  best 
acting  coach  to  be  had,  and  second, 
a  thorough-going  and  radical  short 
haircut.  No  compromise!  No 
shoulder  bob!  No  "basic  fashion" 
medium  bob!  But  a  regular  close 
clip  which  will,  both  literally  and 
figuratively,  "take  her  hair  off  her 
mind." 

I    wonder   if    Dorothy    is    brave 
enough  to  go  the  course.  .  .  . 
Bette  Robinson, 

Aurora,  111. 

GIVE  THE  GIRL  A  CHANCE 

I  HAVE  a  big  boo  for  people  in 
general. 

When  I  went  to  see  "The  Rains 
Came,"  I  went  in  expecting  to  be 
thrilled  up  and  down  by  Brenda 
Joyce.  When  I  came  out  I  was 
heartily  disappointed  in  her  acting. 
Sure,  she  is  pretty,  but  that  isn't 
what  I  like  in  an  actress.  I  had 
read  so  many  magazines  on  how 
wonderful  she  was,  that  I  thought 
Brenda  Joyce  must  be  another 
Bette  Davis.  If  that  girl  has  any 
talent,  why  do  you  have  to  put  her 
in  a  picture  in  which  she  doesn't 
get  a  chance  to  exhibit  it?  I  am 
looking  forward  to  seeing  her  in 
"Here  I  Am  a  Stranger,"  to  see 
her  do  some  acting.  If  she  isn't  any 
better,  I  am  through  with  hope  for 
pretty  Brenda  Joyce. 

Julia  Smith, 
West  Los  Angeles,  Calif. 

THE  GANGSTER'S  LOT 

IF  modern  times  have  some  advan- 
tages over  the  days  of  old,  modern 
crime  has  not.  Contrast  the  screen's 
picturesque  old  outlaws  with  its 
present-day  gangsters,  and  it  be- 
comes evident  that  Crime  Does  Not 
Pay — now. 

-  Everything  smiled  on  the  outlaws 
of  "Girl  of  the  Golden  West"  and 
"Robin  Hood."  Gaily  dressed  and 
splendidly  mounted,  loved  by  beau- 
tiful ladies,  for  them  roast  meat  and 
wine  flowed  perpetually,  and  mirth 
and  music  filled  the  air.  Their 
weather  was  glorious,  their  scenery 
superb,  their  comrades  loyal,  and 
their  coups  successful. 

Now  regard  the  life  of  the  slink- 
ing curs  in  "Winterset"  or  "Dead 
End,"  and  it  appears  that  the  gang- 
ster has  a  pretty   thin  time.     He 


How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 

I'll 


A  holiday  at   home — that  was   Loretta   Young'; 
idea  of  fun  after  completing  "Eternally  Yours' 


GRADE  yourself  five  points  for 
every  one  you  guess  right.  If 
you  get  sixty  or  less,  you  don't 
keep  up  with  Hollywood.  If  your  score 
is  eighty,  you're  doing  quite  well;  and 
if  you  have  a  score  of  one  hundred,  you 
know  as  much  as  PHOTOPLAY.  Check 
up,  on  page  81. 

1.  She  made  a  big  hit  in  her  first  pic- 
ture, which  was  also  her  last: 

June  Preisser  Carolyn  Lee 

Bienda  Joyce  Gloria  Jean 

2.  This  picture  won  1 938's  Academy 
Award  for  the  best  picture  of  the  year: 
Gunga  Din  Sweethearts 

You  Can't  Take  It    Camille 
With  You 

3.  Joan    Crawford    has   never   worked 
for  any  other  studio  than: 
Universal  Paramount 
M-G-M  Warner  Brothers 

4.  This  actor  receives  more  fan  mail 
than    any   other   star: 

Tyrone  Power  Clark  Gable 

Gene  Autry  Robert  Taylor 

5.  Two    of    these    have    returned    to 
their  own  country  to  enter  the  war: 
David  Niven  Basil  Rathbone 
Leslie  Howard  Charles  Boyer 

6.  She  first  made  a   success  in   radio 
before  she  was  brought  to  the  screen: 
Alice  Faye  Brenda  Marshall 
Lana  Turner  Gale  Page 

7.  Her  first  success  was  on  the  screen, 
then    she    went  on   the    radio: 

Claire  Trevor  Kate  Smith 

Frances  Langtord      Grade  Allen 

8.  He  was  a  Phi  Beta  Kappa: 
Richard  Carlson         Richard  Greene 
Errol  Flynn  Melvyn  Douglas 

9.  Her  sister   married    Brian   Aherne: 
Lorerfa  Young  Joan  Blondell 
Olivia  de  Havilland  Priscilla  Lane 


10.   Besides  his  screen  and  radio  work, 
he  runs  his  stable  of  horses: 


Don  Ameche 
Eddie  Robinson 


Bing  Crosby 
Bob  Hope 


II.  This  favorite   night  spot   uses  the 
trade-mark  "World  Famous": 


Trocadero 
Victor  Hugo's 

12.   Two  of  these  stars  live 


Cafe  Lamaze 
Cocoanut  Grove 


ranches: 

Joel  McCrea  Nelson  Eddy 

Rosalind  Russell        Carole  Lombard 

13.  He's     the     father    of    the     Jones 
Family: 

Lewis  Stone  Jed  Prouty 

Charles  Winninger    Walter  Connolly 

14.  This  actor  was  also  a  director: 
Bruce  Cabot  Ralph  Bellamy 
Lew  Ayres                  Cary  Grant 

15.  20th  Century-Fox  is  reviving: 
Ruth  Roland  serials  Bathing  Beauty 
Ben  Turpin  comedies 

comedies  Keystone  Kops 

16.  This  famous  director  was  once   a 
strong  man  in  a  circus: 

Frank  Capra  Gregory  Ratoft 

William  Wyler  Michael  Curtiz 

17.  There    are   this    number   of   Brown 
Derby  restaurants  in  Hollywood: 

One  Two 

Three  Four 

18.  He  played  the  Thin  Man: 

John  Carradine  Edward  Ellis 

William  Powell         James  Stewart 

19.  This     star     is     the     composer     of 
"Count  Me  Out  of  Your  Dreams": 

Adolphe  Menjou        John  Howard 
Richard  Dix  John  Payne 

20.  The   Sunset  Strip  is: 

A  night  club  A  new  dance 

A  theater  A  shopping  district 


sometimes  sneers  but  never  laughs 
— and,  indeed,  has  nothing  to  laugh 
at,  for  it  rains  whenever  he  shows 
his  face.  He  has  no  home,  only 
some  haunts — garish  night  clubs, 
shabby  speakeasies,  grimy  billiard 
rooms — where  he  takes  his  sordid 
pleasures.  He  sometimes  drinks 
whisky,  but  takes  no  interest  in 
food,  and  a  haggard  moll  acts  as 
chief  mourner  at  these  funeral 
feasts.  His  clothes  are  no  great 
shakes,  and  though  he  earns  many 
a  "grand"  he  gets  very  little  out  of 
it,  but  "fleeth  as  a  shadow,  and 
never  continueth  in  one  stay."  As 
for  his  comrades'  loyalty,  the  less 
said  about  it  the  better.  And,  if  his 
coups  are  sometimes  successful, 
death  is  not  far  behind — and  he 
knows  it. 

What  puzzles  me  is:  If  the  films 
are  right,  why  weren't  all  our  an- 
cestors outlaws?  And  why  is  any- 
one a  gangster? 

Elizabeth  Fletcher, 
Blackpool,  Lanes.,  England. 

BLACKOUT! 

ALTHOUGH  this  is  neither  a  Boo 
nor  a  Bouquet,  it  might  be  of  some 
interest  to  your  readers. 

At  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday, 
September  third,  Britain  declared 
war  on  Germany.  Shortly  after  this 
momentous  hour,  several  an- 
nouncements were  made  over  the 
wireless;  included  in  these  an- 
nouncements was  an  order  closing 
all  cinemas,  theaters  and  places  of 
entertainment  in  the  interests  of 
public  safety.  And  so,  for  nearly  a 
whole  week  (one  of  the  gloomiest  I 
can  ever  remember) ,  the  population 
of  Great  Britain  had  to  do  without 
one  of  their  favorite  pastimes,  the 
"pictures."  Shortly  after  this,  how- 
ever, it  was  left  to  the  local  police 
authorities  to  open  cinemas  where 
it  was  considered  safe.  One  opened 
— in  Aberystwith,  a  town  in  Wales; 
for  the  first  time  since  hostilities 
had  broken  out,  the  inhabitants  of 
this  town  were  the  first  people  to 
have  the  opportunity  of  visiting  a 
cinema. 

This  caused  a  great  stir,  as  you 
can  imagine,  and  many  cinema- 
managers  ridiculed  the  situation  by 
posting  outside  their  premises  such 
signs  as  this— CLOSED,  NEAREST 
CINEMA  ABERYSTWITH  —  350 
MILES.  In  the  local  cinema  here 
we  had  a  poster  which  went  as  fol- 
lows: 

It's  a  long  way  to  Aberystwith, 
It's  a  long  way  to  go, 
It's  a  long  way  to  the  nearest  cin- 
ema, 
With  the  sweetest  girl  you  know. 
Goodbye,  Mickey  Rooney, 
Farewell,  Lewis  Stone, 
It's  a  long  way  to  see  a  movie, 
But  we  hope  to  open  soon! 

But  now,  thanks  to  permission 
from  the  Home  Office,  all  cinemas 
are  open  once  more  and  everything 
is  back  to  usual,  with  the  exception 
of  two  items  —  the  performance 
must  terminate  at  10  p.  m.  and  - 
everybody  must  carry  his  or  her 
gas-mask! 

Harry  Shaw, 
Musselburgh,  Scotland. 


FICTIONIZED   BY 

LYON  MEARSON 


Nick  Charles   Reporting 

GOD  knows  I  didn't  want  to  get  into  the 
MacFay  murder  mess.  I'd  given  up  de- 
tective work,  Nora  and  I  had  settled 
down  in  San  Francisco  determined  to  raise  a 
family — and  we'd  made  a  fine  start  with  Nick, 
Jr. — and  I  never  wanted  to  hear  about  another 
crime.  Then  we  went  to  New  York,  taking 
Nick,  Jr.,  along,  and  trekked  out  to  Long  Island 
for  a  week  end  with  Colonel  MacFay,  that  crusty 
old  gent  who'd  been  the  partner  of  Nora's  father 
and  who  still  managed  Nora's  estate.  A  former 
employee  of  the  Colonel's,  Sam  Church,  had  just 
finished  a  prison  sentence  for  financial  juggling. 
Swearing  that  he'd  taken  the  rap  for  the  Col- 
onel, he  demanded  money,  and  on  the  Colonel's 
refusal  to  come  across,  Church  proceeded  to 
terrorize  the  household,  which  consisted  of  Col- 
onel MacFay;  his  adopted  daughter,  Lois;  Dud- 


'I  didn't  say  Dudley  killed  father,"  Lois  protested.     "But  if  you'd  married  him,"  insisted  Van  Slack,  "your  father  would  have  disinherited  you!' 


ley  Horn,  the  Colonel's  right-hand  man  of 
business  and,  in  spite  of  the  Colonel's  objection, 
Lois'  fiance;  Freddie  Coleman,  the  Colonel's 
secretary,  who  was  also  in  love  with  Lois;  and 
Mrs.  Bellam,  the  housekeeper. 

I  thought  the  Colonel  was  screwy  when  he 
said  Church  was  trying  to  scare  him  to  death. 
Church  had  dreamed  twice  that  the  Colonel  was 
dead;  a  third  dream  would  mean  the  Colonel 
was  really  dead — and  the  only  way  for  the  Col- 
onel to  avert  that  was  to  pay  Church  what  he 
asked.  Finally  the  Colonel  wore  me  down  and 
I  promised  to  investigate.  I  went  to  the  small 
cottage  near  by  where  Church  was  living  with 
a  Cuban  servant  named  Dum-Dum  and  a  blonde 
named  Smitty.  Church  said  if  I  didn't  persuade 
the  Colonel  to  come  across  he'd  start  dreaming 
about  Nora  and  me  and  the  baby.  So  I  hung 
one  on  his  eye.  Then  Smitty  pulled  a  gun  on 
me  and  Dum-Dum  threw  a  knife  at  me.  The 
knife  missed  and  Asta— why  Nora  insists  on 
dragging  that  dog  with  us  everywhere  we  go  I'll 
never  know — thought  it  was  a  game  and  ran 
around  with  the  knife  in  his  mouth. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  Colonel's,  Nora  and 
Lois  and  I  sat  around  and  talked.  While  we 
were  talking  we  heard  a  shot,  then  all  the  lights 
went  out.  We  ran  to  the  Colonel's  bedroom 
and  found  him  dead — his  throat  was  cut,  just  as 
Church  had  dreamed.  It  looked  as  though  he'd 
put  up  a  fight.  His  revolver  was  on  the  floor 
and  there  was  a  bullet  hole  in  the  wall.  The 
cord  of  the  bedside  lamp  was  broken  and  a  glass 
of  water  had  spilled  onto  a  crumpled  newspa- 
per. There  was  no  sign  of  the  knife  that  had 
killed  him  so  the  police  began  to  search  the 
grounds  for  it.  I  joined  in  when  one  of  the 
cops  saw  our  dog,  Asta,  with  a  knife  in  his 
mouth.  I'd  just  cornered  Asta  and  was  trying 
to  get  the  knife  when  I  heard  something  in  the 
shrubbery  behind  me.  Then  Lois  crashed 
through  the   bushes  from   the   other   direction, 


Do  Nick  and  Nora  find  the  murderer 
in  the  new  Myrna  Loy-Bill  Powell 
thriller?  Just  read  Photoplay's  gay, 
exciting  novelette  based  on  the  film 

yelling,  "Look  out!"    (Now  go  on  with  the  story.) 

At  the  moment  her  scream  rang  out  in  the  night 
air  Lois  lunged  at  Nick,  shoving  him  aside. 
Caught  off  balance,  Nick  fell.  A  pistol  shot  rent 
the  darkness,  the  bullet  nicking  a  bush  right 
behind  the  place  where  Nick's  head  had  been. 

Nick  came  up  instantly,  but,  with  his  assail- 
ant's second  shot,  the  police  were  already  rid- 
dling the  bushes  with  their  forty-fives.  Lois 
cried  out  and  sank  to  the  ground  as  the  figure 
in  the  shrubbery  staggered,  fired  a  last  wild 
shot,  fell — and  was  still. 

Nick  and  the  policemen  bent  over  him.  "Why, 
it's  Dudley  Horn!"  exclaimed  Van  Slack,  the 
district  attorney. 

"It  was,"  Nick  said,  and  turned  to  the  un- 
conscious Lois.  "It's  her  arm,"  he  said,  relieved. 
"Here — get  her  inside.  Your  medical  officer's 
still  there,  isn't  he?" 

"Yes."  Van  Slack  was  picking  up  the  knife 
Asta  had  abandoned.  "That's  the  knife  that 
finished  the  Colonel,  all  right." 

"It  could  also  be  the  one  that  was  thrown  at 
me,"  Nick  said. 


Van  Slack  sighed.  "Not  mach  chance  of  fin- 
gerprints after  that  dog  of  yours  has  been  play- 
ing with  it." 

"I'm  apologizing,"  Nick  said. 

In  the  living  room,  Lois,  her  arm — not  seri- 
ously injured — bandaged,  tried  to  control  her 
nerves  while  Van  Slack  questioned  her.  Next 
to  Lois  sat  Nora,  with  the  baby.  Nick  watched 
quietly,  as  did  Mrs.  Bellam  and  Freddie  Cole- 
man. 

"I  didn't  say  Dudley  killed  Father,"  Lois  pro- 
tested. 

"But  if  you'd  married  him  your  father  would 
have  disinherited  you!"  insisted  Van  Slack. 

Questioning  Lois  further,  Van  Slack  learned 
that  Dudley  Horn  had  come  to  her  immediately 
after  the  discovery  of  the  Colonel's  murder  and 
told  her  to  say — for  her  own  protection — that 
they  were  together  when  it  happened. 

"Her  protection,  nothing,"  Van  Slack  said. 
"Horn  was  fixing  up  an  alibi  for  himself.  We 
know  Horn  and  Church  were  enemies.  Horn 
sees  a  chance  to  frame  Church  by  using  a  knife 
belonging  to  Church's  servant  to  murder  the 
Colonel.     See?" 

"If  he  wanted  to  frame  Church  with  the 
knife,"  said  Nick,  "why  try  to  kill  me  when  I 
find  it?"  Van  Slack  winced  at  Nick's  exploding 
of  his  theory.  "Now  you  know  why  I  retired," 
Nick  added.  "Good  luck!"  He  started  for  the 
door. 

"You're  not  walking  out  on  me,  are  you?" 
Van  Slack  protested. 

"No.  Running.  Nice  quiet  week  end.  My 
family  is  threatened,  I  have  a  knife  thrown  at 
me,  get  shot  at — and  I'm  not  sure  I'm  not  sus- 
pected of  murder.  I'm  going  back  to  Now  York 
to  forget  the  whole  thing." 

Nick  beckoned  to  Nora.  "Come  on.  Mom."  he 
said. 

Surprisingly,  Nora  started  for  the  door. 
"Come  on,  Lois,"  she  said.     Lois  rose,  followed 


63 


// 


by  Mrs.  Bellam  and  Freddie.  As  they  all  filed 
past  Nick,  he  realized  that  he  might  be  walking 
out  on  the  case,  but  the  case  wasn't  walking  out 
on  him. 

"Maybe  I'm  not  going  to  forget  it,"  he  said. 

Lois  lay  asleep  in  her  bedroom  of  the  Charles 
.suite  in  the  Normandie  Hotel.  Mrs.  Bellam  and 
Freddie  had  been  installed  in  rooms  down  the 
hall.  In  the  living  room  of  the  suite  Nick  was 
saying  to  Nora,  "How  about  a  show  tonight — a 
murder  mystery,  for  a  change?" 

"Not  until  I  see  that  paper  you  just  stuck  into 
your  pocket,"  Nora  retorted,  fishing  into  his 
pocket  and  reading  the  crude,  hand-blocked 
message: 

LOIS  MACFAY  BETTER  PUT  ON  HER 

SHROUD.  SHE  WILL  SOON  BE  WITH 

HER  FATHER. 

"Oh,  Nick,"  Nora  gasped.    "Is  Lois  all  right?" 

Nick  nodded.  "Freddie  brought  this  in.  Found 
it  underneath  his  door." 

Nora  was  mystified.  "How'd  it  get  there? 
The  hallway's  full  of  plain-clothes  men." 

"Exactly,"  said  Nick. 
There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  Van  Slack 
hurried  in.     "I  wish  you'd  reconsider 
and    come    back    on    this    case,"    he 
blurted. 

"What's  up?"  Nick  asked  over  the 
highballs  he  was  mixing. 

"The  New  York  police  have  located 
that  woman,  Smitty,  who  was  with 
Church.  I'm  going  up  there  now. 
Want  to  come?" 

"Sure,"  said  Nora.  Nick  eyed  her 
suspiciously. 

Van  Slack  was  embarrassed.  "It 
won't  be  any  place  for  a  woman." 

"Any  place  that  Nick  is,  is  a  place 
for  a  woman,"  Nora  retorted.  "The 
more  women,  the  better,  is  Nick's 
idea." 

"What  about  the  man  I  saw  watch- 
ing Church's  house  last  night?"  asked 
Nick,  hurriedly. 

"We  checked  the  car  registration 
number  you  gave  us.  It  belongs  to  a 
gambler  racketeer  named  Vogel.  I'm 
seeing  him  later." 

The  telephone  rang  and  Nick  an- 
swered it.  A  low,  menacing  voice 
said,  "Lay  off  the  MacFay  case,  if  you 
don't  want  to  go  home  in  a  box."  Then 
Nick  heard  the  click  of  a  broken  connection. 

Nick  spoke  into  the  phone  evenly.  "Sorry. 
We  have  an  encyclopedia."  He  hung  up.  He 
reached  for  his  hat.  Then  he  paused  intently. 
"Listen!     It's  the  baby — crying!" 

Nora,  instantly  maternal,  flew  out  of  the 
room.  Nick  jammed  his  hat  on  his  head.  "Come 
on,  Van  Slack,"  he  said. 

Outside  Smitty's  apartment  they  picked  up 
Lieutenant  Guild  of  the  Homicide  Squad,  who 
told  them  that  Smitty  was  in  the  clear  for  the 
MacFay  murder.  "She  telephoned  me  last  night 
and  asked  me  to  hang  around,"  Guild  said. 
"We've  had  the  place  covered  since  midnight 
and  your  murder  was  at  one." 

Nick  was  amused.  "She  telephoned  herself? 
Sounds  as  if  she'd  fixed  up  a  nice  alibi — with 
your  help." 

They  got  little  help  from  Smitty.  Church,  she 
insisted,  had  said  he  was  going  to  Cuba.  She 
knew  nothing  of  any  murder. 

Nick  pointed  to  an  overcoat  hanging  in  a  cor- 
ner.    "That's  his,  isn't  it?" 

Smitty  nodded.  "Sure.  It's  been  here  two, 
three  weeks."  Guild  and  Van  Slack  were  going 
through  the  pockets,  tossing  out  handkerchief 
and  gloves,  cigarettes  and  a  book  of  matches. 

The  doorbell  rang.  Guild  opened  the  door. 
"Hello,  Vogel,"  he  greeted  the  man  who  entered. 

Paying  no  attention  to  the  three  men,  Vogel 
addressed  Smitty.  "Told  you  you'd  get  into 
trouble,  hanging  around  Church." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Church?"  asked 
Van  Slack. 


"Nothing,  except  he  was  spending  too  much 
time  with  Smitty." 

"Is  that  why  you  were  watching  her  and 
Church  last  night?"  asked  Nick. 

"Why,  you  big  ape!"  Smitty  burst  out  at 
Vogel. 

Vogel  turned  to  the  men.  "Her  husband's  a 
pal  of  mine.  He's  in  stir,  so  I  promised  to  keep 
an  eye  on  her." 

Behind  them  the  door  opened  quietly  and  a 
dark,  evil  face  looked  in.  Nick  recognized 
Church's  servant,  the  man  who  had  thrown  the 
knife  at  him,  and  said,  "If  it  isn't  Dum-Dum." 

Dum-Dum  turned  and  retreated  swiftly  down 
the  hall,  followed  by  Van  Slack  and  Guild. 

Smitty  didn't  notice  what  was  going  on.  Her 
attention  was  centered  on  Vogel.  "What  did 
you  do  to  Sam  Church?"  she  screamed  furiously. 
She  made  a  vicious  swipe  at  him,  knocking  off 
his  heavy  glasses.  Vogel  groped  blindly  for  the 
glasses  and  Nick,  grinning  with  amusement, 
slyly  kicked  them  into  a  corner,  then  picked  up 
the  book  of  paper  matches  that  had  come  from 
Sam  Church's  overcoat.  The  West  Indies  Club, 
read  the  advertisement  on  the  back.    Losing  in- 


Hext  tkotttk- 

A  feature  of  vital  importance  to  all 
thinking  Americans — by  the  First  Lady 
of  the  Land: 

How  the  Movies  Can  Help 
Keep  Us  Out  of  War" 

by  ELEANOR  ROOSEVELT 

in  FEBRUARY  PHOTOPLAY 


-" 


terest  in  the  Smitty-Vogel  battle,  Nick  rushed 
from  the  apartment  and  hailed  a  taxi. 

THE  West  Indies  Club  had  a  small  crowded 
dance  floor  and  a  small  noisy  orchestra.  Nick 
had  no  sooner  sat  down  than  he  knew  he  was 
in  luck,  for  he  was  joined  by  a  small-time  thug, 
one  Cookie,  who  was  full  of  information  and 
very  talkative.  From  Cookie,  Nick  learned 
that  Smitty's  predecessor  in  Church's  affections 
was  Linda  Mills.  Cookie  told  Nick  where  Linda 
Mills  lived,  commented  at  length  on  her  appear- 
ance. With  every  word  of  Cookie's  description 
of  the  girl,  Nick's  interest  mounted.  So  did  that 
of  a  man  who  was  sitting  at  the  next  table,  toy- 
ing with  a  roulette  chip,  who  from  the  first  men- 
tion of  Sam  Church's  name  had  listened  in. 

"Yeah,  Linda's  a  looker,"  Cookie'd  finished. 
"But  she  ain't  got  the  class  of  that  dame."  He 
pointed  to  a  table  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of 
men.  As  Nick  glanced  up  the  men  moved  aside 
and  the  woman  seated  at  the  table  arose  to  dance 
with  one  of  them.    The  woman  was  Nora. 

A  man  slipped  into  a  chair  beside  Nick.  It 
was  Dum-Dum,  Church's  servant. 

"Ah,  my  knife-throwing  friend,"  said  Nick. 
"Where's  Church?     Still  in  Cuba?" 

Cookie  laughed  loudly.  "Cuba!  Why,  I  seen 
him  about  seven  o'clock — " 

Cookie  didn't  finish,  for  Dum-Dum  landed  one 
on  his  jaw  that  sent  him  sprawling  over  the 
neighboring  table.  In  a  moment  the  place  was 
in  a  riot.  The  lights  went  off.  Bodies  fell, 
voices  screamed,  a  police  whistle  shrilled  and 


over  the  din  the  orchestra  played  louder  than 
ever.  When  the  police  had  arrived  and  the 
lights  were  turned  on,  the  room  was  deserted 
except  for  one  couple,  dancing  serenely  to  the 
agitated  music.  One  half  the  couple  was  Nora, 
the  other  half  was  Nick.  Nick  was  saying,  "Just 
fancy  meeting  you  here,  Mom." 

At  the  checkroom  Nora  retrieved  Asta.  Nick 
said  thoughtfully,  "You  know  we  have  a  baby. 
Did  you  check  him,  too?" 

"He's  home.    Asleep." 

"And  why  aren't  you?" 

Nora  was  nonchalant.  "Home  life  is  so  dull. 
Right  after  you  and  Van  Slack  left  someone 
telephoned  that  Dum-Dum  hangs  out  here — so 
I  came  to  meet  him — and  missed  him.  Well," 
brightly,  "where  are  we  going  now?" 

Nick  shrugged  in  resignation.  "To  talk  to  Sam 
Church's  ex-sweetie,  Linda  Mills." 

DUT  Linda  Mills  wasn't  home,  her  landlady  said, 
hadn't  been  there  for  some  days,  and  her  goings 
and  comings  were  pretty  irregular  anyhow.  The 
landlady  let  them  look  at  Linda's  room,  however 
— a  shabby  little  room  which  Nick  examined 
thoroughly.  He  found  a  book  of  law  cases  fifty 
years  old.  A  section  of  about  ten  pages  had 
been  cut  from  it.  Next  he  went  over  the  pic- 
tures on  the  wall,  until  Nora  asked,  "Thinking 
of  renting  the  room?" 

"Not  a  bad  idea.  It's  well  ventilated,  any- 
how," said  Nick,  pointing  to  a  bullet  hole  which 
had  been  hidden  by  one  of  the  pictures.  The 
bullet  hole  slanted  up  from  the  floor.  Nick  fol- 
lowed the  slant,  walking  backwards,  until  he 
reached  a  point  on  the  rug  beside  the  bed.  He 
stooped  down,  saying,  "This  would  be  about 
where  the  gun  was."  There  was  a  burned,  dis- 
colored mark  at  the  very  spot  where  his  hand 
rested. 

"Well,  Mom,"  he  said,  starting  toward  the 
door,  "what  about  going  home — if  you  don't 
think  home  life  would  be  too  dull — " 

From  behind  them  came  the  sound  of  a  win- 
dow being  opened.  Two  men  were  crawling  in 
through  the  fire  escape.  The  one  in  the  lead  was 
the  man  who'd  sat  next  to  Nick  at  the  West 
Indies  Club,  playing  with  a  roulette  chip.  He 
was  carrying  a  gun.  He  said,  "Put  them  up. 
Now  turn  on  the  radio — loud — and  think  up 
some  famous  last  words.  You've  got  until  the 
radio  warms  up." 

"A  little  longer  than  that,  I  guess,"  Lieutenant 
Guild  spoke  from  the  doorway.  "Well,  get  go- 
ing," he  oi-dered  his  men.  "I'll  keep  'em  cov- 
ered while  you  get  'em  ready  for  the  wagon." 

"And  let  that  teach  you  to  keep  off  fire  escapes 
when  there  isn't  a  fire,"  Nick  warned  them. 

In  his  living  room  at  the  hotel  Nick  examined 
an  old  law  book  identical  with  the  one  found  in 
Linda  Mills'  room  except  that  no  pages  were 
missing. 

"There's  a  man  to  see  you,"  said  Nora,  coming 
into  the  room.    "A  big  man  with  heavy  glasses." 

"Must  be  Vogel." 

Just  then  a  man  slipped  out  from  behind  the 
draperies  at  the  window.  His  hand,  in  his  coat 
pocket,  obviously  gripped  a  gun. 

"Why,  Church,"  Nick  greeted  him.  "Thought 
you  were  in  Cuba." 

"Yes,  I'm  Church.  I've  been  dreaming  about 
you.  I've  dreamed  about  you  twice,  and  each 
time  you  were  messed  up  the  way  MacFay  was. 
If  you,"  Church  turned  to  Nora,  "don't  want  to 
be  a  widow,  you'd  better  get  him  on  a  train  right 
away,  because  I've  got  a  feeling  I'm  going  to 
have  that  third  dream." 

He  backed  toward  the  window,  still  covering 
them  with  his  gun.  "If  you're  smart,  you  won't 
blow  any  police  whistles  for  at  least  five  min- 
utes." He  turned  toward  the  window,  crawled 
out  on  the  ledge  leading  to  the  next  apartment. 

"Get  him,  Nick,"  Nora  urged. 

"Why  should  I?"  Nick  shrugged.  "It's  all  part 
of  his  plan.  I  never  saw  a  man  try  so  hard  to 
get  caught." 

(Continued  on  page  75) 


64 


CHOOSE  THE    BEST   PICTURE    OF 


Here's  your  chance  to  vote  for  your  favorite 
picture  of  1939.  It  may  win  PHOTOPLAY'S 
famed  Gold  Medal— so  don't  delay!  Vote  now! 


ONCE  again  it  is  time  for  Photoplay 
readers  to  cast  their  votes  for  the  best 
picture  of  the  year.  It  is  an  old  Photo- 
play custom — this  annual  selection  of  the  most 
outstanding  film  of  the  preceding  year.  Perhaps 
you  were  one  of  Photoplay's  readers  who,  way 
back  in  1921,  cast  your  vote  for  "Humoresque," 
the  first  picture  to  receive  our  Gold  Medal 
Award;  or  perhaps  you  have  never  before  cast 
your  vote.  But  whether  you  are  an  old-timer 
or  a  new-timer,  we  cordially  invite  you,  one  and 
all,  to  vote  this  time — for  your  favorite  picture 
of  1939.  Tell  your  friends  about  the  Award. 
Get  your  classmates,  your  office  associates,  your 
bridge  club,  to  pick  their  favorite  picture.  And 
we  don't  want  to  start  any  family  arguments, 
but  why  not  suggest  to  Mother  and  Dad,  to 
Sister  Sue  and  Great-Aunt  Kate  that  they  cast 
their  votes? 

Each  and  every  vote  counts!  Since  this  is  the 
only  award  of  its  kind  in  which  the  public  ab- 
solutely has  the  whole  say,  we  urge  you  to  take 
advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  tell  Hollywood 
what  kind  of  pictures  you  like  best.  The  final 
choice  will  serve  as  a  measuring  rod  for  the  films 
of  1940. 

Put  on  your  thinking  caps!  What  picture 
stood  out  above  all  the  pictures  you  saw  during 
the  past  year?  Was  it  a  romance,  an  adventure 
story,  a  screw-ball  comedy,  a  gangster  thriller, 
a  costume  drama?  Was  it  gay  and  light  or  was 
it  tragic  and  heavy?  Did  it  bring  a  laugh  to 
your  throat  or  tears  to  your  eyes?  You  will  not 
all  agree,  of  course,  on  what  type  of  picture  gave 
you  the  most  all-around  pleasure,  but  a  majority 
of  you  are  going  to  select  one  picture  as  tops. 
It  is  the  producer  of  this  picture  who  will  be 
the  proud  recipient  of  Photoplay's  famed  Gold 
Medal,  reproduced  above. 

To  aid  you  in  jogging  your  memory,  we  are 
listing  a  number  of  1939's  outstanding  films. 
This,  we  emphasize,  is  by  no  means  a  complete 
list.  If  your  favorite  is  not  included  in  our  list, 
don't  feel  you  cannot  cast  a  vote  for  it.  For 
your  convenience,  we  have  also  printed  a  ballot. 
You  may  use  this,  or  simply  write  your  choice 
on  a  slip  of  paper  and  send  it  to  the  Gold  Medal 
Editor,  Photoplay,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York 
City. 

DON'T  DELAY!  VOTE  NOW— FOR  THE 
BEST  PICTURE  OF  1939. 


rw* 


PREVIOUS 

GOLD  MEDAL 

WINNERS 

1920 

"HUMORESQUE" 

1921 

"TOL'ABLE  DAVID" 

1922 

"ROBIN  HOOD" 

1923 

"THE  COVERED  WAGON" 

1924 

"ABRAHAM  LINCOLN" 

1925 

"THE  BIG  PARADE" 

1926 

"BEAU  GESTE" 

1927 
"7TH  HEAVEN" 

1928 

"FOUR  SONS" 

1929 

"DISRAELI" 

1930 

"ALL  QUIET  ON  THE 

WESTERN  FRONT" 

1931 

"CIMARRON" 

1932 

"SMILIN'  THROUGH" 

1933 

"LITTLE  WOMEN" 

1934 

"THE  BARRETTS  OF 

WIMPOLE  STREET" 

1935 

"NAUGHTY  MARIETTA" 

1936 

"SAN  FRANCISCO" 

1937 

'CAPTAINS  COURAGEOUS' 

1938 

"SWEETHEARTS" 


WAS  ONE  OF  THESE 

YOUR  FAVORITE 
PICTURE  OF  1939? 


Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois 
Allegheny  Uprising 
Andy  Hardy  Gets  Spring 

Fever 
Another  Thin  Man 
Babes  in  Arms 
Bachelor  Mother 
Balalaika 
Beachcomber,  The 
Beau  Geste 
Broadway  Melody  of  1940, 

The 
Broadway  Serenade 
Dancing  Co-ed 
Dark  Victory 
Daughters  Courageous 
Destry  Rides  Again 
Dodge  City 

Drums  Along  the  Mohawk 
Dust  Be  My  Destiny 
Each  Dawn  I  Die 
East  Side  of  Heaven 
First  Love 
Five  Came  Back 
Four  Feathers 
Golden  Boy 
Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips 
Good  Girls  Go  to  Paris 
Gunga  Din 
His  Girl  Friday 
Hollywood  Cavalcade 
Honeymoon  in  Bali 
Idiot's  Delight 
In  Name  Only 
Intermezzo,  a  Love  Story 
Jamaica  Inn 
Jesse  James 
Juarez 

Lady  of  the  Tropics 
Let  Freedom  Ring 
Little  Princess,  The 


Love  Affair 
Man  About  Town 
Man  in  the  Iron  Mask 
Man  of  Conquest 
Mr.   Smith    Goes   to 

Washington 
Ninotchka 
Nurse  Edith  Cavell 
Of  Mice  and  Men 
Old  Maid,  The 
On  Borrowed  Time 
Only  Angels  Have  Wings 
Private  Lives  of  Elizabeth 

and  Essex,  The 
Pygmalion 
Rains  Came,  The 
Real  Glory,  The 
Roaring  Twenties,  The 
Rose  of  Washington 

Square 
Rulers  of  the  Sea 
Stagecoach 

Stanley  and  Livingstone 
Stolen  Life 
Story  of  Alexander 

Graham  Bell,  The 
Story   of   Vernon   and 

Irene  Castle,  The 
These  Glamour  Girls 
They  Shall  Have  Music 
Three  Smart  Girls  Grow 

Up 
Under-Pup,  The 
Union  Pacific 
Vigil  in  the  Night 
We  Are  Not  Alone 
What  a  Life 
Wizard  of  Oz 
Women,  The 
Wuthering  Heights 
Young  Mr.  Lincoln 


PHOTOPLAY  MEDAL  OF  HONOR  BALLOT 

GOLD  MEDAL  EDITOR 

PHOTOPLAY   MAGAZINE 

CHANIN    BUILDING,    122   EAST  42nd  STREET 

NEW  YORK  CITY 

In   my  opinion  the   picture   named  below  is  the 
best  motion-picture  production  released  in  1939 

NAME  OF  PICTURE 


NAME 


ADDRESS 


65 


PLAN  FOR 


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Donnie — Don — Honey — and  Ronnie 
(who  still  resents  the  arrival  of  Tommy). 
Big  Don's  currently  in  "Swanee  River" 


f^\N  July  the  20th  I  became  a  father  for 
I  J  the  third  time.     Like  our  other  two, 

V.  ff  this  baby  was  a  boy.  We  named  him 
Tommy.  Immediately  the  story  was  published 
that  Honey  and  I  were  disappointed,  that  we  had 
wanted  him  to  be  girl.  That  is  not  true.  We 
would  have  liked  a  girl  very  much  indeed  but 
this  newest  son  is  just  as  welcome  as  were  Don- 
nie and  Ronnie.  We  were  a  bit  surprised  at 
his  being  in  such  a  rush  to  get  here  that  he 
arrived  so  much  ahead  of  schedule  that  we  had 
to  leave  him  in  an  incubator  at  the  hospital  for 
awhile  instead  of  bringing  him  straight  home. 
But  we  most  certainly  were  not  disappointed 
in  him.    Honey  and  I  think  he's  swell. 

I  have  the  advantage  of  charming  Maureen 
across  the  page  in  that  I  now  have  six  years' 
experience  in  parenthood.  Still,  I  might  as  well 
confess  that  all  those  six  years  have  taught  me 
is  that  it  isn't  safe  to  generalize  about  how  you 
are  going  to  bring  up  your  children.  Each  one 
is  different. 

For  instance,  Ronnie,  who  is  four,  is  a  bit 
disturbed  these  days  over  this  new  baby  around 
the  house.  He  was  accustomed  to  being  the 
baby.  He  can't  quite  get  used  to  being  just 
another  boy  now,  out  of  the  spotlight  for  the 
moment.  So  by  way  of  getting  himself  back 
into  the  spotlight,  he's  been  getting  a  bit  out 
of  line. 

I  believe  in  discipline  for  children.  I  was 
one  of  eight  kids,  four  boys  and  four  girls,  and 
my  father  brought  us  up  pretty  severely.  Grow- 
ing up,  I  had  times  of  resenting  that  but  now  I 


appreciate  it.  Today  I  sincerely  believe  that 
self-denial  is  the  greatest  of  benefits  for  the 
soul,  that  discipline  is  one  of  the  greatest  of  all 
forces  for  human  happiness.  Thus  I  discipline 
my  boys — that  is,  I  do  or  Honey  does — which- 
ever one  of  us  happens  to  be  around  when  the 
offense  takes  place  metes  out  the  punishment. 
Neither  one  of  us  wants  to  become  something 
frightening  to  our  boys.  There  is  none  of  that 
"wait  until  your  father  gets  home,  young  man" 
with  us.  The  discipline  goes  into  effect  the 
instant  the  infraction  of  rules  has  happened. 

00  far  it  hasn't  had  to  be  much  of  a  punish- 
ment. I've  never  done  anything  more  violent 
than  slapping  Donnie's  hands.  I  have  spanked 
Ronnie,  but  only  once.  That  hurt  us  both  a  lot 
and  I  doubt  that  it  will  have  to  be  repeated. 
But  right  now,  as  I  said,  Ronnie  is  being  diffi- 
cult. Honey  and  I  both  see  this  but  we  are  let- 
ting him  alone,  watching  him  until  his  hurt 
pride  adjusts  itself,  until  he  comes  to  love  this 
newest  brother  of  his  so  much  that  he  will  get 
over  being  jealous  of  him.  I'll  miss  my  guess 
if  that  doesn't  cure  all — but  I  do  admit  it's  only 
a  guess. 

For  there  lies  the  greatest  joy  of  being  a 
parent.  Watching  kids  grow,  trying  to  help 
them  develop  their  own  characters — not  some 
character  you  want  them  to  have  for  some  self- 
ish wish  of  your  own — trying  to  give  them  a 
set  of  values  that  will  make  them  happy  adults, 
is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  life.  I  believe 
if  you  will  talk  to  most  parents  you  will  find 


it  is  not  they,  but  the  people  who  don't  have 
children,  who  worry  about  bringing  kids  up. 
People  say  that  the  world  is  in  terrible  shape 
today,  that  the  end  of  civilization  may  be  at 
hand. 

Now  I  know  I  am  a  lucky  guy.  I  have  my 
work,  the  kind  of  work  I  love  most.  I  make  a 
lot  of  money  at  it.  I'm  healthy.  A  beautiful 
girl  loved  me  enough  to  marry  me  and  become 
the  finest  wife  a  man  could  have.  I've  been 
blessed  with  the  greatest  riches  life  can  hold. 
A  lot  of  fellows  much  more  talented,  much  more 
intelligent  than  I  don't  have  that  kind  of  luck. 
Just  the  same,  knowing  I'm  seeing  life  from  a 
pretty  soft  spot,  I  still  must  say  I  do  not  believe 
civilization  is  about  to  end.  In  Europe,  a  ghastly 
war  is  raging,  a  war  that  seems  to  me  to  be 
unnecessary.  There  are  many  people  out  of 
work  all  over  the  world.  But  just  the  same  I 
think  the  world  is  a  better  place  today  than  it 
has  ever  been,  and  that  it  will  be  still  better 
in  my  sons'  time,  and  better  yet  in  my  grand- 
sons' time.  I  say  this  because  I  believe  in  God 
and,  watching  His  works,  I  see  that  all  things 
which  He  creates  evolve  slowly  but  steadily 
toward  His  perfection. 

I'll  wager  almost  anything  that  the  Egyptians 
thought  everything  was  going  to  pot  when  they 
watched  the  rise  of  Greek  civilization,  and  I 
know  the  Greeks  were  convinced  the  Romans 
would  ruin  the  works.  The  Romans  certainly 
shuddered  over  the  mere  thought  of  those  bar- 
barians, the  Britons,  ever  getting  ahead  in  the 
(Continued  on  page  78) 


66 


say  these  Famous  Screen  Stars- 


LoVELY  Holly- 
wood screen  stars  use  their  com- 
plexion soap,  gentle  Lux  Toilet 
Soap,  as  a  daily  hath  soap,  too. 
This  fine  white  soap  has  ACTIVE 
lather  that  leaves  skin  really 
fresh  — with  a  delicate,  clinging 
fragrance  — makes  you  sure  of 
daintiness.  A  luxurious  soap,  but 
inexpensive  enough  for  any  girl 
to  use! 


TRY  THIS  BEAUTY  BATH 
IT'S  A  LUXURy  ANy 
GIRL  CAN  AFFORD. 
YOU'LL  LOVE  IT  I 


>, 


SCREEN  STARS  USE 
LUX  TOILET  SOAP 

BECAUSE  IT  HAS  ACTIVE 

LATHER.  IT  MAKES  A 
LUXURIOUS  BATH  SOAP 


■B* 


7 


■M 


KO  RADIO   STAR* 


The  Complexion  Soap  9  out  of  10  Screen  Stars  use 


UMBtA 
PICTUT^^kl 


JANUARY 


940 


6° 


(Continued  from  page   68) 


An  Englishman  from  New  Jersey 

We've  heard  plenty  of  English  accents, 
but  never  one  to  equal  that  of  John 
Sutton,  who  was  born  in  Orange,  New 
Jersey.  Isn't  that  remarkable?  But 
reasonable,  when  you  realize  John  was 
born  during  his  family's  visit  to  the  New 
Jersey  town,  where  they  owned  exten- 
sive property.  John  looks  like  a  movie 
star.  Black  eyes  and  hair  and  mustache. 
He  knows  Davey  Niven,  too,  having 
gone  to  Sandhurst  with  him,  that  West 
Point  of  England. 

I  guess  you  can  call  John  a  Bette 
Davis  discovery.  She  noticed  his  fine 
work  in  a  small  part  in  the  "Elizabeth" 
picture  and  praised  him  so  highly  Row- 
land Lee  tested  him  for  a  part  in  Uni- 
versal's  "Tower  of  London"  and,  instead 
of  a  bit,  gave  him  the  lead.  He's  the 
doctor  in  "The  Invisible  Man,"  too. 

He  traveled  extensively  with  his  fa- 
ther, the  late  Edward  Sutton,  a  British 
Army  officer,  between  Africa  and  the 
Orient,  and  finally,  after  school,  settled 
down  on  a  ranch  in  Rhodesia,  Africa. 
There  was  only  one  thing  wrong, 
though.  The  ranch  didn't  belong  to  the 
man  who  sold  it  and  neither  did  the 
cattle  and  John  almost  landed  in  the 
hoosegow  as  a  result. 

So  he  said,  "Well,  I'll  plant  tea  in 
India."  That  didn't  work,  either.  It's 
China  they  plant  it  in.  So  he  took  a 
boat  and  landed  in  San  Pedro,  Califor- 
nia, without  having  heard  of  Hollywood, 
only  in  a  vague  sort  of  way. 

Oh  yes,  of  course,  he  has  money  of 
his  own.  Lived  here  quite  a  while, 
golfing  and  riding,  before  the  movie  bug 
bit  him.  He  has  it  bad  now,  though. 
The  day  we  saw  him  he  had  fallen  over 
Boris  Karloff's  clubfoot  and  nearly 
broken  his  knee  cap  in  "Tower  of 
London,"  so  the  scene  would  be  good. 
Then  he  tore  off  his  tights  (no,  not  be- 
fore us)  and  dressed  in  modern  clothes 
for  the  "Invisible  Man,"  and  was  about 
to  limp  back  to  the  tights  and  Karloff 
for  another  scene   when  we  left. 

And  he  was  still  smiling  that  hand- 
some smile. 
Married?    Yes,  doggone  it. 

Little  Boy  Blue— Blows  His  Horn 

John  Russell  is  six  years  old.  Unfor- 
tunately, John  was  born  with  the  ca- 
pacity for  deflating  adult  egos  exactly 
as  you  would  balloons — by  sticking  pins 
in  them.  John's  pins  are  mental — 
guaranteed  to  take  the  smugness  out 
of  any  human  being  over  twenty-one 
who  thinks  he's  pretty  smart.  Conse- 
quently his  victims  go  about  wearing 
that  slightly  silly  grin  that  bespeaks  the 
man  outsmarted.  Poor  man.  Poor  John. 
Poor  everybody. 

At  the  moment,  John  is  playing  lead- 
ing man  to  Shirley  Temple  in  "The 
Blue  Bird."  He  should  go  down  in  his- 
tory as  the  one  man  who  has  so  far  out- 
smarted Shirley  in  a  business  deal. 

It  seems  John  and  his  stand-in,  during 
those  between  scenes  lulls,  went  into 
the  greeting  card  business,  making  their 
own  cards  right  on  the  sets.  But  before 
they  went  into  the  actual  labor,  they 
were  smart  enough  to  solicit  and  tie  up 
all  orders  from  cast,  crew,  publicity  men 
and  all  who  so  much  as  peeped  round 
the  corners.  Said  cards  to  cost  one  cent 
apiece.  Naturally,  when  Shirley  and 
her  stand-in  entered  the  field  as  com- 
petition, they  were  dumfounded  to  be 
told,  "Sorry,  but  I  just  gave  a  large  or- 
der to  a  rival  company." 

John,  man-like,  is  gleeful  over  this 
coup  de  maitre. 

His  real  name  is  Countryman.  And 
he  hears  a  lot  of  the  George  Washington 
salute  that  goes,  "First  in  the  hearts  of 
his  countryman."  He  was  born  in 
Brooklyn,    and    his    daddy    remains    in 


New  York  as  art  editor  for  the  Asso- 
ciated Press.  John,  or  Johnny,  as  they 
call  him  (heaven  help  us),  misses  his 
dad.  So  does  John's  mother  who  lives 
here  with  her  boy. 

His  light  brown  hair  is  violently 
curly.  It  wasn't  always.  It  had  to  be 
for  pictures. 

One  could  pour  cream  on  his  peachy 
complexion  and  eat  him.  His  round 
face  is  interrupted  by  two  very  blue 
eyes  and  one  cupid's  bow  mouth  from 
which  come  such  utterances  as: 

"We  are  all  such  a  congenial  group 
in  'The  Blue  Bird.'" 

"Evidently  Mr.  Hitler  is  out  to  monop- 
olize Europe.  First  Austria,  then 
Czechoslovakia,  then  Poland.  The  Pope 
(John  is  a  Catholic)  is  doing  all  he  can 
toward  peace." 

"And  how,"  we  asked,  "does  his  Holi- 
ness feel  about  Hitler,  do  you  suppose?" 

"Well,"  said  John,  "I'm  sure  he 
doesn't  exactly  warm  up  to  him." 

"What  brought  this  on?"  we  asked, 
in  an  aside  to  his  mother.  "I  mean, 
how  do  you  account  for  having  a  child 
such  as  this?    At  six." 

"First,  because  we  wanted  him  so 
badly,"  she  said.  "Secondly,  because  we 
respected  his  intelligence,  treated  him 
as  an  adult  and  always  answered  all  his 
questions  to  the  best  of  our  ability." 

"Now  tell  me  one  thing  more,"  we 
begged.  "Doesn't  this  child  wonder, 
frankly,  wear  you  out?"  (What  do  you 
suppose  got  into  us?) 

A  little  smile  rose  to  her  lips.  "John- 
ny knows  when  to  have  poise  and  when 
not.  You  should  see  him  at  home  some- 
times." 

We  could  have  risen  from  the  lunch 
table  and  given  three  cheers.  The 
world  seemed  a  wonderful  regular  cozy 
old  world  again.  Johnny  could  be  a 
mischief. 

He  was  probably  the  best  known  boy's 
model  in  New  York  at  four.  His  pic- 
tures adorned  the  covers  of  many  maga- 
zines. It  was  Paul  Hesse,  the  photog- 
rapher, who  suggested  Hollywood  and 
the  movies,  so,  partly  because  they  were 
so  tired  of  cold  weather,  and  partly  to 
try  their  luck,  John  and  his  mother 
came  west  and  right  off,  Johnny  landed 
the  child's  role  in  "Always  Goodbye." 

"Barbara  Stanwyck  said  I  was  al- 
most her  leading  man,"  he  told  us. 

He  has  a  tooth  right  out  of  the  mid- 
dle of  his  angelic  face  and  is  in  Second 
Grade  A.  He  read  and  pronounced  cor- 
rectly the  names  of  all  the  countries 
and  cities  that  decorate  Twentieth 
Century-Fox's   commissary   wall.     But 


he  does  redeem  himself  by  very  bad 
jokes. 

"Do  they  have  Fourth  of  July  in  Eng- 
land?" he  asked. 

"No,"  we  answered,  thinking  to  our- 
selves, well,  we  know  one  thing  this 
prodigy  doesn't. 

"Really?"  he  came  back.  "Then  what 
comes  after  the  third?" 

Nobody  laughed,  especially  me. 

"This  morning,"  he  said,  "one  of  the 
boys  came  on  the  set  all  dressed  up  in 
a  new  blue  suit  and  I  said,  At  last 
we've  found  the  blue  bird.' " 

Then  he  fought  like  the  dickens  to 
get  a  piece  of  chocolate  cake  his  mother 
didn't  want  him  to  have.  He  got  it 
because  I  agreed  to  eat  half. 

His  days  are  spent  in  work.  On  the 
set.  Having  his  hair  curled  at  night, 
eating  his  dinner,  studying  his  lines, 
going  to  sleep.  Off  days  he  plays  at 
laying  out  maps  of  a  new  Europe  as 
he  imagines  it.  Dear  little  boy.  In 
such  a  strange  world. 

"Definitely  a  great  big  NO  to  the  New 
York  climate,"  he  said.  "But  it's  been 
so  long,  since  I've  throwed  a  snowball." 

We  went  away  loving  him. 

Actress 

Funny  thing  when  you  think  about 
it,  but  among  the  newcomers  that  pour 
into  Hollywood  there  are  so  very,  very 
few  who  rate  the  single  descriptive  word 
— actress.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  they're 
labeled  "finds,"  having  been  found,  as 
it  turns  out,  in  drugstores  over  sodas, 
or  in  manicure  parlors  over  some  male 
nails  or  in  high-school  plays  in  tights 
or  some  such  places.  That's  why  among 
the  group  of  feminine  newcomers  the 
only  one  that  rates,  through  actual 
knowledge  and  years  of  experience,  the 
title  of  actress,  is  Miss  Betty  Field.  And 
like  most  sincere  Thespians,  Betty  is  the 
shyest,  most  retiring,  least  colorful,  seri- 
ous-minded, and  hardest-working  of 
the  lot. 

Actress!  Yes,  that's  Betty.  In  three 
pictures  she  has  revealed  to  Hollywood 
the  meaning  of  the  word.  In  "What 
a  Life"  she  earned  its  attention.  In 
"Seventeen"  she  became  a  seventeener 
(Betty's  in  her  twenties)  who  brought 
forth  all  the  nostalgic  qualities  of  the 
"dreadful  age."  In  "Of  Mice  and  Men" 
Betty  becomes  a  common,  cheap,  trashy 
girl.    And  Betty  plays  her  to  the  hilt. 

Actress!  She  always  wanted  to  be 
one,  too.  As  a  wee  girl  in  Boston,  Mas- 
sachusetts, where  she  was  born  Feb- 
ruary 8th,  Betty  became  a  real  one- 
woman  band,  writing,  directing,  acting, 


Shirley   Temple    shares   the   Technicolor   glory    of    "The    Blue 
Bird"    with   a    little   brother — a    role   won    by   Johnny    Russell 


producing  all  her  shows  given  on  the 
public  sidewalks  to  the  startled  and 
amazed  passers-by.  Many  a  pot  of 
beans  was  dropped  to  the  pavement  by 
a  scared  native  as  Betty  leaped  for- 
ward, crying,  "Do  not  take  my  child 
from  me."    It  was  in  the  play. 

At  eight  she  was  trying  out  her  capa- 
bilities. For  example,  she'd  stroll  along 
nonchalantly  until  suddenly  she'd  spy 
a  stranger  and  dashing  forward,  she'd 
make  a  great  fuss  pretending  she  knew 
him  or  her  of  the  blank  bewildered 
face.  If  she  finally  convinced  them  they 
really  knew  her,  Betty  knew  she'd  be 
a  good  actress. 

Her  "boy"  imitation  wasn't  so  good, 
however.  After  putting  on  a  long  song 
and  dance,  dressed  in  boy's  clothing, 
the  stranger  finally  said,  "Oh,  run  along, 
little  girl." 

That  was  a  blow. 

Betty's  family  moved  to  Morristown, 
New  Jersey,  in  time  for  Betty  to  enter 
the  local  high  school.  But  still  the  old 
bug  was  there,  biting  away,  and  every 
Saturday  afternoon  Betty  would  hie 
herself  off  to  the  Saturday  afternoon 
matinee  performance  of  the  stock  com- 
pany in  Newark.  She'd  haunt  the  stage 
door  after  performances  peering  at  the 
performers.  They  really  got  to  know 
Betty's  very  pretty  face  framed  with 
light  brown  hair  and  glamorized  by  a 
pair  of  hazel  eyes. 

One  of  the  actors  was  really  kind 
enough  to  suggest  if  she  wanted  to  act 
that  badly,  it  might  be  a  good  idea  to 
write  to  the  director.  She  did.  She 
wrote  him  not  one  but  three  letters, 
and  joy  of  joys,  he  answered.  Next 
week  Betty  peered  behind  a  lattice 
screen  as  a  Chinese  girl  on  that  very 
Newark  stage,  and  the  next  week  she 
was  the  girl  who  stumbled  over  the 
dead  body,  and  the  next  she  was  at  the 
American  Academy  of  Dramatic  Art  in 
New  York  studying  like  mad. 

Her  first  show  flopped.  In  her  sec- 
ond she  found  her  fat  part  had  gone 
on  a  diet  and  was  only  an  anemic 
shadow  of  its  former  self. 

But  she  finally  clicked.  George  Ab- 
bott gave  her  the  lead  in  "Three  Men 
on  a  Horse,"  and  from  then  on  it  was 
a  gallop. 

She  comes  up  to  measurements  of  this 
new  kind  of  tallish  girl  movement  that 
seems  to  have  hit  Hollywood.  Betty  is 
five  feet  five  and  weighs  110  pounds. 
They  had  a  dickens  of  a  time,  those 
Paramount  boys,  coaxing  her  away 
from  Broadway  for  pictures.  Roach 
only  borrowed  Betty  for  "Mice  and 
Men,"  and  that  after  only  two  pictures. 

She  isn't  aloofish  so  much  as  quiet. 
Between  scenes  she  goes  to  her  dressing 
room  and  reads.  She  doesn't  talk  of  it 
herself  '  t  her  ancestry  goes  right  back 
to  Prif  la,  the  Pilgrim  maid,  who  had 
that  wonderful  line  of  dialogue  that 
went,  "Speak  for  yourself,  John  Alden." 
She's  pretty  Back-Bayish  among  the 
Boston  clan,  with  the  Atlantic  cable 
lawyer,  one  Cyrus  Field,  a  prominent 
member  of  her  father's  family. 

She  loved  location  in  the  country. 
The  barley  and  cows  and  corn  and 
horses  she  thought  divine  and  she  rode 
every  morning  and  evening.  In  fact, 
there's  something  of  a  Vassar  hockey 
team  star  about  Betty  with  her  low- 
heeled  shoes,  honest  approach,  refresh- 
ing manner.  Her  mother  owns  the  fa- 
mous Morris  and  Essex  kennels  in  New 
Jersey  and  raises  Irish  Water  Spaniels. 

When  the  story  of  Betty  and  her 
wardrobe  for  "Of  Mice  and  Men"  made 
the  rounds,  Hollywood  producers  went 
mad  for  her.  She  persuaded  Mr. 
Roach  to  let  her  go  down  to  Main  Street 
and  buy  her  complete  wardrobe. 

He  had  three  inward  convulsions 
when  she  turned  in  the  bill. 

It  came  to  a  total  of  $11.50. 


70 


PHOTOPLAY 


Swiss  Family  Hollywood 


half-closed.  He  had  made  good  in  the 
toughest  racket  to  beat  in  the  world — 
motion  pictures.  And  he  had  done  it 
alone.  He  had  come  up  the  hard  way. 
First  the  manager  of  a  struggling  nick- 
elodeon in  a  small  middle-western  town, 
then  a  film  salesman  for  the  old  Bio- 
graph  Company,  then  manager  of  a  film 
exchange  in  Chicago  and  from  there  to 
Hollywood  to  manage  the  old  Mack  Sen- 
nett  studios  on  Glendale  Boulevard. 
His  rise  to  his  present  position,  while 
not  spectacular,  was  consistent.  Yes, 
life  was  pretty  good.  Once  Brooksie  fell 
into  his  arms,  he  wouldn't  have  a  worry 
in  the  world. 

I  HEN  his  phone  rang  and  Brooksie's 
voice  announced: 

"There  is  a  Mr.  Hughes  out  here.  He 
says  he's  your  brother-in-law." 

"Oh." 

"And  he  says  his  two  sons,  who  are 
your  two  nephews,  are  with  him." 

"Oh,  oh,  oh.  Send  them  in,"  he 
sighed. 

Ralph  Hughes,  Christine's  husband, 
was  a  thin,  waspish  little  man,  with  the 
habitual  furtive  breathlessness  of  a  fel- 
low who  has  just  gotten  away  from  pur- 
suing police.  Donaldson  quickly  summed 
up  his  brother-in-law's  rabbitlike  qual- 
ities and  wondered  if  they  were  the  re- 
sult of  the  marriage  to  Christine,  or  if 
he  had  always  been  that  way.  He  tried 
to  put  heartiness  in  his  voice. 

"Swell,  Hughes,  swell  to  see  you.  This 
is  'urn,  'er — quite  a  pleasant  surprise." 

Hughes  held  out  a  hand  that  felt  like 
a  decomposed  eel  and  grinned  foolishly. 

"Glad  to  meet  you  finally,  Donaldson. 
I  feel  as  if  I  really  should  know  you. 
My  wife  speaks  about  you  all  the  time." 

Donaldson  winced  inwardly.  He 
hadn't  seen  Christine  for  more  than 
twenty  years,  but  he  remembered  she 
was  always  speaking  about  something. 

The  nephews,  George  and  Ralph,  Jr., 
hadn't  been  born  when  he  left  Central 
City.  When  he  had  thought  of  them  at 
all  (which  was  as  seldom  as  humanly 
possible)  he  had  thought  of  them  as 
being  just  children.  Now  to  acknowl- 
edge introduction  to  these  full-grown 
youths  was  rather  a  shock. 

George,  the  older  by  two  years,  had 
lasted  only  four  months  in  Harvard,  but 
he  crunched  his  uncle's  hand  with  the 
vigor  of  a  four-year  letter  man  in  wres- 
tling, crew  and  football. 

Junior  wore  thick-lensed  glasses, 
which  gave  him  the  air  of  a  profound 
thinker.  This  to  a  certain  extent  was 
correct,  except  that  all  his  profound 
thinking  was  about  himself. 

The  nephews'  impressions  of  their  un- 
cle weren't  exactly  flattering,  either. 
Uncle  Howard  to  them  always  had  been 
a  fabulous  creature.  To  see  him  in  the 
flesh  was  a  disillusion.  He  looked  al- 
most fifty  and  he  looked  mild-man- 
nered. A  motion  picture  executive 
should,  in  their  opinion  at  least,  be  a 
fire-eating  ripsnorter. 

I  HE  ensuing  half  hour,  despite  Don- 
aldson's conscientious  efforts  to  put  his 
kinfolk  at  ease,  would  go  a  long  way 
to  disprove  the  old  adage  that  blood  is 
thicker  than  water.  He  was  decidedly 
uncomfortable  himself,  while  his  broth- 
er-in-law went  on  and  on  in  a  mono- 
tone about  Christine's  health,  habits  and 
activities  back  in  Central  City.  He  did 
his  level  best  to  concentrate  (he  was 
one  of  Hollywood's  best  listeners)  but 
his  mind  kept  reverting  to  the  grim 
reality  that,  after  all  these  years,  flesh- 
and-blood  relatives  had  descended  upon 


(Continued  jrom  page  11) 

him.  He  recalled  how  only  last  week 
he  had  kidded  the  studio  manager  about 
having  eleven  relatives  plucking  weekly 
pay  checks  fsorn  the  Atlas  coffers  and 
his  conscience  smote  him. 

You  see,  Donaldson  was  an  oddity  in 
Hollywood,  in  that  he  was  the  only 
steadily  employed  craftsman  in  history 
who  had  never  had  a  relative  under- 
foot. He  was  almost  as  proud  of  that 
record  as  he  was  of  the  "Oscar"  given 
him  by  the  Motion  Picture  Academy. 

Donaldson's  mind  came  back  with 
abruptness.    Hughes  was  saying: 

" — so  when  you  sent  the  check  for 
us  to  take  in  the  World's  Fair,  Christine 
decided  it  wouldn't  be  much  out  of  our 
way  to  stop  by  and  see  you." 

Donaldson  engaged  in  a  speedy  men- 
tal tour  of  the  United  States,  but  try 
as  he  might,  he  couldn't  figure  how  one 
got  from  Central  City,  Iowa,  to  New 
York  City,  via  Hollywood,  without  get- 
ting much  out  of  the  way.  Hughes  noted 
his  perplexed  look. 

"Didn't  Christine  write  you  we'd  de- 
cided on  the  San  Francisco  Fair  instead 
of  New  York's?" 

The  producer  looked  guiltily  at  his 
sister's  letter  and  shook  his  head. 

"Christine  couldn't  get  away,"  Hughes 
continued.  "She's  staging  a  charity 
carnival  in  City  Park  for  the  benefit  of 
Polish  refugees  next  week." 

Donaldson  gave  a  silent  prayer  of 
thanks  to  the  Polish  refugees.  They 
were  on  his  side  even  if  the  San  Fran- 
cisco Chamber  of  Commerce  was  not. 

Ralph,  Jr.,  entered  into  the  conversa- 
tion for  the  first  time. 

"We've  got  to  get  up  there  by  tomor- 
row afternoon.  There's  a  guy  up  there 
who  borrowed  two  bucks  from  me  be- 
fore hitchhiking  out  of  Central  City." 

The  hitchhiker  immediately  took 
equal  billing  with  the  Polish  refugees 
in  Donaldson's  esteem.  His  unbounded 
relief  showed  in  his  voice  and  manner. 

"Say  now,  that's  too  bad,"  he  said 
heartily.  "It's  a  shame  you  can't  stay 
over  for  a  while.  Lots  of  things  to  see 
and  do  in  Hollywood." 

At  the  time  Donaldson  was  quite 
proud  of  that  speech.  It  was  one  of  the 
most  convincing  mouthfuls  of  deceit  on 
record.  But  afterwards,  he  awakened 
many  a  night  in  a  cold  sweat  and  tried 
to  figure  out  just  what  had  lulled  him 
into  going  off  the  deep  end  as  he  had. 

JUNIOR,  wandering  idly  about  Uncle's 
office,  came  to  a  halt  before  a  large 
framed  photograph  of  Carole  Lombard. 
He  peered  skeptically  at  the  penned  in- 
scription which  read:  "To  Howard — The 
Best  Boss  of  Them  All— Carole." 

"Hey,"  he  called  over  his  shoulder, 
"did  Carole  really  sign  this?" 

Donaldson  looked  his  way,  startled. 

"Why,  why  certainly.  Who  else 
would?" 

"Did  you  see  her  do  it?" 

"Of  course.  She  wrote  it  right  here 
in  this  office.    Why?" 

"Movie  stars  never  autograph  their 
own  photos,"  Junior  stated  decisively. 
"They  hire  some  slave  to  sign  'em  for 
ten  bucks  a  week  and  then  clean  up  by 
charging   twenty -five   cents  a   copy." 

Donaldson  waived  argument  on  that 
point.    It  was  too  silly. 

"Think  what  you  want,"  he  said,  "but 
in  this  particular  case,  Carole  Lombard 
did  her  own  writing.    She  always  does." 

Junior  moved  on  to  the  next  auto- 
graphed picture — one  of  Irene  Dunne, 
and  raised  the  same  issue.  George 
caught  onto  the  game  and  started  at  the 
other    end    of    the    room    with    Shirley 


Temple.  Uncle  Howard's  categorical 
denials  of  forgery  on  each  count  made 
no  apparent  impression.  He  determined 
to  have  all  future  autographs  notarized. 

DROOKSIE  accepted  Donaldson's  fee- 
ble excuses  for  canceling  their  luncheon 
date  with  exasperating  sweetness. 

"Of  course,  I  understand,"  she  said. 
"One  must  always  think  of  one's  rela- 
tives first,  mustn't  one?" 

Donaldson  clenched  his  fists.  Brook- 
sie continued: 

"That  matter  you  wanted  to  take  up 
with  me.  Give  me  an  idea  what  it  is 
and  maybe  I  can  take  care  of  it.  You 
take  care  of  your  relatives  and  I'll  do 
my  best  to  take  care  of  business." 

"Dash  it,  Brooksie,  I  mean  Miss 
Brooks.  What  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  isn't  business — that  is  I  mean  it 
isn't  studio  business,"  he  began  desper- 
ately, only  to  be  interrupted  by  George's 
loud  demand  of  "Hurry  up,  Uncle  How- 
ard," from  the  other  office. 

"Some  other  time,"  said  Brooksie,  oh, 
so  sweetly. 

Hand  on  doorknob,  Donaldson  made 
one  last  attempt. 

"Will  you  have  dinner  with  me?  I 
must  talk  to  you." 

"I'll  be  available,  of  course,  Mr.  Don- 
aldson, but  will  you?  Suppose  you  have 
to  see  your  relatives?" 

"Nothing  will  keep  me,"  sputtered 
Donaldson  vehemently.  "You  be  ready." 

Brooksie  gazed  at  the  closed  door  for 
a  minute  and  then  said  into  her  vanity 
mirror:  "He's  a  dear,  Brooksie,  if  only 
you  can  get  those  relatives  out  of  what's 
left  of  his  hair." 

The  deference  accorded  their  uncle  in 
the  studio  restaurant  made  a  more  fav- 
orable impression  on  the  nephews  than 
anything  he  had  said  or  done  heretofore. 
Important  stars,  producers  and  writers, 
whose  names  were  familiar  to  the 
Hughes  family,  made  their  way  in  a 
procession  to  Donaldson's  table. 

The  celebrated  Grace  Darling  joined 
them.  She  had  just  learned  that  her  op- 
tion was  not  being  taken  up  and  was  out 
for  revenge.  She  knew  of  Donaldson's 
antipathy  to  relatives  of  any  sort,  and 
saw  a  dandy  chance  to  get  a  bit  of  fun. 

"Going  to  be  here  long?"  she  asked 
George,  politely.  George  swallowed  a 
couple  of  times  and  managed  to  say  they 
were  only  there  for  the  day. 

"That's  too  bad."  She  gave  Donald- 
son a  sly  leer.  "Really,  Howard,"  she 
said,  "you  must  persuade  them  to  stay. 
There's  so  much  for  them  to  see  here." 

"What  should  we  see  in  Hollywood, 
Miss  Darling?"  George  asked. 

"Oh,  lots  of  things,"  she  said.  "The 
Planetarium,  and  the  gas  tank  next  to 
United  Artists,  and  the  way  the  writers 
eat  at  Republic  and  the  Trocadero  and 
Dietrich's  legs  on  a  clear  day  and.  .  .  ." 

"Would  you  show  them  to  us?" 
George  asked. 

"I'd  love  to,"  she  said,  and  arose  has- 
tily.   "Got  to  get  back  to  the  set  now." 

DY  one-thirty,  Donaldson  had  looked 
at  his  watch  267  times.  The  train  didn't 
leave  until  six-thirty.  He  couldn't  turn 
his  relatives  loose  on  a  defenseless  Hol- 
lywood, and  yet  he  had  work  to  do. 

"Couldn't  we  visit  a  set  and  watch 
them  make  a  movie?"  asked  Junior. 

Donaldson  tossed  this  idea  around  in 
his  mind  for  a  moment  and  made  one  of 
the  worst  decisions  of  his  life. 

"Jay  Barnett  is  shooting  some  very  in- 
teresting stuff  on  All  for  Yours,' "  he 
said,  and  summoned  an  office  boy  to 
conduct  the  group  to  Stage  Fourteen. 


NOTE  BRENDA  JOYCE'S  lovely  hands.  With 
RICHARD  GREENE  in  20th  Century-Fox  hit, 
"Little  Old  New  York".  Jergens  Lotion  helps 
you  have  lovable,  soft  hands. 


BRENDA  JOYCE 

(Lovely  Hollywood  Star) 

says. 


"Only 

softhands 

are  worthy  of 

LOVE" 


You're  foolish  if  you  let  work,  or  use 
of  water,  or  cold,  chap  and  roughen 
your  hands.  Exposure  robs  your  hand  skin 
of  its  natural  moisture.  But  Jergens  Lotion 
supplies  new  beautifying  moisture  to  help 
keep  your  hands  adorable. 

In  Jergens,  you  apply  2  fine  ingredients 
many  doctors  use  to  help  soften  harsh, 
rough  skin.  The  first  application  helps 
you.  Easy;  never  sticky.  More  women  use 
Jergens  than  any  other  lotion.  For  hands  a 
man  dreams  of,  start  now  to  use  Jergens 
Lotion.  50tf,  25tf,  10V— $1.00.  at  beauty 
counters.  Get  Jergens  today,  sure. 


FRBE!  purse-size  bottle 

See — at  our  expense  —  how  Jeigenfl  Lotion  helps 
you  have  adorahle,  soft  hands.  .l/<n7  this  CitufHin 
toda)  to: 

The  Andrew  Jersens  Co.,  401  1  Alfred  St.,  Cincinnati, 
Ohio.   (In  Canada:  Perth,  Ont.) 

(PLEASE  PRINT) 

Street 

City Stale 


JAN  U  ARY,      I  940 


71 


He  returned  to  his  office  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  could  get  some  work 
done.    He  was  wrong. 

In  the  midst  of  a  telephone  conver- 
sation with  the  New  York  office,  Brook- 
sie  broke  in  to  inform  him  that  his 
family  had  summarily  dismissed  the 
guide  for  rudeness  when  the  boy  had 
advised  them  that  silence  was  partic- 
ularly golden  while  a  scene  was  being 
made. 

It  wasn't  long  after  this  that  Jay  Bar- 
nett,  the  director,  arrived  in  person,  the 
maddest  white  man  west  of  the  Missis- 
sippi— or  east  of  it,  for  that  matter. 

"You  know  I'm  not  a  temperamental 
director,  Howard,"  pleaded  Jay,  "but 
what  would  you  do  if  a  couple  of  punk 
kids  walked  in  on  your  set  and  held  up 
shooting  to  ask  your  star  if  he  actually 
autographed  his   own   pictures?" 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"I  stopped  shooting  for  the  day,  sent 
five  hundred  extras  to  get  their  checks, 
and  am  on  my  way  to  get  mine,"  Bar- 
nett  replied. 

Donaldson  mentally  calculated  the 
cost  in  dollars  and  cents  that  his 
nephews'  visit  had  already  cost  Atlas, 
and  began  to  feel  ill. 

"Jay,"  he  said,  "you've  got  to  stand  by 
me.  Those  visitors  were — uh — uh — sort 
of  relatives." 

Jay  stopped  pacing  the  floor.  Anger 
faded  from  his  flushed  features  and 
was  replaced  by  a  look  of  compassion. 

"You,  too,  Howard?  I  thought  you 
were  the  one  man  in  Hollywood  to 
escape  the  pall."  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders.  "I'm  sorry  I  lost  my  temper, 
Howard.  I  didn't  know."  He  crossed 
to  Donaldson,  patted  him  on  the  back. 
Then  he  tiptoed  out  of  the  office. 

Brooksie  came  in  and  said  in  the  man- 
ner of  a  six-year-old  child  reciting 
something  by  Edgar  Guest: 

"Graves  of  the  miniature  department 
phoned  to  say  your  visitors  tried  to  walk 
over  that  papier  mache  Ural  Mountain 
range  we  were  going  to  use  in  'The  Re- 
turn of  the  Cossacks.'  Says  it  will  take 
at  least  two  days  to  rebuild  it." 

Donaldson  groaned  feebly.  "I'm  leav- 
ing for  the  day,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  and  looked  furtively  at  the  door 
leading  out  to  the  studio  stages.  "I've 
gone  to  Palm  Springs.  No,  make  it 
Seattle.  Tell  those — tell  my  relatives  I'm 
sorry — business  calls." 

"I'll  tend  to  it,"  said  Brooksie  efficient- 
ly. Then  maliciously,  "And  I'll  tend  to 
my  own  dinner,  too." 

Donaldson  started  perceptibly.  He 
had  actually  forgotten  about  the  din- 
ner date. 

"No,  you  won't,"  he  exploded.  "That 
still  goes.     Nothing  will  stop  me." 

He  was  about  to  say  more,  but  halted 
abruptly  as  he  heard  footsteps. 

The  deft  manner  in  which  Donald- 
son glided  through  the  outside  door 
reminded  Brooksie  of  how  superb  David 
Niven  had  been  in  "Raffles." 

At  the  Hollywood  Athletic  Club  Don- 
aldson relaxed  under  the  more  or  less 
gentle  influences  of  a  steam  bath,  a  salt 
rub  and  a  Swedish  massage.  Then  he 
wandered  into  the  bar. 

"Hi,  Pal.     Howsh  tricks?" 

Donaldson  looked  into  the  flushed  face 
of  Jay  Barnett.  Jay  was  in  a  mellow 
mood.  He  seldom  drank,  but  the  senti- 
mental Irish  had  come  out  in  him  today 
after  his  run-in  with  the  producer's  rel- 
atives and  he  had  quaffed  more  than 
lightly  from  the  cup  that  allegedly 
cheers.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  feel  very 
deeply   for   Donaldson. 

Donaldson  finally  impressed  upon 
Barnett  that  the  brother-in-law  and 
nephews  would  soon  be  gone.  Then,  in 
an  effort  to  break  away,  he  resolved  on 
a  little  white  lie.  He  told  Jay  gently, 
but  firmly,  that  he  must  go  and  see  that 
his  relatives  got  safely  out  of  town. 


The  director  mused  on  this  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  sailed  away  from  the  bar. 
Donaldson  watched  him  go  with  con- 
siderable relief,  and  gulped  his  drink 
hurriedly.    If  he  could  just  escape  now. 

On  his  way  to  the  street,  Donaldson 
was  told  by  a  bellboy  that  he  was 
needed  urgently  in  the  locker  room. 
There,  under  the  supervision  of  a  very 
misguided  and  practical-joking  director, 
two  husky  attendants  locked  the  amazed 
Howard  into  a  closet. 

Jay  informed  him  through  the  barred 
door  that  he  was  to  stay  there  until  he 
(Jay)  was  sure  the  leeching  relatives 
were  out  of  town.  To  Donaldson's  cries 
of  baffled  rage,  Jay  replied  he  knew  how 
soft-hearted  Donaldson  was  and,  if  al- 
lowed his  freedom,  he  would  probably 
ask  the  relatives  to  stay  for  months. 

The  tipsy  director  did  even  more  to 
make  things  just  dandy  for  his  friend. 
Back  in  the  bar,  he  answered  a  phone 
call  for  Donaldson  and  told  the  incredu- 
lous Brooksie  on  the  other  end  that  Mr. 
Donaldson  had  consumed  too  much  liq- 
uor and  had  passed  out. 

Brooksie  didn't  know  whether  to  cry 
or  get  mad,  so  she  did  both,  before  tak- 
ing herself  to  a  drugstore  dinner  and  a 
neighborhood  movie.  Both  parts  of  the 
double  bill  were  sentimental  love  sto- 
ries, which  didn't  help  Donaldson's 
future  with  Brooksie  at  all. 

DONALDSON'S  one  hobby,  obsession, 
or  what  have  you,  outside  of  his  devo- 
tion to  Atlas  Pictures  and,  now,  Brook- 
sie, was  his  home.  It  had  been  built  un- 
der his  personal  supervision  ten  years 
ago  when  the  exclusive  residential  sec- 
tion, Bel-Air,  had  been  more  a  real- 
tor's dream  than  the  beautiful  spot  it  is 
today.  The  house  was  a  large  place  for 
a  bachelor  but  it  suited  his  grandiose 
ideas  perfectly.  Secretly,  he  enjoyed  the 
feeling  of  importance  it  gave  him  to  be 
the  master  of  a  mansion  of  fifteen  rooms, 
a  swimming  pool,  badminton  court,  ten- 
nis court,  miniature  golf  course  and  ten 
acres  of  landscaped  hillside.  He  had  se- 
lected his  domestic  staff  with  the  same 
care  used  in  erecting  his  home.  There 
hadn't  been  a  change  in  eight  years. 
Each  one,  from  Bing,  the  chauffeur,  to 
Herman,  his  all-too-perfect  valet-but- 
ler, co-ordinated  with  clockwise  pre- 
cision to  make  the  Donaldson's  home  his 
castle.    Donaldson  loved  it. 

Donaldson's  mind  was  seething  with 
outraged  injustice  all  the  ten  miles  from 
the  athletic  club  to  the  circular  drive 
that  led  to  his  front  door.  Suddenly,  he 
awakened  as  one  awakes  when  a  pail  of 
ice  water  is  dashed  in  his  face.  Every 
room  in  his  mansion  blazed  with  light. 
Donaldson  blinked  rapidly,  pinched 
himself,  looked  again.  The  lights  were 
still  on. 

"Burglars — an  earthquake — a  fire," 
ran  through  the  producer's  mind  before 
he  could  move  a  limb.  This  was  but 
momentary.  He  galvanized  into  action. 
His  home,  his  pride  and  joy,  was  in 
danger.  He  pushed  open  the  huge  front 
door,  ready  to  do  or  die  for  good  old 
Donaldson  Manor — then  stared  unbe- 
lievingly. He  thought  he  was  seeing 
hundreds  and  hundreds  of  men  and 
women.  Men  and  women  sitting  on  his 
grand  piano  singing  lustily;  men  and 
women  tearing  his  radio  to  pieces;  men 
and  women  being  both  bartenders  and 
customers   around  his   built-in  bar. 

Donaldson  stood  rooted  in  his  tracks, 
overwhelmed  by  the  unexpectedness  of 
it  all.  But  not  so  the  strangers.  They 
immediately  swarmed  around  and  in- 
sisted he  make  himself  at  home.  Seem- 
ingly, only  to  make  the  impossible  scene 
even  more  fantastic,  the  guests  were  ar- 
rayed in  outlandish  costumes  ranging, 
at  a  quick  glance,  from  an  Alpine  moun- 
tain climber  to  the  son  of  Frankenstein 
in  a  careless  moment.  The  only  thing 
that    kept    Donaldson   from    losing    his 


mind  completely  at  this  juncture  was 
the  realization  that  he  had  seen  these 
same  characters  on  the  screen  of  his 
private  projection  room  the  night  be- 
fore. They  were  the  extras  being  used 
in  the  filming  of  the  Halloween  costume 
ball  sequence  for  Barnett's  picture. 

Nephew  George  somehow  material- 
ized out  of  the  sea  of  faces  and  figures. 
He  took  his  bewildered  uncle  by  the 
arm  and  carefully  steered  him  through 
this  Tower  of  Babel,  to  the  privacy  of  a 
guest  bedroom  and  said: 

"I  can  explain  everything,  Uncle." 

Donaldson  gave  him  as  tolerant  a  look 
as  he  could  manage  and  said: 

"I'm  all  ears." 

George's  explanation  was  quite  sim- 
ple.   "You're  throwing  a  party." 

"Why  all  these  people?" 

George  smiled  tolerantly: 

"They  worked  for  you,  or  at  least  they 
did.  When  that  sorehead  director  on  the 
'All  for  Yours'  set  blew  his  topper  and 
sent  everyone  home,  I  felt  kinda  guilty." 

"Guilty?" 

"Just  by  family  ties,"  continued 
George  blithely.  "I  felt  guilty  as  soon 
as  I  realized  you  had  sent  Dad  and 
Junior  and  I  out  to  that  set  just  to  get 
us  out  of  your  office.  And  you'd  already 
issued  orders  that  there  were  to  be  no 
visitors  on  that  set.  Well,  that's  what 
we  did.  Then  we  find  out  you're  send- 
ing us  in  places  that  we  could  only  get 
in  because  you're  our  uncle. 

"It's  Czaristic  things  like  that  that 
make  people  like  these,"  a  wave  of  his 
arms  took  in  the  entire  party  going  on 
outside,  "class-conscious.  It  tends  to 
make  them  feel  inferior." 

"So?" 

"So  I  followed  the  crowd  over  to  the 
cashier's  office  and  while  they  were  be- 
ing paid  off,  explained  that  you  weren't 
the  snob  you  appeared  to  be." 

"Then?" 

"Then  I  offered  to  prove  to  one  and 
all  that  you  were  at  heart  as  basic  and 
down  to  earth  as  they  are.  That  you 
were  not  class-conscious.  That  you 
would  apologize  personally  to  them  for 
losing  possible  overtime  checks,  just 
because  you  made  the  mistake  of  think- 
ing you  and  your  relatives  are  better 
than  they  are.  So  I  invited  them  to  a 
party." 

"I  see,"  answered  Donaldson.  As  a 
final  try,  he  ventured  sarcasm,  "Find 
everything  the  way  you  wanted  it?" 

"Pretty  much  so,"  George  replied. 
"That  gang  of  broken-down  slaves  you 
had  running  the  place  kept  trying  to 
clutter  up  things,  so  I  gave  them  the 
night  off.  A  couple  of  them  tried  to 
argue  and  I  had  them  take  their  be- 
longings with  them.  I  told  them  to 
drop  into  your  office  if  they  had  any 
pay  coming." 

Donaldson  shook  his  head,  sadly.  He 
was  a  beaten  man  and  knew  it. 

DONALDSON  wanted  pajamas  and 
toothbrush,  but  not  badly  enough  to  run 
the  gauntlet  to  his  own  room.  He  lay 
down  on  the  bed,  fully  clothed,  and  tried 
to  concentrate. 

George  popped  out  of  the  room,  only 
to  return  a  moment  later.  He  tossed 
Donaldson's  pajamas,  bathrobe  and  slip- 
pers on  a  chair. 

"You  might  just  as  well  be  comfort- 
able, Uncle.    It  looks  like  a  long  siege." 

"Why?"  asked  his  uncle,  weakly. 

"No  way  for  the  gang  to  get  home. 
We  got  out  here  in  a  couple  of  studio 
busses,  but  the  night  man  at  the  studio 
won't  send  out  the  busses  without  a 
written  order  from  the  Superintendent 
of  Transportation  and  the  Superintend- 
ent of  Transportation  is  among  the  miss- 
ing.   He  and  the  Pater." 

Donaldson  sat  up  with  a  start. 

"With  your  father?" 

"Yeah,"  George  replied  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone.    "The  Super  came  out  here 


about  nine  o'clock  to  send  the  bus  driv- 
ers home,  and  he  and  the  Pater  got 
quite  chummy  over  a  bottle  of  your 
brandy.  They  decided  they  were  kin- 
dred souls,  both  under  the  yoke  of 
females  who  didn't  understand  them. 
Just  before  you  got  home,  they  left  with 
a  case  of  your  champagne  to  celebrate 
their  own  Emancipation  Proclamation." 

With  an  effort,  Donaldson  determined 
to  worry  with  one  problem  at  a  time 
and  concentrated  on  Dilemma  No.  1 — 
his  unwanted  house  guests. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  go  home  if  I 
can  get  transportation?"  he  asked. 

"Most  of  them  will,"  George  told  him, 
"after  they've  eaten.    What's  the  plan?" 

"Call  Tanner's  Limousine  Service. 
Get  as  many  cars  as  you  need  and 
charge  it  to  my  account." 

"A  good  idea.  I  wonder  why  I  didn't 
think  of  that  myself."  He  turned  to  the 
door.    "I'll  see  about  the  food,  first." 

TOR  the  next  two  hours,  Donaldson 
paced  the  confines  of  the  guest  room 
alternately  cringing  against  the  wall, 
and  trying  to  gather  courage  to  charge 
out  and  put  a  stop  to  the  shambles  go- 
ing on  outside.  Even  in  his  agitated 
state,  he  realized  that  the  sound  effects 
Atlas  Pictures  had  used  in  the  war  epic, 
"The  Last  Days  of  Madrid,"  had  been 
entirely  inadequate.  He  should  have 
sent  a  sound  truck  to  record  the  bedlam 
of  a  Hollywood  party. 

Gradually  things  began  to  calm  down. 
When  he  hadn't  heard  a  tray  of  dishes 
crash  to  the  floor  for  ten  whole  minutes, 
he  ventured  warily  into  the  drawing 
room.  It  was  devoid  of  human  casual- 
ties, but  the  physical  proof  of  wassail 
and  ruin  left  nothing  to  be  asked  for. 
Donaldson  mentally  calculated  that  one 
hundred  men,  working  in  eight  hour 
relays,  might  restore  the  place  to  a  semi- 
livable  state  in  six  months. 

Then  the  telephone  began  to  ring,  and 
Donaldson,  expecting  anything,  said: 
"Hello." 

The  voice  at  the  other  end  of  the  line 
sounded  like  Dracula's  grandfather. 

"This  is  Tony  Spangler  at  the  Casino 
Club,  on  the  Sunset  Strip.  Is  this  How- 
ard Donaldson?" 

Donaldson  knew  Spangler  and  his 
Casino  Club  by  reputation.  The  tough- 
est guy  in  Hollywood,  running  the 
toughest  gambling  house  in  California. 
Donaldson  felt  like  an  aviator  who  had 
just  seen  his  left  wing  drop  off,  as  he 
admitted  his  identity. 

"You  got  a  brother-in-law  named 
Ralph  Hughes?" 

Donaldson  said  yes,  hoping  that  it 
somehow  sounded  like  no. 

"Well,"  the  voice  continued,  "he's 
quite  a  guy.  He  has  been  here  for 
hours.  He  has  just  lost  twenty-six  hun- 
dred bucks  at  roulette.  When  I  asked, 
him  to  settle  up,  he  asked  me  for  a 
blank  check,  and  when  I  asked  what 
bank,  he  said,  any  bank.  In  addition  'to 
that,  he  has  drunk  seven  bottles  of  my 
best  champagne,  broken  a  window,  hit 
my  kid  brother  in  the  nose  and  made 
a  pass  at  my  wife.  If  you  value  this 
guy,  you'd  better  come  and  get  him." 

"I'll  be  right  over,"  Donaldson  said 
wearily,  and  got  into  his  car.  As  he 
drove  toward  the  Casino  Club,  he  re- 
called that  scene  of  the  plague  of  lo- 
custs in  the  "Good  Earth."  And  those 
people  thought  they  were  having  trou- 
ble, he  reflected. 

He  found  a  gloomy  tableau  at  the 
Casino  Club.  Ralph,  looking  rather  de- 
jected, and  with  good  cause.  Spangler 
had  batted   Ralph  around  a  little. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  Tony  said  to 
Donaldson.  "I'll  forget  about  the  cham- 
pagne, the  window,  the  sock  in  the  puss 
my  brother  got  and  the  lad's  conduct 
toward  my  wife.  But  about  the  twenty- 
six  hundred  skins.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  make   it  good,"  Donaldson  said. 


72 


PHOTOPLAY 


"Such  as  when?" 

"Naturally,  I  haven't  got  that  much 
on  me,  but  I'll  write  a  check." 

"I  don't  like  checks." 

"My  check  is  perfectly  good." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  but  it  won't  be 
when  you  stop  payment  on  it  in  the 
morning.  So,  sonny  boy,  you'll  just 
write  that  check  and  then  you'll  sit  here 
until  the  bank  opens." 

Donaldson  wrote  the  check  and  re- 
signed himself  to  waiting. 

Ralph  had  an  idea. 

"Any  use  of  my  staying?"  he  asked. 

"You  ain't  any  use,"  Spangler  said, 
"whether  you  stay  or  not." 

At  the  door,  Ralph  turned  to  Donald- 
son and  said,  "He  can't  get  away  with 
this.    I'll  fix  everything." 

"Ralph,  please  .  .  ."  said  Donaldson 
apprehensively.     But  Ralph  was  gone. 

It  was  just  getting  daylight  when 
Tony  and  Donaldson  heard  the  sirens 
coming  down  Sunset  Boulevard,  and 
before  they  realized  what  the  sirens 
meant,  the  place  was  full  of  policemen. 

"We  got  a  report  you  guys  have  had 
a  lot  of  trouble  over  some  gambling," 
said  the  head  cop.    "Come  along." 

Donaldson  had  never  been  in  jail  be- 
fore. He  didn't  like  it  there,  but  then 
people  seldom  do.  His  incarceration 
was  made  less  pleasant  by  the  fact  that 
Tony,  unable  to  sleep,  kept  describing 
the  revenge  he  was  planning. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a 
policeman  said  he'd  make  a  phone  call 
for  Donaldson  so  that  bail  could  be  ar- 
ranged.    By   eight,  Donaldson  got  up 


sufficient  courage  to  call  Brooksie,  and 
at  nine  the  bail  money  was  there. 

Eyes  bloodshot  from  lack  of  sleep,  and 
with  the  vague  feeling  that  even  a 
shower  and  a  change  of  clothes  had  not 
completely  removed  the  jail  odor  from 
him,  Donaldson  walked  into  his  office. 
Brooksie  gave  him  a  look  which  might 
have  meant  anything. 

"I'll  explain  all  this  to  you  a  little 
later,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  have  to  explain,"  she  said, 
and  handed  him  the  first  edition  of  the 
Herald-Express.  Big  black  headlines 
screamed  at  him: 

NOTED  FILM  PRODUCER 
JAILED  IN  GAMBLING  RAID 

As  he  stared  at  the  lurid  account  of 
the  happenings  of  the  last  few  hours, 
Donaldson  thought  that  he  was  as  mis- 
erable as  he  could  possibly  be.  He  was 
wrong,  however.  Brooksie  presented 
him  with  a  telegram.  It  read:  "Have 
you  lost  your  mind?  What  are  you  do- 
ing to  my  family  Stop  Am  taking  plane 
for  Hollywood  at  once  to  straighten 
things  out  Stop  Stop  making  a  fool  of 
yourself  Stop  Stop  Stop  Christine" 

Howard  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"The  lunatics,"  he  said,  "have  taken 
charge  of  the  asylum." 


But  even  Howard,  who  knows  his  sis- 
ter of  old,  isn't  prepared  for  the  holo- 
caust to  come!  Three  relatives  are  bad 
enough — but,  with  four,  how  can  he 
ever  hope  to  win  peace — let  alone 
Brooksie?  Read  the  hilarious  wind-up 
in  February  Photoplay. 


Miracle  Men  at  Work — to  make  you  Lovelier 


(Continued  from  page  21) 


Our  Hollywood  experts  now  have  the 
floor.  .  .  . 

When  People  Look  at  You  What  Do 
They  See? 

A  First  Impression  Quiz  in  Which 
Our  Miracle  Men  and  Women  Ask  Per- 
tinent and  Impertinent  Questions.  Can 
You  Take  It? 

1.  Does  your  face  have  more  than  one 
feature?  Or  are  you  a  make-up 
monomaniac?  Have  you  become  so 
intrigued  with  your  favorite  feature 
that  you've  neglected  all  the  rest? 
(Factor) 

2.  Your  stockings?  Rolled-top  stock- 
ings are  as  dated  as  roll-top  desks. 
They're  never  as  attractively  taut 
as  stockings  that  are  fastened  with 
invisible  supporters.  And  they  do 
make  ugly  bulges — which  too  often 
show  beneath  a  dress.     (Factor) 

3.  And  what  about  the  length  of  your 
skirt?  Who  decides  what  length  it 
should  be?  You?  Or  Paris?  Or 
Hollywood?  After  all,  you  and  only 
you  know  how  good  your  legs  are 
and  how  much  of  them  it  is  advan- 
tageous to  show.     (Adrian) 

4.  Do  people  get  spots  before  their 
eyes  when  they  look  at  you?  Have 
you  gone  berserk  with  colored  ac- 
cessories? Don't  match  too  many 
accessories.  If,  for  instance,  you 
wear  a  beige  wool  dress,  don't  have 
a  brown  bag,  brown  hat,  brown 
gloves,  brown  shoes  and  a  brown 
belt.  It's  better  to  have  everything 
beige  but  your  shoes  and  bag. 
(Orry-Kelly) 

5.  Think  about  your  hands  for  a  min- 
ute. Do  you  fidget  with  them  to 
proclaim  you're  ill  at  ease?  Don't! 
Let  them  rest  quietly  at  your  sides, 
where  they  belong,  and  you  never 
need  be  even  a  little  self-conscious 
about  them.      (Burns) 

6.  Are  you  condescending?     To  cover 


embarrassment  do  you  say,  "Lovely 
little  place  you  have  here"  or  some- 
thing similar?  It's  a  mistake!  It's 
a  great  mistake!  You'll  be  forgiven 
self-consciousness  or  shyness  but 
you'll  never  be  forgiven  patronage. 
(Dunn) 

7.  Are  you  amusing — unconsciously? 
Because  you  resort  to  affectation? 
There's  nothing  that  puts  people  off 
you  faster.  A  false  British  accent, 
too  broad  A's,  vulgar  references  to 
family  servants,  or  any  other  indi- 
cation of  wealth  are  unforgivable. 
For  not  only  do  such  affectations 
brand  you  as  a  snob,  they  also  in- 
dicate you  think  others  stupid 
enough  to  be  fooled  by  such  super- 
ficial things.     (Dunn) 

8.  Are  people  embarrassed  because 
you  tell  them  more  about  your  per- 
sonal affairs  than  they  are  prepared 
to  hear?      (Dunn) 

9.  Do  you  enter  homes  or  offices  with 
a  cigarette  in  your  mouth?  And 
what  about  your  cigarette  ashes? 
Are  you  careful  they  land  in  an 
ash  tray,  and  not  on  the  table  or 
the  chair  or  the  floor?      (Dunn) 

10.  When  someone  is  talking  to  you,  do 
you  make  faces  in  your  hand  mirror 
while  you  smooth  freshly  applied 
lipstick  or  brush  your  eyebrows  or 
powder  your  nose — apparently  far 
more  interested  in  this  repairing 
process  than  in  what  is  being  said? 
(Dunn) 

11.  Analyze  your  conversation  occa- 
sionally— just  to  make  sure  it  isn't 
a  little  top  heavy  with  comments 
or  anecdotes  which  give  you  the 
best  of  it.     (Dunn) 

12.  And  what  about  your  handkerchief? 
Is  it  something  fresh  and  fragrant 
which  you  flip  from  a  well-ordered 
bag?  Or  is  it  an  unsightly  little 
ball?  And  do  you  sometimes  make 
the  unfastidious  error  of  carrying 
said     handkerchief     tucked     down 


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73 


your  blouse,  or  in  your  sleeve,  or 
in  your  belt?      (Head) 

Above  everything  else  our  experts 
unanimously  declare  it  is  important — 
and  then  some — to  have: 

That  Freshly  Scrubbed  Look* 

*  Incidentally— We  Simply  Mention 
This  in  Passing— This  Look  Goes  Espe- 
cially Far  in  Creating  a  Favorable  Im- 
pression with  Men.  Even  if  They're 
Untidy  Themselves! 

1.  Blackheads  should  be  pressed  out 
only  after  the  skin  has  been  prepared 
for  this  process  with  a  cleansing 
cream — and  only  with  a  gentle  pres- 
sure. And,  to  eliminate  all  chances 
of  infection,  the  fingers  also  should 
be  protected  with  cleansing  cream. 
(Factor) 

2.  Unless  you  wear  your  hair  in  a  fly- 
away manner  deliberately,  see  that 
it  is  neat  and  tidy.  It  can  be  this 
without  being  stiff  and  prim.  And, 
if  it's  supposed  to  be  flyaway  style, 
see  to  it  that  it's  well-brushed  and 
well -shampooed  and  healthy  looking. 
You  can't  be  the  flyaway  type  or 
have  that  freshly  scrubbed  look  with 
stringy  dusty  hair.     (Westmore) 

3.  The  really  well-groomed  woman  re- 
moves her  make-up  once  or  twice  a 
day,  depending  upon  her  activities. 
No  amount  of  nose  powdering  can 
cover  those  spots  where  powder  has 
caked  and  become  slightly  darker, 
or  those  spots  where  the  lipstick  has 
smeared  or  run  over  the  line,  just 
the  least  bit.  A  good  cleansing  cream 
and  a  skin  freshener  should  be  used 
before  the  new  make-up  is  applied. 
(Dawn) 

•1.  When  you  have  white  touches  on 
your  costume — let  them  be  as  white 
as  freshly  fallen  snow!  Discouraged 
white  will  detract  from  your  fresh- 
ness. Discard  collars  and  cuffs  that 
have  gone  over  to  the  yellow  side 
from  many  launderings.  And  throw 
away  that  jewelry  that  was  immacu- 
lately white — last  year!  You  can't 
afford  to  do  anything  else!     (Adrian) 

5.  Spots  on  stockings,  shoes  that  need 
to  be  polished,  or  to  have  their  heels 
straightened,  belts  that  curl  a  little 
.  .  .  these  things  cannot  be  dismissed 
as  trifles.  They  have  a  tremendous 
influence  upon  your  appearance. 
(Head) 

First  Aids  for  That  Freshly  Scrubbed 
Look 

If  Your  Hair  Is  Dry 

Don't  reconcile  yourself  to  a  head  that 
looks  as  if  it  were  covered  with  old 
straw.  Shampoo  your  hair  weekly.  Be- 
tween times  brush  it  with  a  cotton 
brush.  Manipulate  your  scalp  to  cir- 
culate whatever  oil  there  is  there.  And 
before  every  other  shampoo  treat  your 
hair  with  olive  oil.  Do  this  the  night 
before  your  shampoo  and  wrap  your 
head  in  old  linen  to  protect  the  bedding. 
Merely  heat  a  little  oil  and,  with  small 
pledgets  of  cotton,  apply  it  thoroughly 
to  all  parts  of  your  scalp  and  all  parts 
cf  your  hair.     (Westmore) 

If  Your  Hair  Is  Oily 

Don't  let  it  remain  that  way — to  lie 
dark  and  lank  against  your  head. 
Shampoo  it  once  a  week.  And  as  often 
as  possible,  preferably  every  blessed 
day,  and  certainly  before  your  sham- 
poo, give  it  a  good  brushing.  (West- 
more) 

To  Keep  Your  Hair  Healthy  and  Shiny 
and  Alive 

Give     it    extra-special,     semi-annual 


cleanings  just  like  those  your  dentist 
gives  your  teeth.  For  these  extra-spe- 
cial cleanings  you  need  ten  cents  worth 
of  white  iodine.  Every  other  day,  for 
one  week,  apply  this  iodine  to  your 
scalp.  Use  a  cotton  swab.  At  the  end 
of  seven  days  your  scalp  will  appear 
heavily  sunburned,  and  it  will  feel  as 
if  it  were  heavily  sunburned.  Then  it 
will  peel.  The  entire  forestructure  will 
open  and  the  scalp  will  be  well-cleaned. 
If  you're  one  of  those  people  subject 
to  iodine  idiosyncrasies  you  naturally 
will  side-step  this  treatment.  But  for 
the  great  majority  of  people  it  works 
wonders.     (Westmore) 

If  Your  Skin  Is  Dry 

There  is  no  need  for  you  to  mope 
around  with  your  powder  and  your 
rouge  looking  as  if  it  was  about  to  flake 
off.  Get  busy!  After  you've  washed 
your  face  with  soap,  dab  it  with  cold 
water — not  ice!  Then,  before  you  start 
to  make  up  apply  a  powder  foundation. 
This  will  keep  your  skin  moist  and 
flexible.     (Westmore) 


If  Your  Skin  Is  Oily 

Don't,  for  one  minute,  believe  that  the 
oily  secretion  in  your  skin  will  act  as 
a  powder  adherent.  What  it  will  do — 
and  all  it  will  do — is  make  your  skin 
look  downright  dirty.  Use  a  powder 
base,  by  all  means.  And  if  any  of  the 
oily  secretion  works  through,  don't  try 
to  cover  it  with  more  powder  and  more 
powder — or  you'll  look  messy.  Wipe 
off  your  skin  with  a  handkerchief  or  a 
cleansing  tissue  or  a  cool,  damp  towel. 
Then  repowder,  but  gently!  (West- 
more) 

And  to  go  on  about  this  important 
business  of  being  a  million  dollar 
baby.  .  .  . 

1.  Choose  clothes  of  a  color  that  will 
harmonize  with  your  complexion. 
Never  try  to  harmonize  your  com- 
plexion with  any  ill-advised  color 
you  have  chosen.  After  all,  your 
complexion  was  there  first!  (Fac- 
tor) 

2.  Don't  be  too  picturesque  or  quaint. 
Be  very  sure  your  costume  wouldn't 
be   more   fitting  for  a   masquerade 


BE  A  MILLION  DOLLAR  BABY! 

You  Don't  Need  a  Million  Dollars!    All  You  Need  Is  Good  Taste 

THERE  can  be  no  doubt  about  it — one  of  the  first  requisites  of  good  taste  is  a  make- 
up which  suits  your  hair  and  skin  and  eyes.    So  we  offer:  "The  Cosmetic  Palette 


for  You,"  as  created  by  Max  Factor,  Junior. 


Blondes — with  hair  that  is  lighter  than 
average   blonde,   blue   eyes,  and  a  fair 
skin  should  use: 
Rachel  powder  of  that  shade  which 
comes    closest    to    their    skin    tone, 
blonde-red   rouge,   orange-red   lip- 
stick, grey  eyeshadow,  brown  mas- 
cara, and  brown  eyebrow  pencil. 

Medium  Blondes — those   with  hair  of 
that    degree    of   lightness    usually    de- 
scribed as  blonde,   with   grey   or  light 
blue  eyes,  and  a  medium  skin  require: 
Rachel    tinted   powder,    blonde-red 
rouge,  light  red  lipstick,  grey  eye- 
shadow, brown  eyebrow  pencil,  and 
brown  mascara. 

Redheads — whose  hair  is  Titian,  whose 
eyes  are  grey   and  whose  skin  is  fair 
are  far  and  away  the  loveliest  with: 
A    darker    tint    of    rachel    powder, 
vivid  red  lipstick,  blonde-red  cheek 
rouge,    brown    eyeshadow,    brown 
eyebrow  pencil,  and  brown  mascara. 

Dark   Redheads — with  dark  red  hair, 
olive    skin,    and   brown    eyes   are    best 
served  by: 
An    olive    tinted    powder,    blonde- 
red  rouge,  vivid  red  lipstick,  brown 
eyeshadow,  brown  eyebrow  pencil, 
and  brown  mascara. 

Medium  Redheads — on  the  other  hand, 
those  whose  skin  is  medium  and  whose 
eyes  are  blue,  need: 
Powder   with   an   olive   tint,   rouge 
that   is   blondish   red,   a   vivid    red 
lipstick,   brown   eyeshadow,   brown 
eyebrow  pencil,  and  brown  mascara. 

Brownettes  (light) — the  light  brown 
hair,  fair  skin,  and  hazel-eyed  variety 
should  go  for: 

A  rachel  tinted  powder,  blonde- 
red  rouge,  vivid  red  lipstick,  brown 
eyeshadow,  brown  eyebrow  pencil, 
and  brown  mascara. 


Brownettes  (medium) — the   average 
brown  hair,  brown-eyed  and  olive  skin 
variety  require: 
Powder  of  an  olive  shade,  carmine 
rouge,  medium  red  lipstick,  brown 
eyeshadow,    black    eyebrow    pencil 
and  black  mascara. 

Brownettes  (dark) — the  medium  brown 
hair,  brown-eyed  and  sallow  skin  vari- 
ety do  well  for  themselves  with: 
A   natural   tinted  powder,   carmine 
rouge,  medium  red  lipstick,  brown 
eyeshadow,    black   eyebrow   pencil, 
and  black  mascara. 

Brunettes  (light) — in  other  words  those 

who  have  dark  brown  hair,  brown  eyes, 

and  a  softly  creamy  skin  will  find  their 

way  to  glamour  with: 

Powder   of   a    rachel    tint,    carmine 

rouge,  medium  red  lipstick,  brown 

eyeshadow,    black    eyebrow    pencil, 

and  black  mascara. 

Brunettes  (dark) — those  who  have  black 
hair,  dark  brown  eyes  and  an  olive  skin 
should  always  use: 
A  dark  olive  powder,  raspberry-red 
rouge,   natural   red  lipstick,  brown 
eyeshadow,    black    eyebrow   pencil, 
and  black  mascara. 

Grey  Blondes  or  White  Heads — (over 
fifty  years  of  age)  their  make-up  should 
be: 
An    olive    face    powder,    a    natural 
red  lipstick,  blonde-red  rouge,  grey 
eyeshadow,  brown  eyebrow  pencil, 
and  brown  mascara. 

Blue  or  Grey  Eyes  call  for: 
Powder  of  a  dark  rachel  shade,  a 
vivid  red  lipstick,  blonde-red  rouge, 
grey    eyeshadow,    brown    eyebrow 
pencil,  and  brown  mascara. 


ball  than  for  ordinary  dress,  irre- 
spective of  whether  it's  evening  or 
daytime  wear.     (Head) 

3.  Before  you  start  to  dress  give 
thought  to  what  you  are  going  to 
wear,  beginning  with  your  head  and 
ending  with  your  feet.  Any  old 
hat  or  any  old  gloves  or  any  old 
necklace  won't  do  with  a  new, 
fresh-looking  gown.     (Head) 

4.  Naked  or  decollete  dresses  are  suit- 
able only  for  small  parties  or  ex- 
tremely formal  occasions.  A  din- 
ner dress  is  more  suitable  for  the 
theater  or  the  opera.  If  you  are  of 
limited  means,  buy  a  dinner  gown 
rather  than  a  formal  gown.  For 
you  can  wear  the  dinner  gown  to 
a  formal  affair  but  you  can't  pos- 
sibly wear  a  formal  gown  to  a  pub- 
lic gathering.      (Orry-Kelly) 

5.  Sweaters  are  sports  attire  and  when 
they  have  the  decolletage  of  an 
evening  gown  they're  improper. 
The  same  rule  holds  for  low  necks 
with  tailleurs  and  tweeds.    (Adrian) 

6.  Learn  to  sit  still  and  learn  to  stand 
still.  This  contributes  to  your  phys- 
ical poise.  And  physical  poise  is 
always  important.     (Burns) 

7.  When  you  fiddle  with  any  object 
not  only  do  you  let  the  world  know 
you're  nervous  and  ill  at  ease  but 
you  make  the  world — that  little  part 
of  it  that  happens  to  be  near  you — 
nervous  and  ill  at  ease,  too.  More- 
over, nervous  habits  like  this  sug- 
gest you  aren't  interested  in  what 
goes  on.      (Burns) 

8.  Wait  until  others  have  completely 
finished  talking  before  you  talk.  If 
what  you  have  to  say  is  worth  say- 
ing it  will  serve  just  as  well  a  few 
minutes  later  on.  It's  unkind,  and 
it's  selfish,  and  it's  ill-bred  to  in- 
terrupt, and  it  gains  you  more  re- 
sentment than  respect — even  if  you 
have  something  to  say  that  is  bril- 
liant. And  how  often  have  you? 
(Burns) 

9.  It  is  poor  manners  and  it  also  is  stu- 
pid to  monopolize  the  conversation. 
Among  other  things  it  keeps  you 
from  discovering  what  others  have 
to  say  and  usually  it  obliges  you 
to  talk  more  than  you  can — with 
profit!      (Burns) 

10.  Few  people  really  want  advice. 
They  ask  for  advice  and  hope  for 
flattery.  So  don't  be  simple — and 
objectionable.     (Burns) 

11.  Never  make  personal  remarks  or 
jokes.  It  will  get  you  exactly  no- 
where to  be  tactless  enough  to  com- 
ment upon  anyone  being  under- 
weight or  overweight,  or  bald,  or 
minus  a  tooth,  or  anything  of  the 
kind.  If  people  want  to  make  such 
jokes  about  themselves,  let  them. 
But  stop  there,  don't  you  be  en- 
couraged to  follow  suit.     (Dunn) 

12.  Don't  ask  many  questions.  Once 
you  show  interest  people  will  go 
into  details  if  they  wish  to.  And 
if  they  don't  wish  to,  they'll  resent 
you  for  prying.     (Dunn) 

13.  If  someone  in  the  room  is  called 
to  the  telephone,  continue  to  talk, 
in  a  considerately  low  voice,  to 
others  who  are  present.  Or  pick  up 
a  magazine.  Don't  sit  there,  all 
ears.     (Dunn) 

14.  Eliminate  trite  greetings,  such  as 
"How're  things?"  and  "What  do  you 
know?"  and  "What's  new?",  from 
your  conversation.     (Dunn) 

15.  Don't  make  it  difficult  for  people 
to  thank  you.  Don't  pass  off  their 
appreciation  with  a  brusque,  "Oh, 
it  was  nothing!"  or  anything  similar. 
For  when  you  do  this  you  rob  peo- 
ple of  their  pleasure  in  whatever 
you  have  done  for  them.     (Dunn) 

That's    all    there    is;    there    isn't   any 
more!     Go  ahead!     Be  a  glitterbug! 


74 


PH  OTOPLAY 


Another  Thin  Man 


(Continued  from  page  64) 


From  outside  came  the  sound  of  a 
shot;  screams.  Nick  was  at  the  window 
in  a  flash,  looking  down.  Nora  rushed 
forward,  too,  but  Nick  pulled  her  away 
before  she  could  see  the  bullet  torn 
body  of  Sam  Church  lying  in  the  street 
below. 

A  tenseness  hung  over  the  group  gath- 
ered in  the  living  room.  Lois,  Mrs.  Bel- 
lam,  Nora,  Freddie,  Vogel,  Dum-Dum 
and  Smitty;  .Van  Slack  and  Guild.  Nick, 
in  charge  of  the  proceedings,  had  ques- 
tioned Smitty  and  Dum-Dum,  but  both 
protested  their  love  for  Church  and 
their  innocence  of  his  murder. 

Nick  turned  then  t©  Vogel.  "We've 
eliminated  you.  We  know  you  were  just 
trying  to  keep  Smitty  from  two-timing 
your  friend.  But  why  did  your  men 
follow  me  to  Linda  Mill's  apartment  and 
try  to  keep  me  out  of  the  case?" 

"They  weren't  my  men,"  said  Vogel. 

"One  of  them  was  carrying  this  rou- 
lette chip — and  it  came  from  your  gam- 
bling house." 

Vogel  wilted.  "All  right — they're  my 
men.  I  didn't  want  Church  caught  yet 
because  he  was  trying  to  use  me  for  an 
alibi.  He  was  at  my  club  when  MacFay 
was  murdered  and  if  he'd  got  on  the 
stand  he  would  have  implicated  a  lot  of 
my  best  clients — and  finished  me." 

"If  you  were  trying  a  man  for  mur- 
der," Nick  asked  Van  Slack,  "and  he 
produced  and  air-tight  alibi,  what  would 
happen?" 

He'd  go  free." 

"Suppose,  after  you'd  freed  him,  you 
found  he  was  guilty?" 

"You  couldn't  do  a  thing,"  said  Van 
Slack. 


"Exactly,"  said  Nick.  "And  that's 
what  Church  wanted — to  be  tried  for 
MacFay's  murder,  spring  an  alibi,  and 
get  cleared."  He  slapped  the  book  of 
old  law  cases  he'd  found  in  Linda  Mills' 
apartment.  "A  similar  stunt  was  de- 
scribed in  this  book.  There's  also  a  dia- 
gram of  the  device  that  shot  off  the  gun 


common    with    Linda    Mills — even    the 
same  initials — L.  M. — Lois  MacFay." 
Lois  laughed.    "You  must  be  crazy." 
"Possibly,"  Nick  conceded,  "but  let  me 
show  you  that  gun  trick.  .  .  ." 

Nick  sat  on  the  floor,  engrossed  in 
playing  with  his  son.  Baby  Nickie 
laughed  politely  at  the  sight  of  his  teddy 


THE 

Nick  Charles.  .  .  .  William  Powell 
Nora  Charles  ....    Myrna  toy 

Van  Slack Otto  Kruger 

Lois  MacFay  .  .  .  Virginia  Grey 
Col.  MacFay  .  .  C.  Aubrey  Smith 
Dorothy  Waters.  .     .     .  Ruth  Hussey 

Asta Himself 

Screenplay  by  Frances  Goodrich  and  Albert  Hackett, 

original  story  by  Dashiell  Hammett 

Directed  by  W.  S.  Van  Dyke  II 

Produced  by  Hunt  Stromberg 

A  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  Picture 


CAST 

Nick  Charles,  Jr.  . 
Dudley  Horn .  . 
Freddie  Coleman . 
Mrs.  Bellam . 
Sam  Church.     .     . 
Dum-Dum     .     . 
Vogel      .     .     .     , 
Lieut.  Guild  .     . 


William  Poulsen 
.  Patric  Knowles 
.  .  .Tom  Neal 
.  Phyllis  Gordon 
Sheldon  Leonard 
Abner  Biberman 
.  Don  Costello 
.  Nat  Pendleton 
based  on  an 


in  MacFay's  bedroom — shot  it  off  after 
MacFay's  throat  had  been  cut — to  give 
the  murderer  an  alibi." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  came  in  star- 
tled tones  from  Lois. 

"I'm  glad  you  asked  that,"  Nick  an- 
swered quietly,  "because  I  came  across 
this  whole  thing  in  Linda  Mills'  room — 
the  book,  the  hole  in  the  wall  where 
Linda  had  tried  the  gun  trick — and 
other  data  you  might  be  familiar  with." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Lois. 

"You  should.    You  have  so  much  in 


bear  perched  on  Nick's  head.  Nick 
was  satisfed  with  the  world,  but  Nora 
was  losing  patience. 

"Stop  clowning,  Nick,  and  answer  my 
questions!"  she  ordered. 

"You  heard  all  you  needed  to  know 
before  they  took  her  away,"  said  Nick. 
"For  the  last  time,  Lois  was  in  love  with 
Church  and  planned  the  whole  thing 
with  him.  As  she  said,  she  was  tired  of 
the  restricted  life  with  the  Colonel.  Her 
real  life  was  the  Linda  Mills'  life.  She 
used  to  sneak  off  to  New  York  after  the 


folks  had  gone  to  sleep.  It  was  as  Linda 
Mills  that  she  discovered  the  gun  trick 
that  killed  MacFay.  It  took  five  minutes 
to  work,  which  gave  her  time  to  reach 
our  room  for  an  alibi  before  it  went  off, 
after  she'd  killed  MacFay. 

"Dudley  Horn  was  a  complication.  He 
was  really  in  love  with  Lois,  which 
would  have  been  a  barrier  to  her  going 
away  with  Church,  but  he  also  knew 
she'd  murdered  MacFay  and  that  if  it 
were  pinned  on  her  he'd  never  get  her 
or  her  money.  So  she  engineered  things 
so  that  Horn  in  trying  to  protect  her 
would  attempt  to  kill  me — then  gave  the 
alarm  so  the  police  would  kill  him. 

"A  nice  dame,"  murmured  Nora.  "But 
why  did  she  kill  Church — and  how?" 

"When  Church  crawled  out  the  win- 
dow onto  the  ledge  that  runs  from  our 
room  to  the  one  Lois  had,  she  just  poked 
her  gun  out  her  window  and  let  him 
have  it.  As  soon  as  he  fell  into  the 
street  she  threw  her  gun  after  him.  You 
see,  Church  had  ditched  her  for  Smitty 
— and  that  not  only  made  Lois  furious,  it 
scared  her.  Because  she  knew  that 
Church  would  blackmail  her  for  life  for 
the  MacFay  murder — after  he  himself 
had  been  safely  acquitted  for  it.  Does 
that  satisfy  you,  Mom?" 

"No,"  Nora  said  positively.  "I  won't 
be  satisfied  until  I'm  back  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. In  case  you  don't  know  it,  Nickie 
and  I  are  leaving  for  the  Coast." 

Nick  grabbed  his  son.  "Without  me 
the  baby  doesn't  stir  a  step!" 

Nora  smiled  slowly.    "Well,  you  have 
to  take  the  good  with  the  bad,  I  sup- 
pose," she  said.     "Start  packing." 
The  End. 


JAN  U  ARY,      I  940 


75 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


(Continued  from  page  39) 


with  Joel  McCrea  in  "He  Married  His 
Wife,"  a  divorce  farce,  then  Sonja 
Henie,  switching  from  skates  to  skis  in 
"Everything  Happens  at  Night." 

She's  wearing  a  cute  blue  ski  suit  and 
cap  the  day  we  find  her  on  the  golf 
course  of  Fox  Hills.  Ray  Milland  and 
Robert  Cummings,  on  loan  from  Para- 
mount and  Universal,  woo  Sonja  in  this 
little  mystery  comedy.  They're  sup- 
posed to  be  rival  reporters  trying  to 
solve  the  disappearance  of  a  famous 
journalist.  Sonja,  really  their  quarry's 
daughter,  poses  as  a  nurse  and  kids 
them  along  romantically.  The  scene  we 
see,  shows  her  gliding  down  over  the 
shaved  ice  snow  and  crashing  into  Ray 
and  Bob — her  introduction  to  the  pair. 

They  have  to  film  it  fast.  The  sun  is 
turning  the  synthetic  snow  into  slop. 
Sonja  shoots  down,  doing  daring  Chris- 
tianas with  the  greatest  of  ease.  She 
rockets  right  in  between  Bob  and  Ray, 
tripping  them  neatly.  She  does  it  over 
again  and  again.  Pretty  soon  there's  not 
enough  "snow"  left  to  give  her  a  ride 
and  Director  Irving  Cummings  says  he 
thinks  he  has  an  okay  print.  Sonja  is 
fresh  as  a  daisy.  As  for  Bob  and  Ray, 
they're  stretched  out  on  the  side  lines, 
gasping.  "Now  I  know  how  a  tenpin 
feels,"  says  Bob,  "when  a  bowling  ball 
comes  along." 

WARNER  BROTHERS'  movie  males 
seem  to  be  getting  a  little  better  break 
the  day  we  look  in  on  the  Burbank  bad 
men,  although  on  the  first  set  we  visit, 
"Invisible  Stripes,"  George  Raft  takes 
the  count.  George  has  clicked  like  a 
turnstile  at  Warners,  since  he  parted 
from  Paramount.  "Invisible  Stripes,"  a 
story  of  a  paroled  convict's  fight  to  stay 
straight,  is  his  first  solo  starrer.  It's  an- 
other Warden  Lawes'  Sing  Sing  case 
history,  with  Bill  ("Golden  Boy") 
Holden  and  Humphrey  Bogart  provid- 
ing the  tough-guy  opposition,  and  Jane 
Bryan,  the  woman's  touch. 

On  the  set  of  "The  Fighting  69th,"  we 
find  Warners'  other  tough  guy,  James 
Cagney,  in  the  doghouse,  although 
strictly  for  dramatic  purposes.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  long  and  stormy  career, 
Jimmy  plays  a  craven  coward.  What's 
more,  he's  liking  it,  and  so  are  George 
Brent,  Pat  O'Brien,  Jeffrey  Lynn,  Bill 
Lundigan,  Frank  McHugh,  Alan  Hale 
and  a  few  thousand  male  extras.  It's  a 
man's  picture — the  World  War  saga  of 
Father  Duffy's  famous  New  York  regi- 
ment. And  there's  not  a  woman  in  it, 
except  a  few  French  girl  extras.  Wil- 
liam Keighley  directs  the  whole  outfit. 

Pat  O'Brien  is  in  his  glory  playing  one 
of  his  real  life  heroes,  Father  Duffy. 
Two  other  actual  characters  come  to  life 
via  George  Brent  and  Jeffrey  Lynn — 
Major  "Guild  Bill"  Donovan,  and  Joyce 
Kilmer,  the  poet.  The  entire  69th  regi- 
ment was  Irish — yep,  even  the  coward 
that  Jimmy  plays — but  he  gets  brave  at 
the  end. 

So,  when  Keighley  lines  up  for  a 
crowded  extra  shot  of  the  entraining 
soldiers  and  is  about  to  order  a  take, 
he  suddenly  cries,  "Hold  it!"  and  points 
to  an  extra  in  the  front  camera  line. 
"Will  you,"  Bill  requests,  "step  around 
in  back?"    The  extra  obeys. 

"I  wonder  what  I  did?"  he  wonders. 

The  answer  is — nothing.  But  we 
know  why  he  was  moved  out  of  the 
front  line.  All  the  soldiers  in  the  69th, 
as  we  said,  were  Irish,  and  this  extra  is 
almost  a  double  for  Sammy  Cohen,  the 
Jewish  comedian. 

Meanwhile,  "Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby" 
is  keeping  the  younger  generation  at 
Warners  out  of  mischief. 


The  studio  we  head  for  now  is  RKO- 
Radio  where  Kay  Kyser  and  his  Col- 
lege of  Musical  Knowledge  are  educat- 
ing the  natives  in  a  loud  way. 

"That's  Right,  You're  Wrong,"  titled 
after  Kay's  famous  radio  catch  phrase, 
brings  the  good  professor,  Ish  Kabibble, 
Ginny  Simms,  and  all  his  gang  before 
the  camera  for  the  first  time,  with 
Adolphe  Menjou,  Lucille  Ball  and  Den- 
nis O'Keefe  showing  them  the  movie 
ropes. 

I  HE  main  idea  is  hilarity  in  Holly- 
wood. Kay's  a  band  leader  who  gets 
a  break  in  Hollywood.  But  he's  such 
a  lousy  actor  he  can't  make  a  picture! 
The  band  conspires  to  fix  all  that. 

The  set  we  visit  is  in  front  of  the  mag- 
nificent mansion  of  Jay  Paley,  an  RKO 
tycoon.  Kay's  supposed  to  have  rented 
it,  swimming  pool  and  all.  His  scene  is 
to  trot  down  the  front  steps  and  address 
his  band  airily,  thus:  "How  come 
everybody's  not  swimming  in  the  itty 
bitty  poo?"  At  least  a  dozen  times  he 
comes  down  the  steps  repeating  the 
"itty  bitty  poo"  line  a  dozen  different 
ways  with  as  many  grimaces.  He  looks 
very  silly.  But  not  quite  as  silly  as 
when  Ish  Kabibble,  the  dead  pan,  says 
"Thanks,  Kay,  for  the  pictures." 

The  maestro  whirls.  Ish  Kabibble 
holds  up  his  own  little  movie  camera 
and  pats  it  lovingly.  He's  caught  every 
one  of  Kay's  absurd  practice  emotings! 

Two  screwy  Hollywood  playwrights, 
called  Village  and  Cooke,  figure  in  the 
plot  of  the  Kyser  insanity,  a  take-off  on 
Towne  and  Baker,  RKO's  vociferous 
Hollywood  plot  scribblers,  whose  first 
independent  production,  "The  Swiss 
Family  Robinson,"  is  just  starting  with 
Thomas  Mitchell,  Edna  Best,  Freddie 
Bartholomew,  Tim  Holt  and  Terry  Kil- 
burn  as  the  desert  island  family. 

Carole  Lombard's  nurse  movie,  "Vigil 
in  the  Night,"  looks  like  a  good  bet,  too, 
at  RKO.  It's  the  story  of  a  nurse  who 
loves  nursing  and  her  sister,  Anne  Shir- 
ley, who  doesn't.  When  Anne  gets  in  a 
messy  accident,  Carole  takes  the  blame. 
The  picture  shows  her  fighting  her  way 
back  again  from  disgrace  and  helping  a 
disillusioned  surgeon,  Brian  Aherne.  As 
we  enter  the  hospital  set,  Carole  and 
director  Stevens  are  trying  to  get  a 
bunch  of  kids  to  act  like  suffering  pa- 
tients.   All  they  do  is  giggle. 

i  AR AMOUNT  is  practically  on  relief 
this  month,  with  just  one  picture  going. 
Dorothy  Lamour  is  still  seductive  but 
not  sarongy  in  another  of  those  South 
Sea  things,  "The  Road  to  Singapore." 
It's  much  ado  about  playboys  Bob's  and 
Bing's  attempts  to  dodge  matrimony  in 
the  South  Seas,  surrounded  by  beautiful 
cocoa-butter  babes. 

We  are  a  steady  Bing  Crosby  fan  and 
Bob  Hope  pleases  us,  too.  But  if  you've 
ever  listened  to  Bing  croaking  through 
the  lazy  first  singing  of  a  new  song, 
you're  bound  to  be  slightly  disillusioned. 
He  smokes  a  pipe  at  the  same  time 
which  makes  it  worse.  Dottie  Lamour 
is  out  with  Bob  Preston  today  and — all 
in  all — "The  Road  to  Singapore"  leads 
us  right  over  to  Columbia  and  Rosalind 
Russell,  Cary  Grant  and  Ralph  Bellamy 
in  "His  Girl  Friday." 

We  might  as  well  tell  you  right  now 
that  this  is  the  old  newspaper  play,  "The 
Front  Page,"  with  sexes  switched.  If 
you  remember  "The  Front  Page,"  you'll 
know  that  Hildy  Johnson  was  a  depart- 
ing ace  reporter  whose  managing  editor 
tricked  him  into  one  more  exciting  as- 
signment. This  time  Hildy's  a  girl,  an 
ace   female    newshawk,    divorced   from 


Editor  Cary  Grant  and  about  to  marry 
dumb-bunny  Ralph  Bellamy.  Roz,  as 
Hildy,  just  drops  up  to  tell  Cary  to  leave 
her  alone  when  the  story  breaks  and 
from  then  on  it's  "The  Front  Page," 
woman's  edition,  with  murder,  politics 
and  everything. 

As  we  watch,  the  gang  is  razzing  Roz 
Russell  for  her  hat. 

"Why  don't  you  take  that  thing  off," 
Cary  suggests,  "and  plant  a  geranium 
in  it?" 

"This  is  a  very  nice  hat,"  she  retorts 
coolly.    "It  will  do  a  lot  for  the  picture." 

"S-h-h-h-h-h!"  shushes  the  sound 
man.  "I'm  trying  to  work  this  out." 
They  ask  him  what  and  he  says  he  is 
trying  to  work  up  a  certain  sound  effect 
before  they  can  shoot  the  next  scene. 
Everyone  moves  over  to  watch  his  con- 
traptions when  suddenly  he  cries, 
"That's  it!    Who  did  that?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  apologizes  Roz.  "My  hat 
hit  the  mike." 

"Do  it  again,"  the  sound  man  says. 
"Yep — that's  just  what  I've  been  look- 
ing for." 

Rosalind  eyes  Cary  and  gloats.  "I  told 
you  that  hat  would  do  a  lot  for  the 
picture!" 

At  Rosalind  Russell's  home  studio, 
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,  her  old  play- 
mate of  "Night  Must  Fall,"  Robert 
Montgomery,  has  talked  the  studio  into 
another  try  at  tragedy,  we  find.  No- 
body but  Bob  himself  knows  how  hard 
he  has  fought  to  get  away  from  play- 
boy comedy.  "The  Earl  of  Chicago" 
is  a  big  step  in  the  battle. 

It's  the  story  of  a  former  Windy  City 
gangster  who,  by  a  freak  of  fate,  inher- 
its an  estate  in  England,  a  seat  in  the 
House  of  Lords. 

Bob  is  on  a  prison  set  when  we  see 
him,  fixing  things  up  for  a  few  of  his 
screen  gangster  pals.  "This  is  the  very 
same  set,"  Bob  informs  us,  "where  I  got 
my  start  in  Hollywood.  We  made  'The 
Big  House'  right  here.  I  hope,"  he  adds, 
"it  isn't  where  I  finish."  He's  joking, 
of  course,  but  a  picture  and  a  part  like 
this  are  always  a  gamble. 

M-G-M  swings  into  full  stride  soon 
with  the  next  Joan  Crawford  picture, 
"Not  Too  Narrow,  Not  Too  Deep"  and 
the  reunion  of  Nelson  Eddy  and 
Jeanette  MacDonald  in  "New  Moon," 
based  on  that  tuneful  old  Broadway  hit. 
Ernst  Lubitsch,  having  successfully 
brought  Garbo  back  with  a  bang  in 
"Ninotchka,"  will  have  the  same  job 
next  with  Margaret  Sullavan  in  "The 
Shop  Around  the  Corner." 

Meanwhile,  two  possible  new  movie 
series  are  getting  their  start  at  Culver 
City — "Nick  Carter,  Master  Detective," 
and  the  first  screen  adventure  of  Damon 
Runyon's  average  Americans,  "Joe  and 
Ethel  Turp  Call  on  the  President." 

M-G-M  had  to  buy  the  rights  to 
twelve  hundred  lurid  Nick  Carter  dime 
novels,  published  over  the  past  fifty 
years  to  launch  the  former.  There 
wasn't  a  story  in  the  lot  they  could  use, 
so  they've  cooked  up  a  modern  mystery 
yarn  involving  super  airplanes  and  in- 
ternational spies  for  Walter  Pidgeon  to 
make  his  detective  debut.  If  the  first 
one  clicks,  there'll  be  plenty  more. 

The  same  goes  for  Ethel  and  Joe  Turp, 
or  Ann  Sothern  and  Bill  Gargan,  whom 
we  see  calling  on  the  president,  Lewis 
Stone,  in  a  very  elegant  White  House 
office  set,  which  M-G-M  has  taken  pains 
to  make  look  as  different  as  possible 
from  President  Roosevelt's.  Unlike 
most  Washington  movies,  too,  there's  no 
attempt  to  make  Lewis  Stone  look  like 
the  real  president. 


Joe  and  Ethel  are  calling  on  the  presi- 
dent, we  learn,  because  Walter  Bren- 
nan,  a  tender-hearted  old  postman,  has 
just  been  fired  for  destroying  a  regis- 
tered letter.  They  know  he  did  it  to 
spare  the  feelings  of  an  old  lady  who 
thinks  her  son  is  a  great  success,  when 
he's  really  a  jailbird.  So  they're  here 
to  tell  his  boss. 

Director  Robert  Sinclair  orders 
"Places!"  and  Ann,  dolled  up  within  an 
inch  of  her  life,  plumps  down  in  a  White 
House  office  chair.  Lewis  Stone  takes 
his  place  behind  his  desk.  Bill  Gargan 
stands  by  Ann. 

"I  used  to  imagine  myself  in  a  lot  of 
places,"  Ann  remarks,  "but  I  never 
thought  I'd  be  sitting  on  a  chair  in  the 
president's  office." 

Lewis  Stone  smiles,  "My  dear,"  he  re- 
plies, "you  have  nothing  on  me!" 

Director  Sinclair,  who  has  been  lis- 
tening, says,  "That's  great!  Say  those 
lines  again.     We'll  use  them!" 

Ann  looks  surprised,  but  Lewis  Stone 
smiles. 

"That's  Hollywood  for  you,"  he  says. 
"You  can't  even  give  birth  to  a  thought, 
without  getting  it  in  pictures." 

MOVING  over  to  the  Hollywood  radio 
studios,  we  find  the  picture  star  parade 
swelling  every  week,  though  new  faces 
are  making  hits  and  old  favorites  are 
falling  by  the  wayside.  Nelson  Eddy  is 
through  with  Chase  and  Sanborn  for 
keeps  after  November.  David  Niven, 
the  most  popular  male  radio-screen 
star  of  the  year,  has  gone  to  war.  And 
Tony  Martin  has  served  notice  to  his 
sponsors  that  unless  "Tuneup  Time" 
stays  permanently  in  Hollywood,  he's 
ditching  radio  for  pictures  and  home 
life  with  Alice  Faye. 

Of  the  new  faces,  Dennis  Day,  Mary 
Livingstone's  Irish  tenor  discovery  for 
the  Jack  Benny  singing  spot  Kenny 
Baker  deserted,  leads  the  list.  He's  a 
solid  hit  on  the  air  and  the  movies  are 
after  him.  Basil  Rathbone  and  Nigel 
Bruce  are  laying  off  pictures  until  they 
make  "Sherlock  Holmes"  a  sure  thing. 

The  Screen  Guild-Gulf  show  is  ex- 
panding Radio  Row  to  include  Earl  Car- 
roll's famous  nitery,  where  programs 
draw  the  greatest  galaxy  of  stars  in 
Hollywood,  complete  with  footprints  in 
the  sidewalks,  a  la  Grauman's  Chinese. 
There's  a  waiting  list  of  stars  for  both 
performers  and  ushers,  and  a  fortune  is 
coming  right  out  of  the  air  to  assure 
the  Screen  Guild  sanitarium  and  home. 
$220,000  came  in  last  year.  $390,000 
comes  in  this  year,  and  half-million  is 
all  the  Guild  needs  to  get  going. 

Other  gossip  gags  and  Hollywood  ra- 
dio goings  on:  The  whole  aircast  of 
"Tuneup  Time"— Tony  Martin,  Koste- 
lanetz  and  Kay  Thompson — are  set  for 
a  movie  at  Columbia,  "Music  in  My 
Heart"  .  .  .  Career  note — Kenny  Baker's 
two  thousand  a  week  on  the  Texaco 
show  isn't  making  him  happy;  he  thinks 
only  four  minutes  on  the  air  is  killing 
his  career  .  .  .  Ginger  Rogers  is  balk- 
ing at  reading  commercials  .  .  .  Mary 
Livingstone  won't  be  in  Paramount's 
"Buck  Benny  Rides  Again."  .  .  . 

Herbert  Marshall  serves  tea  to  his 
Woodbury  Playhouse  guests.  .  .  The 
Edgar  Bergen-Kay  St.  Germaine  ro- 
mance is  on  again  and  hotter  than  ever 
.  .  .  Robert  Preston  and  Randy  Scott 
take  turns  beauing  Dottie  Lamour  to 
her  Chase  and  Sanborn  broadcasts.  .  . 
Jackie  Cooper  hangs  around  rehearsals 
for  Judy  Garland.  .  .  Bob  Hope's  new 
adopted  daughter,  Linda,  is  making  him 
hate  evening  rehearsals.  .  .  . 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


Virginia  Peine — George  Raft— Norma  Shearer- 


But  for  all  this  they  missed  the  in- 
timacy and  contentment  of  marriage. 
They  could  not  share  a  home.  They 
could  not  have  children.  They  could 
not  travel  together.  And  if  a  strain 
eventually  came  into  their  relationship, 
it  isn't  surprising.  It  would  have  been 
surprising  had  it  been  otherwise.  For 
George  always  must  have  offered  larger 
settlements  than  he  would  have  offered 
if  Virginia  had  not  been  in  his  life. 
And  Virginia  always  must  have  been 
deeply  concerned  lest — because  of  her 
— George  would  agree  to  terms  he 
would  regret  later  on. 

Virginia  described  their  life  very  ac- 
curately when  she  said  they  lived  in 
abeyance.  That  is  exactly  how  they 
lived  for  seven  years.  For  they  never 
gave  up  hope. 

But  it  was  no  use.  All  their  waiting 
and  all  their  hoping  and  all  their  try- 
ing brought  them,  finally,  to  that  night 
last  spring  when  they  sat  beside  the 
bright  hearth  they  had  hoped  to  share, 
and  planned  separate  lives. 

"At  that  time,"  Virginia  told  me,  "I 
suggested  to  George  that  he  use  the 
vacation  he  soon  would  be  having  to 
go  to  Europe  ...  get  away  .  .  .  have 
some  fun.  It  seemed  the  ideal  way  for 
us  to  make  the  first  break." 

George  took  Virginia's  advice.  He 
sailed  on  the  Normandie.  Half  a  dozen 
Hollywood  people  were  on  board.  Ro- 
land Young.  Charles  and  Pat  Boyer. 
And  Norma  Shearer. 

They  headed  for  Paris — Paris  which 
has  long  been  famous  for  helping  men 
and  women  to  forget  their  personal  tor- 
ment and  be  gay. 

If  George  told  Norma  how  things 
were  with  him  she  understood.  If 
George  didn't  tell  Norma  how  things 
were  with  him  she  understood. 

After  a  week  or  two  in  Paris,  Norma 
and  the  Boyers,  with  whom  she  was 
traveling,  went  south.  George  went  too. 
And  what  could  be  more  conducive  to 
a  new  friendship  than  life  as  it  is  lived 
on  the  Riviera. 

While  George  was  in  Europe,  Virginia 


(Continued  from  page  13) 

went  to  work. 

"I  did  a  play,  'Unlucky  Star',"  she  told 
me,  as  she  concluded  the  Peine-Raft 
love  story.  "We  toured  all  the  cities  on 
the  Pacific  coast.  We  made  overnight 
jumps.  I  ate  many  a  dinner  at  a  drug- 
store soda  fountain.  Between  perform- 
ances I  studied  and  rehearsed.  I 
worked.     And  it  was  good  for  me. 

"When  George  got  back  to  Hollywood 
I  knew  I  must  move  on.  Under  the 
circumstances  we  couldn't  stay  in  the 
same  town.  George  has  to  be  there, 
naturally.  His  work  is  there.  So  I  de- 
cided New  York  was  the  place  for  me. 
And  when  I  landed  here  and  let  it  be 
known — as  I  have — that  I  wanted  work 
in  the  theater  or  on  the  radio  I  knew 
I'd  feel  more  confident — as  I  do — if  I 
had  an  apprenticeship  behind  me." 

George  came  home  from  Europe  long 
before  Norma  did.  And  a  week  or  two 
after  his  return  when  Virginia  and 
Joanie  left  for  New  York  he  was  at  the 
station  to  tell  them  good-by. 

"Go  live  in  the  house,"  Virginia  says 
she  told  George.  "The  servants  will 
take  good  care  of  you.  It  isn't  good  for 
you  to  eat  in  restaurants  all  the  time 
when  you're  working." 

George  shook  his  head.  "Don't  you 
worry  about  me,"  he  said.  "Just  take 
care  of  yourself  and  Joanie." 

They  were  being  very  civilized  and 
sane  but  even  while  they  were  parting 
the  habit  of  thinking  of  each  other  first 
was  strong  within  them. 

In  spite  of  all  this  the  talk  about 
George  and  Norma  persisted. 

So  when  Norma  reached  New  York 
and  I  was  seeing  her  on  another  story 
I  asked  her  for  a  statement  about  the 
Raft  rumors.  That  very  morning  the 
newspapers  had  been  peppered  with 
items  and  one  columnist  had  insisted 
she  and  George  had  talked  to  each 
other  at  length  over  the  cross-conti- 
nental telephone  every  day  since  she 
had  landed. 

"I  knew  Mr.  Raft  before  we  crossed 
together  on  the  Normandie,"  Norma 
said,  flushing  in  that  lovely  quick  way 


she  has.  "I  had  met  him  casually  in 
Hollywood. 

"I  know  no  one  who  has  nicer  man- 
ners. I  admire  Mr.  Raft  for  his  spirit  of 
humility.  Because  of  that  spirit  of  hu- 
mility, I'm  sure  he  still  has  far  to  go." 

Norma  went  out  of  her  way  to  be 
cautious  and  reserved.  Plainly!  She 
didn't,  however,  say  one  word  in  de- 
nial of  the  rumors.  And  that  might  be 
construed  as  important. 

Was  the  time  George  and  Norma 
spent  together  in  Europe  significant,  the 
beginning  of  things  yet  to  be?  Or  did 
little  Joanie  Peine  sum  things  up  on 
the  station  platform  the  night  George 
waited  with  her  and  her  mother  when 
she  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  say  good-by, 
Uncle  George.  Because  it  isn't  good- 
by.    It's  just  So  Long."? 

These  are  questions  only  the  future 
can  answer. 

Virginia  Peine  .  .  .  George  Raft  .  .  . 
Norma  Shearer.  For  the  present  there's 
romance  and  drama  enough  in  the 
linking  of  their  three  names.  .  .  . 

Virginia  comes  from  an  old  conserva- 
tive family.  She  was  educated  in  the 
best  schools.  Always  her  social  posi- 
tion has  been  respected  and  secure. 

Norma  long  has  been  "First  Lady  of 
the  Screen"  and  should  a  title  be  con- 
ferred upon  her  in  private  life  it  would 
carry  no  less  esteem. 

It's  different  with  George.  He  was 
very  poor.  He  danced  in  New  York 
cabarets.  He  followed  the  horses.  He 
numbered  among  his  friends  men  who 
served  time  as  underworld  figures. 

But  that's  only  the  half  of  it.  In 
gesture  and  deed  George  is  more  truly 
a  gentleman  than  many  born  to  high 
places.  And  when  he  scorns  "the  false- 
ness of  society,"  it  is  not  out  of  pique 
or  social  inferiority.  For  long  and 
often  he  has  sent  his  courteous  regrets 
to  top-flight  parties. 

It's  more  than  romantic  and  dramatic, 
really,  that  Virginia  Peine  should  love 
George  Raft  and  that  in  his  time  of 
stress  he  should  have  Norma  Shearer 
for  his  friend.     It  is  fitting  and  proper. 


Subject:  Lombard 


(Continued  from 


17) 


4 


in  your  dreams  when  you  rescue  them 
from  horses'  hooves,  after  you  eat  too 
much  pork  at  night. 

She  came  downstairs  in  that  robe, 
and  if  there  ever  was  a  million  dollars 
cash  she  was  it — with  her  right  hand 
just  enough  out  in  front  to  make  you 
wonder  whether  to  kiss  it  or  shake  it. 

Behind  her  was  a  Pekingese  pup, 
snorting  and  croaking  with  asthma,  and 
just  as  she  came  into  the  room  the  pup 
stepped  on  the  back  of  her  robe. 

I  turned  the  color  of  a  healthy  beet. 
The  director  smiled  in  appreciation,  be- 
cause he  had  spent  six  weeks  in  an  art 
school.  Miss  Lombard  took  a  sharp 
breath  and  then  said  "Haw!" 

So  we  can  put  down  that  she  has  a 
good  build. 

The  picture  was  starting,  and  I  was 
to  remain  on  the  set  working  on  a 
script  I  thought  I  had  finished. 

"It's  noisy,"  I  told  the  director.  "Can't 
I  work  in  my  office?" 

Lombard  was  listening.  "I'll  fix  you 
up,"  she  said. 

I  came  back  later  and  Lombard  led 
me  to  a  corner  of  the  set  where  stood 
a  small  building  with  a  crescent  cut  in 


the  doorway.  On  it  was  the  identifica- 
tion: "Binyon's  corner."  So  we'll  have  to 
admit  the  lady  is  a  good  judge  of  stories. 

There  are  about  twenty  members  in  a 
duck  club  I  mentioned  before,  and  when 
the  hunting  season  opens  it's  an  ex- 
cuse to  let  your  beard  grow  and  wear 
old  clothes  and  camp  in  the  dust  and 
play  poker  and  live  in  a  world  without 
women. 

So  Lombard  showed  up  in  a  trailer, 
because  there  were  sleeping  quarters 
only  for  men.  Her  clothes  were  old, 
and  could  she  grow  a  beard  she'd  have 
had  one. 

The  first  night  the  men  at  the  poker 
table  mumbled  and  grumbled  about  the 
dame  in  the  trailer  parked  fifty  feet 
away.  The  second  night  there  was  no 
poker  game,  and  Lombard  in  her  trailer 
had  to  send  to  town  for  drinks  for  her 
guests. 

When  the  boys  got  home,  one  of  them 
mentioned  Lombard  to  his  wife.  She 
straightened.  "I  thought,"  she  said 
icily,  "that  this  was  a  club  for  men." 

"That's  right." 

"Then  why  was  she  there?" 

"Gable  brought  her." 


The  wife's  eyebrows  went  up 
"Gable?" 

"Yeah.  He  slept  in  the  cabin  with  us 
and  she  slept  in  her  trailer." 

The  wife's  eyes  were  dreamy.  "How 
far,"  she  asked,  "was  the  trailer  from 
the  cabin?" 

The  nr.n  rubbed  his  head  and  wished 
he  hcd  hair.   "Oh— fifty  feet.   Why?" 

Tl.ere  was  no  answer  from  the  wife. 
The  husband  pulled  at  a  small,  ineffec- 
tual ear.  "If  you  think — "  he  began. 
"You  should  know  her.  Why,  she's 
as — " 

"Gable,"  said  the  wife  softly. 

So  we  can  put  down  that  Lombard 
really  picked  herself  a  husband. 

We  were  looking  at  the  day's  rushes. 
Lombard  watched  herself  on  the  screen 
and  laughed. 

"What  do  you  think?"  asked  the  di- 
rector. 

"She's  a  goof,"  said  Lombard.  "I 
could  cut  her  throat." 

"That's  you,"  said  the  director. 

"You're  telling  me,"  said  Lombard. 

So  three  days  later  she  signed  a  new 
contract — for  more  money. 

You're  telling  me. 


YOU 

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Address 


JANUARY,      I  940 


77 


What  I  Plan  for  My  Son  in  Today's  Troubled  World'— A  Father  Talks 

(Continued  from  page  66) 


world,  and  what  most  of  the  British 
thought  of  the  American  colonists 
couldn't,  at  that  time,  bear  printing. 
Yet  steadily,  century  by  century,  and 
despite  several  bad  setbacks,  the  stand- 
ard of  health  and  happiness  of  the  av- 
erage man  has  risen.  What  justification 
have  we,  then,  in  believing  that  time 
will  turn  backward?  And  I  must  add 
here  that  I  think  it  is  unfortunate  that 
right  now  it  is  considered  "smarter"  to 
be  an  apostle  of  gloom  than  to  believe 
in  the  inherent  dignity  and  aspiration 
of  man. 

As  for  the  chances  that  my  boys  won't 
have  the  advantages  when  they  grow 
up  that  I  had  when  I  grew  up,  I  must 
say  I  can't  let  that  worry  me.  I  shall 
probably  have  some  money  to  leave 
them  but  I  think  the  most  precious  en- 
dowment I  am  abk  to  give  them  is  our 
love — that,  and  the  life  in  the  sun  they 
are  getting  right  now.  Honey  and  I  have 
a  ranch  down  in  the  San  Fernando  Val- 
ley— we  are  shopping  for  one  with  a 
large  house  at  the  moment,  what  with 
our  having  to  have  five  bedrooms  now 
that  Tommy  has  come  along — and  those 
busters  of  mine  play,  practically  naked, 
in  the  sunshine  all  day  long.  If  that 
doesn't  represent  a  step  upward  from 
my  dad's  day  when  a  boy  had  to  be 
swathed  in  clothes  all  day  long,  then  it's 
the  sky  I  walk  on  and  the  earth  that's 
over  my  head.    And  suppose  my  boys 


do  grow  up  with  a  little  bit  of  luxury 
and  then,  for  some  reason  or  other,  I 
lose  out  and  they  don't  have  a  cent? 
Well,  George  Washington,  who  was 
brought  up  in  luxury  in  England, 
walked  shoeless  through  the  snows  of 
Valley  Forge  to  become  a  hero!  If  my 
boys  have  it  tough  for  a  while,  okay. 
I  had  it  tough  for  a  while,  too.  So  did 
my  dad.  But  we  got  by  and  had  a  lot 
of  fun,  too. 

I  haven't  the  dimmest  idea  of  what  I 
want  my  boys  to  work  at  eventually. 
They  will  most  certainly  have  their  liv- 
ings to  earn,  but  I  want  them  to  earn 
them  in  the  ways  that  seem  most  pleas- 
ant to  them.  If  they  want  to  be  actors 
or  musicians,  I'll  think  that's  keen.  It's 
a  grand  life  with  a  wonderful  income 
and  one  that  I  sincerely  believe  does 
good  in  the  world.  On  the  other  hand, 
if  they  want  to  become  lawyers,  doc- 
tors, salesmen  or  even  peanut  vendors 
that's  all  right  with  me  and  Honey,  too. 
They  have  their  own  lives  to  live  and 
we  can't  live  them  for  them. 

I'll  send  them  to  Catholic  schools,  not 
alone  because  of  my  faith,  but  because 
I  know  the  Church  schools  will  give 
them  the  proper  discipline.  Life  with- 
out restraints  doesn't  guarantee  happi- 
ness but  rather  just  the  opposite.  The 
Church  knows  this  and  by  its  laws 
guards  against  it.  I  want  my  boys  to 
have  the  benefits  of  its  laws.    I'll  prob- 


ably send  them  to  Catholic  colleges,  too, 
unless  there  is  some  special  course  some 
one  of  them  wants  to  study  that  can't 
be  found  there.  If  so,  they'll  go  to 
whatever  university  is  necessary  for  it. 

One  thing  my  sons  will  never  have, 
and  that's  a  lot  of  servants  to  wait  on 
them  and  individual  private  cars  to  ride 
around  in,  too  much  money  to  spend, 
and  all  such  character  destroying  indul- 
gence. This  business  of  waiting  to  have 
your  children  until  you  can  give  them 
material  benefits  is  the  most  tragic  of 
delusions.  Material  possessions  blight 
more  people  than  any  other  single  fac- 
tor. If  you  don't  believe  that,  go  over 
the  lists  of  rich  boys  vs.  poor  boys  that 
have  accomplished  something  in  this 
world.  You  won't  find  the  ratio  one  to 
a  thousand.  Right  now  I'm  on  top, 
but  next  year  I  may  be  just  another  guy 
trying  to  get  in  to  see  the  casting  direc- 
tor. But  even  if  I  can  keep  up  my 
present  pace  I'll  see  to  it  that  my  boys 
will  not  get  accustomed  to  a  style  of 
existence  that  will  kill  every  bit  of  nat- 
ural initiative  in  them. 

I  wouldn't  want  my  boys  to  be  sol- 
diers. I  hate  war  and  all  that  it  stands 
for.  Naturally  if  America  should  ever 
be  attacked  and  they  were  needed  to 
defend  it,  I  know  they  would  do  their 
duty,  but  I  pray  that  such  a  time  never 
comes.  And  speaking  of  prayer,  that  is 
one  of  the  things  that  Honey  and  I  have 


taught  them  from  their  earliest  days. 
We  have  proved  the  power  and  solace 
of  prayer  many  times  in  our  lives  and 
we  want  our  boys  to  have  that  eternal 
comfort  always.  We  are  bringing  them 
up,  of  course,  in  our  faith. 

As  for  love — well,  they  wouldn't  be 
our  children  if  they  didn't  find  that!  I 
hope  they  will  fall  in  love  and  marry 
young,  not  only  so  that  they  can  ex- 
perience the  sheer  enchantment  of 
young  love  but  also  that  they  may  have 
this  safeguard  against  ever  becoming 
bitter  or  disillusioned.  Besid  T'm 
selfish  about  it.  I  want  to  be  able  to 
see  the  expression  on  my  father's  face 
when  I  tell  him  he's  a  great  grand- 
father.   That  will  be  something! 

For  you  see  the  real  thing  Honey  and 
I  feel  about  raising  our  sons  is  that  it 
isn't  a  job  for  a  day  but  one  that  goes 
on  over  the  years.  Donnie  has  a  visi- 
bly easier  conscience  when  he  is  guided 
regularly,  told  exactly  what  to  do.  Ron- 
nie hates  orders  and  is  stubborn  as  a 
cement  wall.  It's  been  a  two-ring  cir- 
cus managing  them,  and  now,  with  the 
entrance  of  Tommy,  it's  a  three-ring. 
And  if,  in  the  future,  it  gets  to  be 
four  or  five — or  even  ten — we  will  re- 
joice. For  how  can  a  man  be  afraid  of 
either  the  past  or  the  future  when 
through  the  very  fact  of  his  children's 
presence  he  knows  that  he  is  in  tune 
with  the  infinite? 


'What  I  Plan  for  My  Son  in  Today's  Troubled  World"— A  Mother  Talks 

(Continued  from  page  67) 


took  this  forcing  attitude  with  me  and 
I  have  many  reasons  to  thank  them 
for  it. 

Parents  should  endeavor  to  cultivate 
in  their  children  two  or  three  separate 
interests,  I  believe,  because  in  so  doing 
the  child  has  that  many  more  opportu- 
nities. In  these  days  it  is  possible  to  be 
set  on  one  job  and  have  it  go  completely 
up  the  chimney.  The  girl  or  boy  who 
then  has  another  direction  in  which  to 
turn  is  fortunate.  Such  training  should 
begin  in  the  nursery  by  teaching  a  child 
to  care  for  his  own  belongings  and  to  be 
responsible  for  possessions  and  to  have 
personal  duties  he  must  perform.  As  a 
child  I  was  helpless,  due  to  the  atten- 
tion of  my  parents  and  servants.  This 
was  meant  as  a  kindness  but  it  later 
proved  a  handicap  since  it  took  twice 
the  courage  to  develop  my  sense  of  per- 
sonal responsibility  in  later  years.  A 
child  who  has  had  strict  nursery  train- 
ing doesn't  find  that  so  hard,  so  while 
I  believe  that  children  should  be  allowed 
to  follow  their  natural  tendencies,  my 
child  will  also  be  disciplined. 

I  come  of  a  military  family.  My  father, 
brother  and  uncles  were  all  in  the  army, 
to  say  nothing  of  my  grandfathers.  I 
am  not,  therefore,  quite  as  frightened 
as  many  women  by  the  threat  of  war.  I 
want  peace  with  my  whole  heart,  as  I 
believe  almost  all  women  do,  yet  even 
if  my  child  had  been  a  girl  I  would  not 
have  taught  her  to  be  an  active  pacifist. 
I  know  by  experience  that  preparedness 
has  nothing  to  do  with  wanting  war, 
and  I  do  not  believe  that  peace  is 
brought  about  through  being  controver- 
sial. 

For  that  reason,  which  has  nothing  to 
do  with  militarism  in  its  more  horrible 
sense,  I  believe  in  a  military  training 
and  would  like  my  son  to  receive  that 


training  while  at  school. 

I  plan  to  send  my  son  to  American 
schools  for  the  first  years  of  his  life  and 
after  that  abroad.  For  a  boy  I  think 
enrollment  in  an  English  university 
means  getting  the  edges  knocked  off.  I 
will  encourage  him  to  travel,  because 
in  so  doing  his  viewpoint  will  be  broad- 
ened. Travel  will  force  him  into  other 
than  his  immediate  circle  of  acquaint- 
ances and  thus  increase  his  interests. 
But  for  the  first  years  of  his  life,  I  plan 
to  bring  him  up  in  California.  In  spite 
of  what  the  outside  world  hears  of  Hol- 
lywood I  think  it  is  a  wonderful  place 
in  which  to  bring  up  a  child.  The  Cali- 
fornia climate  is  perfect,  the  schools 
good — and  by  this  I  mean  public  as  well 
as  private  schools — and  the  people  are 
so  nice.  Hollywood  has  given  me  much 
happiness  and  I  hope  it  will  do  the  same 
for  my  baby.  I  feel  the  same  way  about 
America.  It  has  been  very  kind  to  me 
and  I  will  try  to  see  to  it  that  my  child 
will  be  true  to  the  ideals  of  this  great 
nation. 

Perhaps  I  am  being  completely  moth- 
er-like when  I  say  that  I  can't  quite 
face  the  thought  of  my  boy's  marrying. 
I  hope  that  he  will  marry  someday  but 
I  don't  want  it  to  be  when  he  is  too 
young.  I  want  him  to  be  well  estab- 
lished first.  I  want  him  to  have  seen 
the  world  and  to  have  no  doubt  in  his 
own  mind  as  to  what  marriage  means 
and  to  know  how  true  is  his  love.  Mar- 
riage is  a  serious  proposition  and  I  do 
not  want  my  son  to  take  it  lightly. 

I  shall  give  him  a  religious  education. 
I  believe  it  will  teach  him  to  run  his 
life  and  I  hope  it  will  give  him  the 
peace  that  it  has  given  me.  I  shall  do 
all  I  can  to  encourage  the  widest  vari- 
ety of  interests  and  talents  in  him.  A 
peaceful  and  a  sincere  heart,  a  busy  and 


interested  mind  seem  to  be  the  best 
guarantees  against  any  disaster  the  fu- 
ture may  bring.  I  would  rather  my  son 
became  a  writer  than  any  other  thing. 
It  is  not  alone  because  his  father  is  a 
writer,  either.  I  feel  a  writer  carries 
his  own  medium  with  him.  That  is  not 
true  of  the  other  professions.  All  a 
writer  needs  beyond  his  own  gift  is  a 
pencil  and  paper.  His  own  brain  en- 
courages him  to  delve  more  deeply  into 
himself.  One  has  to  have  knowledge 
and  live  deeply  to  be  a  great  writer, 
which  is  what  I  hope  my  son  will  do. 

These  are  the  dim,  dreaming  things 
I  plan  these  days  as  I  watch  my  son 
grow  in  today's  world,  but  at  no  time 
do  I  worry.  There  is  war  in  the  world 
today,  yes.  There  is  unemployment.  Yet 
there  are  so  many  blessings.  Silver  ni- 
trate was  dropped  into  my  child's  eyes 
the  moment  he  opened  them  in  this 
world  so  that  he  need  never  fear  blind- 
ness. Never  can  a  "Black  Plague"  steal 
over  him,  unaware  and  unrecognized.  If 
disease  attacks  him,  he  will  know  it  is 
not  the  punishment  of  an  angry  god,  as 
his  primitive  ancestors  believed.  He  will 
know  what  it  is  and  how  to  conquer  it. 

These  benefits  my  child  today  inherits 
through  no  credit  of  his  or  mine,  but 
through  the  enlightment  of  the  modern 
age.  My  child  sleeps  in  the  sun  and 
drinks  quantities  of  orange  juice  daily 
so  that  his  bones  will  grow  long  and 
strong.  If  he  should  seem  to  be  grow- 
ing too  fast  or  too  slowly,  I  can  take  him 
to  doctors  who  will  know  how  to  cure 
that  condition. 

Suppose  material  things  go  badly  with 
his  father  and  me.  Even  at  that  the 
home  in  which  my  child  will  be  raised 
will  be  finer  than  any  palace  those  most 
luxurious  kings  ever  knew,  for  it  will 
be  always  comfortably  warmed,  always 


clean,  always  sanitary,  always  light. 
Entertainment  will  be  in  my  child's 
home  through  the  mere  effort  of  his 
turning  an  electric  switch.  Music,  news, 
great  drama  will  always  be  there  for 
him.  A  hundred  miles  of  distance  will 
be  as  nothing  to  him  with  that  cheap 
little  car  he'll  drive,  and  perhaps  a  thou- 
sand won't  either,  since  probably  planes 
will  be  inexpensive  by  the  time  he 
grows  up. 

Or  suppose  the  very  worst  does  hap- 
pen and  this  war  does  darken  the  world 
and  destroy  all  the  art  and  beauty  and 
sensitive  living  which  today  we  hold 
so  dear.  Nothing  in  me  believes  that 
this  can  happen,  yet  if  it  should,  I  shall 
always  remember  that  even  in  the  Dark 
Ages  wise  men  here  and  there  escaped 
and  kept  the  lamp  of  knowledge  burn- 
ing in  various  hidden  corners  until  in- 
telligence came  back  to  life  again. 

I  cannot  answer  for  other  women,  but 
I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  try  to  bring 
better  human  beings  into  the  world  and 
not  to  question  a  future  which  I  cannot 
foresee.  For  to  me,  you  see,  the  impor- 
tant thing  seems  to  be  being  alive,  even 
though  at  times  it  may  even  mean  be- 
ing alive  to  pain  or  hunger  or  cold  or 
poverty.  For  whether  my  child  shall  be 
rich  or  poor  in  his  later  life,  he  starts 
off  with  those  great  gifts  we  are  all 
given,  that  ability  to  hear,  and  see,  and 
smell  and  touch  and  taste.  The  sight 
of  snow-capped  mountains  against  a 
clear  sky,  or  the  sound  of  one  person's 
voice  on  the  telephone,  or  the  flavor  of 
hot  food  on  a  wintry  day,  the  smell  of 
lilacs  washed  by  rain  or  the  comfort- 
ing touch  of  a  friend's  hand — these 
things  are  living  and  vital.  Surely  the 
only  selfishness  a  mother  can  know 
would  be  to  deny  her  child  the  right 
of  birth  to  experience  them. 


PHOTOPLAY 


Portrait  with  a  Russian  Accent 


has  never  worn  a  straw  hat,  and  believes 
physical  examination  before  marriage 
should  be  compulsory. 

He  is  a  bad  horseman. 

He  recently  acquired  a  taste  for  spin- 
ach. 

He  never  takes  sunbaths. 

He  has  never  had  a  nickname  and  he 
thinks  he  looks  like  a  monkey  in  tails 
and  topper. 

He  was  flattered  by  autograph  hounds 
until  one  night  when  they  all  deserted 
him  at  sight  of  Edward  G.  Robinson. 
He  catches  cold  easily,  and  he  plays  the 
'cello. 

He  cannot  swim. 

He  enjoys  music  on  the  radio  and 
wears  a  sixteen-and-a-half  collar. 

He  believes  fortune  tellers  can  tell  the 
past  but  not  the  future.  He  is  very  fond 
of  jazz,  believing  it  akin  to  the  Oriental 
music  of  his  youth. 

He  owns  no  beach  house,  mountain 
cabin  or  boat.  His  weight  varies  from 
165  to  190. 

His  only  gambling  vice  is  chemin  de 
fer.  He  owns  two  cocker  spaniels,  has 
never  undertaken  to  cook  and  is  very 
careless   with   his   personal   effects. 

He  thinks  sincerity  is  an  uncommon 
virtue. 

He  was  seventeen  when  Constantin 
Stanislavsky,  the  great  Russian  stage 
director,  selected  him  with  three  others 
from  five  hundred  applicants  for  the 
Moscow  Art  Theater  school. 

His  spelling  is  faulty,  and  his  chief 
impression  of  Americans  is  their  sport- 
ing attitude  and  sense  of  fairness. 

He  reads  music,  has  never  had  the 
measles  and  likes  hamburgers  with 
onions. 

Akim  Tamiroff  goes  through  a  ritual 
when  he  sleeps,  first  lying  on  his  right 
side,  then  turning  to  the  left,  and  finally 
back  to  his  starting  position.  He  yearns 
someday  to  play  Jannings'  role  in  "The 
Last  Command." 


(Continued  from  page  24) 

He  has  no  children  and  dislikes  writ- 
ing letters. 

niS  wife  is  Tamara  Shayne  whom  he 
met  on  the  stage  in  New  York.  He  used 
to  bite  his  nails. 

He  was  very  fat  as  a  boy. 

His  favorite  singers  are  Tibbett  and 
Bing  Crosby. 

He  doesn't  understand  baseball. 

He  takes  advice  readily  from  his  wife 
whose  intuitive  wisdom  sent  him  scam- 
pering to  Hollywood  in  a  rickety  car. 
He  went  practically  nuts  for  eleven 
months  before  her  judgment  was  vindi- 
cated and  he  got  his  first  part. 

He  takes  direction  very  easily  and 
quickly  admits  a  mistake. 

He  doesn't  know  how  to  be  alone  and 
consequently  always  seeks  company. 
He  likes  shrimps,  and  is  incurably  lazy 
in  all  things  except  his  work. 

He  thinks  a  thing  out  before  he  acts, 
and  he  never  wears  a  sweater. 

He  has  a  good  memory  and  likes  to 
rise  about  seven-thirty. 

He  has  no  hobbies,  regards  "Disputed 
Passage"  his  best  picture  and  "Jungle 
Princess"  his  worst.  He  is  a  strong  be- 
liever in  matrimonial  vacations. 

He  thinks  men  look  like  the  devil  in 
derbies. 

He  has  no  regrets,  hates  playing  cards 
with  women,  and  often  finds  himself 
getting  blue  for  no  reason  at  all. 

He  thinks  the  most  beautiful  building 
he  has  ever  seen  is  the  tower  in  Prague 
with  the  great  clock  and  figures  of 
saints  in  motion. 

He  does  not  rouse  to  anger  easily. 

He  never  smokes  a  pipe. 

He  recently  adopted  a  fatalistic  philos- 
ophy feeling  that  there  were  too  many 
elements  in  life  to  upset  one's  plans.  He 
does  not  like  staying  up  late  at  nights. 

He  speaks  French,  Russian  and  Eng- 
lish. 

He  used  to  be  a  very  exceptional  ten- 


nis player,  now  plays  only  fairly.  He 
thinks  that  the  mean  average  of  happi- 
ness in  Hollywood  is  very  low. 

He  misses  seasonal  climatic  changes. 

Akim  Tamiroff  lives  in  a  small  English 
cottage. 

He  never  reads  detective  stories, 
doesn't  like  prize  fights  or  wrestling,  and 
his  method  of  studying  dialogue  is  to 
first  memorize  his  lines,  proceed  to  for- 
get them,  and  then  recall  them. 

He  prefers  the  city  to  the  country. 

He  is  fond  of  opera,  concerts,  Turkish 
baths,  and  Paris. 

He  likes  Persian  melons  for  breakfast. 

His  early  viewpoints  and  attitudes 
were  strongly  influenced  by  Tolstoy  and 
Dostoievsky.  He  sadly  opines  that  war 
is  inevitable. 

He  was  an  outstanding  soccer  and 
hockey  player  at  school. 

He  likes  pictures  better  than  the  stage 
because  "thought  can  be  photographed." 
He  is  one  of  four  children  and  he  re- 
grets the  trend  toward  making  the  com- 
mon hot  dog  "a  de  luxe  production." 

He  deprecates  his  wife's  temper  when- 
ever he  has  done  something  wrong.  He 
is  a  great  admirer  of  President  Roose- 
velt, believing  that  he  has  prevented 
"what  happened  in  Russia  and  because 
he  makes  me  pay  an  income  tax  to  pre- 
vent more  trouble.  I  consider  it  a  priv- 
ilege and  I  am  grateful." 

He  was  once  taught  by  Maria  Ous- 
penskaya.  He  is  superstitious  about 
Boris  Khmara,  his  stand-in,  who,  he  in- 
sists shall  be  with  him  on  every  picture. 
Akim  insists  on  this  because  there  was 
one  picture  Khmara  was  not  in  and  that 
turned  out  to  be  a  total  flop. 

His  devotion  to  his  wife  is  best  exem- 
plified by  his  answer  when  he  was  asked 
if  he  had  to  spend  the  rest  of  his  life 
on  a  desert  isle  and  could  have  only 
three  people  with  him,  whom  would  he 
choose.  His  reply  was  "All  three  would 
be  my  wife." 


Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots 


that  Tracy  calls  Gable  "Moose"  and  I'll 
wager  for  the  very  same  reason — that 
amused  admiration  and  annoyance  of 
the  character  actor  when  he  observes 
with  what  ease  the  plums  of  life  come 
to  the  handsome  leading  man)  .  .  . 
watching  Alice  Faye  doing  a  gay,  flirta- 
tious scene  five  minutes  after  she  had 
the  shocking  news  that  her  five-day-old 
honeymoon  house  had  burned  down  .  .  . 
discovering  a  beauty  shop  whose  chief 
mission  in  life  is  to  keep  your  long  fin- 
gernails from  cracking  .  .  .  well,  it's 
just  such  a  jumble  as  this  that  makes 
Hollywood  so  wonderful.  .  .  . 

To  begin  with  Peterkin  ...  he  is  a  new 
cartoon  character  ...  he  was  originally 
thought  up  by  Elaine  Pogany  as  a  char- 
acter for  a  children's  book  .  .  .  her  hus- 
band, the  famous  Willy  Pogany,  one  of 
the  finest  painters  in  this  country,  de- 
cided to  draw  him  .  .  .  Walter  Lantz,  an 
unsung  pioneer  of  movies,  saw  the 
drawing  and  got  Universal  to  let  him 
create  Peterkin  in  full  color  .  .  .  Lantz 
and  Pogany  together  created  as  back- 
grounds for  their  little  creature,  half 
fawn  and  half  boy,  the  finest  three-di- 
mensional scenes  ever  recorded  .  .  .  no- 
body will  make  a  fortune  out  of  it  all 
because  shorts  don't  make  fortunes  .  .  . 
but  everyone  concerned  is  giving  the 
very  best  of  his  and  her  creative  ability 


(Continued  jrom  page  5) 

.  .  .  you  and  I  will  laugh  .  .  .  that's  the 
nice  side  of  Hollywood.  .  .  . 

I  love  Hollywood  when  I  read  about 
Mrs.  Norman  McLeod  putting  a  bar  in 
her  station  wagon  .  .  .  particularly 
when  Hollywood  has  no  station  to  go 
to  .  .  .  and  some  of  the  loyal  Temple- 
ites  at  Twentieth  Century-Fox  object- 
ing to  June  Preisser's  hilarious  per- 
formance of  a  baby  star  in  "Babes  in 
Arms,"  and  when  you  ask  them  why 
they  think  June  is  doing  their  baby 
grown  up  they  retort  you  can  tell  be- 
cause she  carries  a  Pekingese  .  .  .  in- 
cidentally I  think  Preisser  is  the  most 
promising  new  performer  of  the  month 
and  if  I  were  a  $150,000  a  picture  star, 
what  with  all  these  new  kids  appearing 
with  such  fearsome  regularity  lately, 
I'd  trade  in  my  swimming  pool  for  a 
down  payment  on  a  good  stout  tent  .  .  . 
and  I  like  it  that  while  Cagney  sits  and 
worries  about  how  to  get  more  natural- 
ness in  acting,  Joseph  Schildkraut  ar- 
gues that  acting  in  movies  should  be 
more  flamboyant  and  exaggerated  .  .  . 
and  that  both  of  them,  acting  such  dif- 
ferent roles,  can  be  right.  .  .  . 

It's  very  pleasant  to  run  across  such 
a  story  as  that  of  Douglas  MacPhail 
and  Betty  Jaynes,  both  of  whom  are 
in  "Babes  in  Arms"  (which,  as  you 
may  have  guessed  by  now,  is  my  favor- 


ite picture  of  the  month)  .  .  .  and  I  do 
think  that  Mickey  Rooney  ought  to  get 
the  Academy  Award  for  his  work  in  it 
.  .  .  but  I  suppose  the  Academy  Award 
will  have  to  go  to  something  solemn  and 
dull  .  .  .  well,  anyhow,  Metro  had  been 
grooming  both  Doug  and  Betty,  who 
are  mere  kids,  for  sometime  now  .  .  . 
this  is  their  debut  picture  together  .  .  . 
but  meanwhile  they  fell  in  love  and 
married.  .  .  . 

Not  only  did  they  fall  in  love,  but 
even  while  the  picture  was  being  made, 
they  knew  that  they  were  to  become 
parents  .  .  .  and  now  .  .  .  despite  the 
fact  that  Betty  is  delightful  in  "Babes" 
and  Metro  wants  her  to  go  on  singing, 
she's  decided  she  doesn't  want  to  .  .  . 
she's  so  in  love  .  .  .  she  says  it  is  prob- 
ably terrible  of  her,  but  she  just  isn't 
ambitious  ...  all  she  wants  is  to  be  a 
perfect  wife  and  an  ideal  mother  .  .  . 
she  wants  to  have  a  whole  nursery  full 
of  babies.  .  .  . 

You  know  how  you  are  always  hear- 
ing that  careers  come  first  in  Holly- 
wood .  .  .  they  do  generally  .  .  .  but 
Maureen  O'Sullivan  says  the  same 
thing  that  Betty  Jaynes  says  ...  so  you 
see  it  isn't  always  true  .  .  .  and  it's  just 
because  you  can't  rely  on  anything  al- 
ways being  true  out  here,  that  I  love 
the  place.  .  .  . 


Millions  of  people  keep  Alka-Seltzer  in 
their  homes  because  it  is  ONE  remedy  that 
is  good  for  many  common  ailments.  It  is  so 
pleosant  to  take  —  so  prompt  in  action  —  so 
effective  for  headache,  upset  stomach, 
muscular  fatigue,  acid  indigestion  or  the 
discomforts  of  a  cold.  Just  get  a  package 
of  Alka-Seltzer,  and  you'll  be  prepared 
for  the  relief  Alka-Seltzer  gives  from  pain 
and  discomfort  in  any  of  these  common 
troubles.  Always  keep  a  large  package 
of  Alka-  Seltzer  in  YOUR  home.  Every  mem- 
ber of  your  family  will  use  it — and  like  it. 

AT  ALL  DRUG  STORES 


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briqh 
years.  If  your  favorite  store  cannot  supply 
you,  send  $1  to 

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JANUARY,      I  940 


79 


How  to  Put  a  Star  on  the  Spot 


(Continued  from  page  22) 


graphed.  So  sure  are  they  that  they  are 
not  what  Jerome  Zerbe  calls  "photo- 
genic" that  they  do  everything  except 
throw  the  sugar  bowl  at  photographers 
to  keep  from  being  snapped.  I  watched 
them  one  night  at  the  International 
Casino  where  a  patient  lens-hound  was 
prowling  past  their  table  waiting  to  get 
a  candid  pose.  The  Masseys  piled  bot- 
tles and  glasses  in  front  of  themselves 
on  the  table,  and  when  this  proved  an 
inadequate  barricade,  they  resorted  to 
making  ugly  faces  at  the  cameraman! 
The  feminine  award  in  the  unpopu- 
larity league  goes  to  Danielle  Darrieux, 
the  French  actress,  who  is  far  and  away 
the  most  disagreeable  star  I've  ever  en- 
countered. I  know  one  girl  reporter  who 
refused  to  interview  her,  on  an  early 
morning  when  Danielle  was  being  es- 
pecially tart.  The  girl  just  called  her 
city  editor  and  said,  "I'm  sorry,  but 
if  you  want  to  know  what  Mile.  Dar- 
rieux has  to  say,  get  another  reporter. 
I  won't  be  insulted — even  in  French!" 
The  paper  didn't  get  another  reporter 
— it  just  neglected  to  print  a  story  about 
Danielle. 

AdOLPHE  MENJOU,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  extremely  popular  with  New  York 
reporters— even  male  reporters.  So  is 
Robert  Taylor,  who  proved — the  hard 
way — that  he  can  take  it.  When  he  was 
in  New  York  in  his  bachelor  days  he 
used  to  like  to  sit  around  the  Tavern, 
listening  to  the  scribes  exchange  yarns 
and  occasionally  chipping  in  with  one 
of  his  own.  He  likes  to  go  to  fights 
and  baseball  games,  but  he  can't  enjoy 
sporting  events  here  the  way  he  can  in 
Hollywood.  I  went  to  a  baseball  game 
at  the  Polo  Grounds  once  with  Bob,  and 
he  spent  nine  innings  autographing 
programs. 

He  likes  fun,  and  loves  the  rowdy 
atmosphere  of  the  Club  18  where  he 
gets  ribbed  unmercifully  and  is  made 
to  stooge  for  the  floor  show.  He  dances 
now  and  then,  at  the  Stork  or  El  Mor- 
occo, but  he's  not  a  particularly  good 
dancer.  However,  I  suppose  a  girl 
dancing  with  Robert  Taylor  is  not  likely 
to  complain  about  the  footwork. 

Dorothy  Lamour  always  gets  a  kick 
out  of  being  in  New  York  and  besieged 
by  fans  because  she  can't  forget  that 
three  years  ago  she  was  starving  here 
and  nobody  would  give  her  a   second 


glance.  She  stays  now  in  a  luxurious 
suite  at  the  Sherry-Netherland,  but  she 
recalls  when  she  lived  in  one  room  at 
the  Wellington  and  had  a  hard  time 
paying  the  rent.  In  those  days,  Rudy 
Vallee  begged  John  Perona  to  let  her 
sing  at  El  Morocco,  and  even  offered  to 
pay  her  salary  if  Perona  would  just  let 
her  use  the  room,  but  the  Duke  of  the 
zebra  stripes  couldn't  see  her. 

Now  Dorothy  sweeps  into  El  Morocco, 
a  celebrated  guest,  and  Zerbe  trips  over 
waiters  in  his  haste  to  snap  her  picture. 
But  New  York  and  its  audiences  still 
awe  her.  She  was  so  nervous  her  first 
day  at  the  Paramount  that  she  couldn't 
take  off  her  evening  gown  overskirt  and 
reveal  her  sarong — because  the  knees 
under  the  skirt  were  knocking! 

The  Manhattan  escapades  of  Mickey 
Rooney  are  never  recorded  in  the 
papers  because  the  editors  like  to  keep 
him  in  the  Andy  Hardy  character,  and 
nothing  could  be  further  from  Mickey's 
actual  routine  than  the  suburban  go- 
ings-on of  M-G-M's  profitable  clan. 
Mickey  is  a  swift  man  in  the  swing 
joints,  quick  to  toss  off  a  cocktail,  ready 
to  shag  or  truck  or  beat  the  drums,  and 
always  alert  to  snare  a  chorus  girl's 
telephone  number.  He  is  fond  of  fast 
cars  and  the  kind  of  show  girls  who  look 
best  in  them;  he  is  cocksure,  impudent, 
extroverted  and  a  conscious  pixie,  and 
the  nightly  table-sitters  flee  from  him 
as  the  all-time  brat  of  all  time.  (But 
there's  been  a  change  in  Mickey — see 
page  8 — Editor.) 

No  flicker  dream  prince  ever  lured 
more  audible  sighs  or  more  visible  flut- 
ters from  the  deb  ringsiders  at  the  Stork 
Club  than  did  Walter  Pidgeon  when  he 
was  making  his  Gotham  rounds.  As  I 
recall,  he  strolled  in  a  couple  of  times, 
casually  attired  in  a  blue  suit  with  a 
chalk  stripe,  and  never  so  much  as 
lifted  an  eyebrow  or  a  finger  to  attract 
attention — but  on  each  occasion  a  score 
or  more  of  tulle-clad,  orchid-bearing 
fillies  quietly  bit  the  dust. 

Franchot  Tone  is  the  models'  delight. 
He  went  out  with  more  pretty  faces 
last  winter  than  any  other  male  in  New 
York.  He  judged  a  few  semispectacular 
contests,  being  one  night  an  "uncle"  to 
a  Cinderella  debutante,  another  night  a 
beauty-guesser,  but  on  the  main  he 
was  a  quiet  figure  in  the  night  clubs, 


preferring  to  dawdle  solemnly  over  his 
highballs  rather  than  execute  terpsi- 
chorean  didoes  on  the  dance  floor,  and 
he  was  a  great  "21"  sitter  in  the  com- 
pany of  Orson  Welles,  Jaro  Fabry  and 
Burgess  Meredith.  When  he  was  dat- 
ing Beverly  Barbisch,  the  model,  he 
sent  her  white  lilies  every  day. 

Probably  the  most  gracious  of  the 
stars  is  Norma  Shearer,  who  is  charm- 
ing to  interviewers,  autograph  hounds, 
elevator  men,  taxi  drivers  and  photog- 
raphers. I  have  never  seen  her  lose 
her  poise,  her  good  temper,  or  her 
amiable  radiant  smile.  She  hasn't  the 
world's  best  figure,  but  she  is  always 
chic;  she  never  looks,  as  so  many  Holly- 
wood sirens  do,  as  if  she  wished  she 
were  back  in  Santa  Monica  wearing 
slacks.  She  is  the  only  motion-picture 
actress  I've  ever  seen  who  looked  as  if 
she'd  just  washed  her  face — actually 
washed  it,  I  mean,  with  soap  and  water. 
And  she  is  the  most  dignified  and  dis- 
creet person  in  the  colony  about  her 
romances. 

George  Raft  spends  most  of  his  time 
in  New  York  in  the  office  of  the  sepian 
Cotton  Club,  playing  pinochle  and  an- 
swering the  telephone,  taking  messages 
for  the  bus  boys  and  making  table  res- 
ervations for  the  headwaiter.  He  is  a 
democratic  fellow  who  still  hangs 
around  with  the  boys  he  knew  when  he 
was  a  Tex  Guinan  hoofer.  He  loves  to 
dance,  so  a  lot  of  the  Manhattan  mid- 
nights find  him  rhumbaing  at  La  Conga, 
and  occasionally  he  gives  a  solo  exhibi- 
tion on  a  night-club  floor,  but  always 
and  only  to  the  tune  of  "Sweet  Georgia 
Brown" — the  sole  song  ever  written  to 
which  George  can  keep  time.  He  is  a 
great  night  owl,  and  five  a.m.  finds  him 
wandering  through  the  late  places  look- 
ing for  a  friend  to  go  strolling  with  him. 

Gary  Cooper,  who  was  a  hick  cowboy 
in  the  films  in  his  early  days,  and  whose 
girls  used  to  include  the  rowdier 
feminine  members  of  the  celluloid  com- 
munity, is  now  very  social  when  he 
hits  New  York,  and  inclined  to  neg- 
lect the  glided  cafes  for  the  elegant 
haunts  of  the  exclusive  Long  Island  set. 
He  is  well-tailored,  an  adequate  con- 
versationalist, and  possessed  of  the  nar- 
rowest hips  of  any  dream  prince  extant. 

The  one  girl  who  doesn't  even  bother 
about  glamour  is  Miriam  Hopkins.  She 
is   small,    pugnacious-looking,    and   the 


swiftest,  most  incessant  conversational- 
ist this  side  of  the  Mason-Dixon  line. 
Observers  at  "21"  have  passed  many  an 
hour  watching  her  talk  to  her  escort, 
and  making  book  on  how  soon  the  guy 
would  get  in  a  word  of  his  own. 

Errol  Flynn,  the  Captain  Blood  of  El 
Morocco,  migrates  socially  from  the 
Brown  Derby  set  to  the  fringe  of  cafe 
society  when  he  comes  from  Hollywood 
to  New  York.  He  circulates  with  great 
out-door-man  energy  from  debutantes 
to  young  society  matrons;  he  is  not  a 
good  dancer,  but  he  is  a  persistent  one, 
and  makes  rapid  rounds  from  the  Rain- 
bow Room  to  the  parquet  of  La  Conga 
and  the  ringside  of  the  Havana-Madrid. 
In  his  less  Blue  Book  moods,  he  enjoys 
chit-chat  with  the  cigarette  girls  in  the 
Latin  bistros,  and  sometimes  sees  them 
to  their  doorsteps  of  an  early  a.m. 

UUT  no  star  that  shines  in  Hollywood 
or  any  place  else  can  quite  "put  it  on" 
like  Marlene  Dietrich,  who,  from  the 
gold  dust  in  her  hair  to  the  emeralds 
on  her  long  lacquered  hands,  is  what 
they  mean  by  Glamour.  She  could  make 
a  grande  entrance  into  a  telephone 
booth  at  Lindy's.  The  table-sitters 
around  the  more  gilded  arenas  are  of 
the  opinion  that  she  must  feel  undressed 
without  at  least  three  escorts,  for  she 
is  seldom  seen  out  formally  without: 
(a)  her  husband;  (b)  one  former  very 
close  friend;  (c)  one  present  very  great 
friend.  The  gaudiest  first  night  is  made 
more  glittering  by  her  appearance  in  the 
aisles;  she  usually  exits  after  a  per- 
formance running  a  comb  through  her 
shoulder-length  hair. 

Even  her  petty  indignations  make 
headlines.  I  shall  never  forget  the  night 
when  she  came  into  the  Monte  Carlo 
attired  in  a  white  evening  dress  with  a 
white  hood,  spied  a  young  society 
matron  similarly  attired  in  a  white  eve- 
ning dress  with  a  ditto  hood,  turned  on 
her  heel,  summoned  her  three  male 
escorts,  and  steamed  out  in  high 
dudgeon,  crying  to  proprietor  Fefe: 
"My  whole  evening  has  been  ruined." 

They  come  in  and  go  out  by  train  and 
plane  for  Hollywood,  and  each  one  gets 
a  score  on  the  Manhattan  report  card. 
The  only  star  about  whom  the  night- 
lifers  have  no  high  or  libelous  opinion 
is  Shirley  Temple,  who  as  yet  has  not 
made  her  debut  in  the  Stork  Club. 


How  Andy  Hardy  Reformed  Mickey  Rooney 


(Continued  from  page  9) 


benefit  of  his  well  seasoned  philosophy. 

As  for  Cecilia  Parker  as  Mickey's 
sister,  she  began  giving  him  the  benefit 
of  the  back  of  her  hand  when  he  got 
flip  with  her.  He  had  never  encoun- 
tered such  discipline  before. 

When  he  got,  as  a  screen  mother,  Fay 
Holden,  who  could  worry — and  did — 
about  how  he  ate  and  when  he  came 
home  at  night  and  the  type  of  girl  he 
was  dating,  he  got  a  new  feeling  about 
what  forces  for  good  a  family  could  be. 

Then,  one  day,  he  went  out  to  Santa 
Anita.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  place 
a  bet,  he  heard  a  woman  say,  "Oh,  I 
didn't  think  Andy  Hardy  would  gam- 
ble!" That  cinched  it.  The  woman  was 
obviously  a  lady.  If  Andy  Hardy  and 
his  manners  won  the  heart  of  such 
folks,  then  henceforth  Andy  Hardy's 
manners  were  for  him,  Mickey  Rooney. 


He  didn't  change  overnight,  of  course, 
but  the  very  fact  that  his  calf  love 
portrayed  in  "Love  Finds  Andy  Hardy" 
was  so  laughed  at,  made  him  realize 
that  the  calf  flirtations  in  which  he  was 
indulging  around  Hollywood  were  ri- 
diculous, too. 

As  his  first  Andy  Hardy  year  emerged 
into  the  second,  he  observed  many 
things. 

The  fact  that  Lewis  Stone  had  saved 
his  money  and  become  independent 
made  Mickey  think  about  saving.  He 
noted  that  while  Gable's  clothes  were 
often  style  setters  they  were  neither 
loud  nor  conspicuous.  So  he  tried  out 
a  quiet  coat  or  two  himself.  He  real- 
ized Spence  managed  to  dress  with- 
out any  valet  and  still  win  Academy 
Awards.     So  he  got  rid  of  the  valet. 

For   his   eighteenth   birthday,   Norma 


Shearer  presented  Mickey  with  the 
portable  dressing  room  that  Irving 
Thalberg  had  originally  given  her.  So, 
when  the  mighty  Louis  B.  Mayer  told 
him  about  the  earnings  on  "Love  Finds 
Andy  Hardy,"  and  that  its  success  made 
him  a  real  star,  he  was  in  enough  of  a 
glowing  mood  to  take  Mr.  Mayer's  ad- 
monitions about  his  night-club  appear- 
ances with  such  humble  grace  that  the 
big  boss  gave  him  a  fine  thoroughbred 
horse  as  a  reward  of  merit.  Mickey 
promptly  reacted  like  a  typical  kid  by 
buying  a  ranch  to  go  round  the  horse. 
His  mother  built  a  rumpus  room 
for  him  in  the  ranch  house  so  that  he 
could  have  his  gang  around  him.  She 
put  in  a  soda  fountain  rather  than  a 
bar,  which  the  kids  saw  through,  but 
they  honestly  preferred  the  sodas. 
Mickey  traded  in  his  big  blue  car  foi 


a  sedate  station  wagon.  "Andy  Hardy 
Gets  Spring  Fever"  emerged  the  great- 
est "Hardy"  of  them  all — and  Mickey 
was  ready  to  be  presented  to  the  world 
as  a  full-fledged  star  in  "Babes  in 
Arms." 

The  success  of  "Babes"  is  very  grati- 
fying to  the  studio,  naturally;  but  even 
that  isn't  so  important  as  its  success  is 
to  Mickey.  For  when  he  watched  that 
flash  of  the  little  boy  he  used  to  be,  that 
hungry,  over-worked  baby,  he  realized 
what  he  has  become.  He  might  have 
stayed  just  a  tough  kid  who  had  to  be 
tough  to  get  along  at  all.  But  now  he 
doesn't  have  to.  With  his  new  humility 
quietly  gathered  around  him,  he's  see- 
ing now  how  far  he  can  go,  thanks  to 
his  having  learned  his  lessons  and  been 
graduated  from  his  Andy  Hardy  Junior 
College,   with   honors. 


SO 


PHOTOPLAY 


"ALLEGHENY  UPRISING"— RKO-Radio. 

Screen  play  by  P.  J.  Wolfson.  Based  on  the  factual 
storv,  "The  hirst  Rebel."  by  Neil  H.  Swan  son. 
Directed  by  William  A.  Seiter.  Cast:  Jamit,  Claire 
Trevor;  Jim  Smith,  John  Wayne;  Capt.  Swanson, 
George  Sanders;  Cauendar,  Brian  Donlevy:  Mac- 
Dougle,  Wilfrid  Lawson;  Duman,  Robert  Barrat; 
/'mowr,  John  K.  Hamilton;  Calhoon,  Moroni 
Olsen;  Anderson,  Kddie  CJuill.m;  ]/'(«.»»»,  Chill 
Wills;  IWf,  Ian  Wolfe;  McGlashan,  Wallis  Clark; 
Morris,  Monte  Montague;  General  Gage,  Olaf 
Hytten. 

"ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS"— Para- 
mount.— Screen  play  by  Agnes  Christine  Johnston. 
Based  on  a  story  by  Dale  Eunson.  Directed  by 
Kurt  Neumann.  Cast:  John,  Joseph  Allen,  Jr.; 
Kay,  Jean  Cagney;  Jennifer,  Virginia  Dale;  Slats, 
Peter  Hayes;  Joe,  John  Arledge;  Peggy,  Joyce 
Mathews;  Susie,  Betty  Moran;  Doc,  George 
Meeker;  Jill,  Audrey  Maynard;  Jessie,  Wanda 
McKay. 


"ANOTHER  THIN  MAN"— M-G-M.— Screen 
play  by  Frances  Goodrich  and  Albert  Hackett. 
Based  on  an  original  storv  by  Dashiell  Hammett. 
Directed  by  W.  S.  Van  Dyke  II.  Cast:  Niek 
Charles,  William  Powell;  Nora  Charles,  Myrna  Loy; 
Van  Slack,  Otto  Kruger;  Lois  MacFay,  Virginia 
Grey;  Col.  MocFay,  C.  Aubrey  Smith;  Dorothy 
Waters,  Ruth  Hussey;  Asia,  Himself;  Nick  Charles, 
Jr.,  William  Poulsen;  Dudlev  Horn,  Patric  Knowles; 
Freddie  Coleman,  Tom  Neal;  Mrs.  Hellam,  Phyllis 
Gordon;  Sam  Church,  Sheldon  Leonard;  Dum  Dum. 
Abner  Biberman;  Lieut.  Guild,  Nat  Pendleton; 
Vogel,  Don  Costello. 


"BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL— M-G-M.— Screen 
play  by  Dorothy  Yost.  Based  on  the  book  "  Look- 
ing After  Sandy,"  by  Margaret  Turnbull.  Directed 
by  William  Thiele.  Cast:  Patsy,  Virginia  Weidler; 
Tommy  Wilks,  Gene  Reynolds;  Luther  Marvin,  Guy 
Kibbee;  Jim  Creighton,  Ian  Hunter;  Mrs,  Perkins, 
Elizabeth  Patterson;  Edwards,  Reginald  Owen; 
'•Red"  Wilks.  Henry  Hull;  Ellen  Creighton,  Lois 
Wilson. 

"BALALAIKA  -  — M-G-M. —  Screen  play  by 
Leon  Gordon,  Charles  Bennett  and  Jacques  Deval. 
Based  upon  the  play  "Balalaika."  Book  and  lyrics 
by  Eric  Maschwitz.  Directed  by  Reinhold  Schunzel. 
Cast:  Peter,  Nelson  Eddy;  Lydia,  Ilona  Massey; 
Nidi,  Charlie  Ruggles;  Danchenoff,  Frank  Morgan; 
Marakov,  Lionel  Atwill ;  General  Karagin,  C.  Aubrey 
Smith;  Masha,  Joyce  Compton;  Dimitri,  Dalies 
Frantz;  Sibirsky,  Walter  Woolf  King;  Lieutenant 
Smirnoff,  Phillip  Terry;  Ramensky,  Frederic  Wor- 
lock;  Leo,  Abner  Biberman;  Captain  Pavloff,  Arthur 
W.  Cernitz;  Lieutenant  Nikilin,  Roland  Varno; 
Slaski,  George  Tobias;  Anton,  Paul  Sutton;  Captain 
Tesloff,  Willy  Costello;  Prince  Morodin,  Paul 
Irving;  Jeanette  Sibirsky,  Mildred  Shay;  Mrs. 
Danchenoff,  Alma  Kruger. 


"  BEWARE  SPOOKS!"  —  Columbia.  —  Screen 
play  by  Richard  Flournoy,  Albert  Duffy  and  Brian 
Marlow.  Based  upon  a  play  by  Richard  Flournoy. 
Directed  by  Edward  Sedgwick.  Cast:  Roy  Gifford, 
Joe  E.  Brown;  Betty  Lou  Winters,  Mary  Carlisle; 
Commissioner  Lewis,  Clarence  Kolb;  Slick  Eastman, 
Marc  Lawrence;  Nick  Bruno,  Don  Beddoe;  Danny 
Emmell,  George  J.  Lewis. 


"  BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY"— Columbia. 
— Based  upon  the  comic  strip  created  by  Chic 
Young.  Adapted  by  Richard  Flournoy.  Directed 
by  Frank  Strayer.  Cast:  Blondie,  Penny  Singleton; 
Dogwood,  Arthur  Lake;  Baby  Dumpling,  Larry 
Simms;  Akin,  Danny  Mummert;  Daisy,  Herself; 
Mr.  Dithers,  Jonathan  Hale;  Armstrong,  Olin 
Howland;  Salesman,  Stanley  Brown;  Salesman, 
Dick  Fiske;  Salesman,  Robert  Sterling. 


"DRUMS  ALONG  THE  MOHAWK"— 20th 
Century-Fox. — Screen  play  by  Lamar  Trotti  and 
Sonya  Levien.  Based  on  the  novel  by  Walter  D. 
Edmonds.  Directed  by  John  Ford.  Cast:  Lana 
(Magdelana).  Claudette  Colbert;  Gilbert  Martin, 
Henry  Fonda;  Mrs.  McKIennar,  Edna  May  Oliver; 
Christian  Reall.  Eddie  Collins;  Caldwell,  John  Car- 
radine;  Mary  Reall,  Dorris  Bowdon;  Mrs.  Weaver, 
Je^ie  Ralph;  Reverend  Rosenkrantz,  Arthur  Shields 
John  Weaver,  Robert  Lowery;  Gen.  Nicholas 
Herkimer,  Roger  Imhof;  Joe  Boleo,  Francis  Ford; 
.Ida in  Helmer,  Ward  Bond;  Mrs.  Demooth,  Kay 
Linaker;  Dr.  Retry,  Russell  Simpson;  Landlord, 
Spencer  Charters;  Jacob  Small,  Si  Jenks;  Amos 
Hartman,  J.  Ronald  Pennick;  George  Weaver,  Arthur 
Aylesworth;  Blue  Back,  Chief  Big  Tree;  Dr.  Robert 
Johnson,  Charles  Tannen;  Capt.  Mark  Demooth, 
Paul  McVey;  Mrs.  Reall,  Elizabeth  Jones;  Daisy, 
Beulah  Hall  Jones;  Paymaster,  Clarence  H.  Wilson; 
General,  Lionel  Pape;  Rev.  Daniel  Gros,  Edwin  Max- 
well; Mr.  Borsl,  Robert  Greig;  Mrs.  Borsl,  Clara 
Blandick. 


"END  OF  A  DAY,  THE"— Juno  Films,  Inc.— 
Story  by  Julien  Duvivier  and  Charles  Spaak. 
Directed  by  Julien  Duvivier.  Cast:  Marny,  Victor 
Francen;  St.  Clair,  Louis  Jouvet;  Cabrissade, 
Michel  Simon;  Jeanette,  Madeleine  Ozeray;  Mme. 
Chabert,  Gabrielle  Dorziat;  Director,  Arthur  Devere; 
Mr.  Lucien,  Arquilliere;  Mme.  Tusini,  Sylvie;  Mr. 
Philemon,  Joffre;  Mme.  Philemon,  Mme.  Lherbay; 
Delormel,  Jean  Coquelin;  Mr.  Laroche,  Pierre 
Magnier;  Deaubonne,  Granval;  Victor,  Jean  Ayme. 


"FIRST  LOVE"— Universal.— Screen  play  by 
Bruce  Manning.  Directed  by  Henry  Koster.  Cast: 
Connie  Harding,  Deanna  Durbin;  Barbara  Clinton, 
Helen  Parrish;  Ted  Drake,  Robert  Stack;  James 
Clinton,  Eugene  Pallette;  Walter  Clinton,  Lewis 
Howard;  Mrs.  Clinton,  Leatrice  Joy;  Wilma  Van- 
Everette,  June  Storey;  George,  Charles  Coleman; 
Mike,  Frank  Jenks. 


"FLYING  DEUCES,  THE"— RKO-Radio.— 

Original  story  and  screen  play  by  Ralph  Spence, 
Alfred  Schiller,  Charles  Rogers  and  Harry  Langdon. 


Directed  by  A.  Fdward  Sutherland,  Cast:  Stan, 
Stan  Laurel;  Ollie,  Oliver  Hardy;  Georgette,  Jean 
Parker;  Francois,  Reginald  Gardiner;  Commandant. 
Charles  Middleton;  Sergeant,  Jean  Del  Val;  Cor- 
poral, Clem  Wilenchick;  Jailor,  James  Finlayson. 


"INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY"— Warners. 
—Screen  play  by  Sig  Herzig  and  Wally  Klein. 
Based  on  a  story  by  Howard  Hawks.  Directed  by 
Lloyd  liacon.  Cast:  Joe  Greer,  Pat  O'Brien;  Prankie 

Merrick,  Ann  Sheridan;  Eddie  Greer,  John  Payne; 
Lee  Mason,  Gale  Page;  Spud  Connors,  Frank 
McHugh;  Martha  Connors,  Grace  Stafford;  Mr. 
Greer,  Granville  Bates;  Ted,  John  Ridgeley;  Dick 
Wilbur,  Regis  Toomey;  Red,  John  Harron;  Duncan 
Martin,  William  Davidson;  Tom  Dugan,  Ed 
McWade;  Fred  Haskill,  Irving  Bacon;  Haskill's  Son, 
Tommy  Bupp;  Edward  Hart,  Robert  Middlemass; 
Mayor,  Charles  Halton. 


"JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON"— M-G-M.— 
Original  story  and  screen  play  by  Carey  Wilson. 
Based  upon  the  characters  created  by  Aurania 
Rouvcrol.  Directed  by  George  B.  Seitz.  Cast: 
Judge  Hardy,  Lewis  Stone;  Andy  Hardy.  Mickey 
Rooney;  Marian  Hardy,  Cecilia  Parker;  Mrs. 
Hardy.  Fay  Holden;  Polly  Benedict,  Ann  Ruther- 
ford; Aunt  Milly,  Sara  Haden;  Euphrasia  Clark, 
June  Preisser;  Mrs.  Volduzzi,  Maria  Ouspenskaya; 
Elvie  llorton,  Martha  O'DriscoIl;  Clarabelle  Lee, 
Margaret  Early;  Mrs.  Horlon,  Leona  Maricle; 
"Beezy,"  George  Breakstone;  Mr.  Volduzzi,  Egon 
Brcchcr;  Dr.  Jones,  Brandon  Tynan;  Nurse  Trow- 
bridge, Edna  Holland;  Augusta,  Marie  Blake. 


"LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS"— Paramount.— 
Original  story  and  screen  play  by  Harrison  Jacobs. 
Directed  by  Nate  Watt.  Cast:  Hopalong  Cassidy, 
William  Boyd;  Lucky  Jenkins,  Russell  Hayden; 
Chiiiuita,  Steffi  Duna;  Fernando  Rameriez,  Sidney 
Toler;  Ralph  Merrill,  Sidney  Blackmer;  Seuor  Jose 
Valdez,  Pedro  de  Cordoba;  Ernesto,  Jojo  La  Sadio; 
Schullz,  Glenn  Strange;  Naples,  Eddie  Dean; 
Dolores,  Anna  Demetrio. 


"LITTLE  ACCIDENT"— Universal.—  Screen 
play  by  Paul  Yawitz  and  Eve  Greene.  Suggested  by 
a  stage  play  by  Floyd  Dell  and  Thomas  Mitchell. 
Directed  by  Charles  Lamont.  Cast:  Sandy,  Baby 
Sandy  Henville;  Herbert  Pearson,  Hugh  Herbert; 
Alice  Pearson,  Florence  Rice;  Perry  Allerton, 
Richard  Carlson;  Tabby  Morgan,  Ernest  Truex; 
Joan  Huston,  Joy  Hodges;  Matisse,  Fritz  Feld;  Airs. 
Allerton,  Kathleen  Howard;  Peggy,  Peggy  Moran; 
Ann,  Ann  Gwynne;  Mr.  Allerton,  Howard  Hickman. 


"MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN"— RKO-Radio.— 
Screen  play  by  Harvey  Gates,  Ring  Lardner,  Jr., 
and  Ian  Hunter.  Original  story  by  Harvey  Gates 
from  a  radio  idea  by  Jack  Hasty.  Directed  by 
Bernard  Vorhaus.  Cast:  Dr.  Christian.  Jean  Hers- 
holt;  Mr.  Hewitt,  Paul  Harvey;  Judy  Price, 
Dorothy  Lovett;  Roy  Davis,  Robert  Baldwin;  Don, 
Jackie  Moran;  Marilee,  Marcie  Mae  Jones;  Patsy, 
Patsy  Lee  Parsons;  Anne  Hewitt,  Enid  Bennett; 
Mrs.  Hastings,  Maude  Eburne;  Mrs.  Minnows, 
Sarah  Edwards. 


"MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE"— Mono- 
gram.—Screen  play  by  Robert  D.  Andrews.  From 
an  original  story  by  Martin  Mooney.  Directed  by 
William  Nigh.  Cast:  Father  Joe,  Charles  Bickford; 
Red,  Barton  MacLane;  Warden,  Pat  Moriarity; 
Johnny,  Dennis  Moore;  Captain  Samson,  William 
Royle;    Pop    Schullz,    George    Cleveland;    Bilsy, 


HOW  WELL  DO  YOU 

KNOW  YOUR  HOLLYWOOD? 

Ch 

jck  your  answers  to  the  statements 

on 

Dage  61  with  these  correct  ones: 

1. 

Carolyn  Lee 

2. 

You  Can't  Take  It  with  You 

3. 

Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer 

4. 

Gene  Autry 

5. 

David  Niven,  Charles  Boyer 

6. 

Gale  Page 

7. 

Claire  Trevor 

8. 

Richard  Carlson 

9. 

Olivia  de  Havilland  (Joan 

Fontaine) 

10. 

Bing  Crosby 

1  1. 

The  Cocoanut  Grove 

12. 

Joel  McCrea,  Carole  Lombard 

13. 

Jed  Prouty 

14. 

Lew  Ayres 

15. 

Keystone  Kops 

16. 

Michael   Curtiz 

17. 

Three 

18. 

Edward  Ellis 

19. 

John  Payne 

20. 

The  de  luxe  shopping  district  be- 

tween  Beverly   Hills  and   Holly- 

wood 

Charlie  Foy;  Prankie,  Russell  Hopton;  Milo, 
Joffery  Sayre;  Del,  Eddie  Foster;  Evans,  Jack 
Daley;  Daniels,  Dave  O'Brien;  Benson.  Wheeler 
Oakman;  Harris,  Charles  King;  Mike,  Nigel  de 
Brulier;  Doc,  Merrill  McCormick. 


"ON  YOUR  TOES"— Warners.— Screen  play 
by  Jerry  Wald,  Richard  Macaulay,  Sig  Herzig  and 
Lawrence  Riley.  Based  on  the  musical  comedy  of 
the  same  name  by  Richard  Rogers,  Lorenz  Hart  and 
George  Abbott.  Directed  by  Ray  Enright.  Cast: 
Vera,  Zorina;  Phil  Dolan,  Jr.,  Eddie  Albert;  Sergei 
Atexandrovilch,  Alan  Hale;  Paddy  Reilly,  Frank 
McHugh;  Phil  Dolan.  St.,  James  Gleason;  Ivan 
Boultonoff,  Leonid  Kinsky;  Peggy  Porter  field, 
Gloria  Dickson;  Mrs.  Dolan,  Queenie  Smith; 
Konslantin  Morrisine,  Erik  Rhodes;  Donald  Hender- 
son, Berton  Churchill;  Phil,  as  a  Boy,  Donald 
O'Connor;  l>ra,  as  u  Girl   Sarita  Wooten. 


"REMEMBER?"  —  M-G-M.  —  Original  story 
and  screen  play  by  Corey  Ford  and  Norman  Z. 
McLeod.  Directed  by  Norman  Z.  McLeod.  Cast: 
Jeff  Holla  ml,  Robert  Taylor;  Linda  Bronson,  Greer 
Garson;  Sky  Ames,  Lew  Ayres;  Mrs.  Bronson,  Billie 
Burke;  Mr.  Bronson,  Reginald  Owen;  Mr.  Mc- 
Intyre,  George  Barbier;  Judge  Milliken,  Henry 
Travers;  Mr.  Piper,  Richard  Carle;  Mrs.  Car- 
rulhers,  Laura  Hope  Crews;  Miss  Wilson.  Sara 
Haden;  Dr.  Schmidt,  Sig  Rumann;  Butler,  Halhwi-11 
Hobbes. 


"RENO"— RKO-Radio.— Screen  play  by  John 
Twist.  From  an  original  story  by  Ellis  St.  Joseph. 
Directed  by  John  Farrow.  Cast:  Bill  Shear, 
Richard  Dix;  Jessie  Gibbs,  Gail  Patrick;  Mrs. 
Ryder,  Anita  Louise;  Abe  Compass,  Hobart  Cavan- 
augh;  Flora  McKensie,  Astrid  Allwyn;  Mrs. 
Gardner,  Laura  Hope  Crews;  John  Banton,  Paul 
Cavanagh;  Judge  Howard,  Louis  Jean  Heydt; 
Welch,  Charles  Halton;  Hozzy  Briggs,  Frank 
Faylen;  Bonnie,  Joyce  Compton;  George  Fields, 
William  Haade;  Mrs.  Humphrey,  Carole  Landis; 
Airs.  Borden,  Billie  Seward;  Hank,  Paul  Burns; 
Clint  Simpson,  Dick  Cramer;  Judge,  George  Watts. 


"SCANDAL  SHEET"  —  Columbia. — Original 
screen  play  by  Joseph  Carole.  Directed  by  Nick 
Grinde.  Cast:  Jim  Stevenson,  Otto  Kruger;  Kitty 
Miilhane,  Ona  Munson;  iJ<7<T  Huynes,  Edward 
Norris;  Chris  Durk,  John  Dilson;  Chick  Keller,  Don 
Beddoe;  Hal  Lunny,  Eddie  Laughton;  Marjorit 
Lawe,  Linda  Winters;  Seena  Haynes,  Nedda  Har- 
rigan;  Douglas  Haynes,  Selmer  Jackson;  District 
Attorney,  Frank  M.  Thomas;  Bert  Schroll,  Edward 
Marr. 


"SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE,  THE"— 
M-G-M. — Screen  play  by  Willis  Goldbeck  and 
Harry  Ruskin.  Based  on  the  story  by  Max  Brand. 
Directed  by  Harold  S.  Bucquet.  Cast:  Dr.  James 
Kildare,  Lew  Ayres;  Dr.  Leonard  Gillespie,  Lionel 
Barrymore;  Paul  Messenger,  Lionel  Atwill;  Nancy 
Messenger,  Helen  Gilbert;  Wayman,  Nat  Pendleton; 
Mary  Lamont,  Laraine  Day;  Nora,  Sara  Haden;  Dr. 
Stephen  Kildare,  Samuel  S.  Hinds;  Mrs.  Martha 
Kildare,  Emma  Dunn;  Dr.  S.  J.  Carew,  Walter 
Kingsford,  John  Archley,  Grant  Mitchell;  Molly 
lived.  Alma  Kruger;  Charles  Herron,  Robert  Kent; 
Sally,  Marie  Blake;  Mrs.  Roberts,  Martha  O'Dris- 
coIl; "Nosey,"  Nell  Craig;  Conover,  George  Reed; 
Mike,  Frank  Orth. 


"SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING"— War- 
ners.— Original  screen  play  by  Anthony  Coldewey 
and  Raymond  Schrock.  From  an  idea  by  Jonathan 
Finn.  Directed  by  Terry  Morse.  Cast:  Li.  Brass 
Bancroft,  Ronald  Reagan;  Peggy,  Margot Stevenson; 
Gabby,  Eddie  Foy.  Jr.;  Dice  Matthews,  Joe  Downing; 
Parker,  Charles  D.  Brown;  Danny.  Elliott  Sullivan; 
Suxhv.  Joe  King;  Kilrane.  Charles  Wilson;  Warden 
Denby,  William  Davidson;  Night  Captain.  John 
Hamilton;  Pop.  Sidney  Bracy;  Prison  Runner,  Jack 
Wise;  Night  Guard,  Jack  Mower;  Joe,  Don  Turner. 


"SUED  FOR  LIBEL'— RKO-Radio.— Screen 
play  by  Jerry  Cady.  Story  by  Wolfe  Kaufman. 
Directed  by  Leslie  Goodwins.  Cast:  Steve,  Kent 
Taylor;  Maggie,  Linda  Hayes;  Muriel  Webster, 
Lilian  Bond;  Pomcroy,  Morgan  Conway;  Smiley, 
Richard  Lane;  Corbin,  Roger  Pryor;  Hastings, 
Thurston  Hall;  Walsh,  Emory  Parnell;  Col.  While, 
Roy  Gordon;  Chang  Howe,  Keye  Luke;  Judge, 
Edward  Earle;  Dr.  Bailer,  Jack  Arnold;  Mrs.  Trent, 
Leona  Roberts. 


"THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE"— Arthur  Mayer 
and  Joseph  Burstyn,  Inc. — Screen  play  by  Abel 
Gance.  English  titles  by  Pierre  van  Paassen. 
Directed  by  Abel  Gance.  Cast:  Jean  Diaz,  Victor 
Francen;  Henry  Chimay,  Jean  Max;  Flo,  Marie 
Lou;  Helene,  Renee  Devillers;  Edith,  Line  Noro; 
Francoise  Lorin,  Delaitre;  and  Lcs  Gueules  Cassecs 
(the  Mutilated  Veterans  of  the  Last  War). 


"THOSE  HIGH  GREY  WALLS"— Columbia. 
— Screen  play  by  Lewis  Meltzer  and  Gladys 
Lehman.  Based  upon  a  story  by  William  A.  Ullman, 
Jr.  Directed  by  Charles  Vidor.  Cast :  Doctor  Ma,  - 
Aulcy,  Walter  Connolly;  Doctor  Norton,  Onslow 
Stevens;  Nightingale.  Paul  Fix;  Redlands,  Bernard 
Nedell;  Mary  MacAuley,  Iris  Meredith;  Warden, 
Oscar  O'Shea;  Lindy,  Nicholas  Soussanin;  Jo,  key, 
Don  Beddoe. 


"20.000  MEN  A  YEAR  "— 20 1  n  Ci  s  .  uky-Fox. 
— Screen  play  by  Lou  Breslow  and  Owen  Francis. 
Original  story  by  Frank  Wead.  Directed  bv  Alfred 
E.  Green.  Cast:  Brad  Reynolds,  Randolph  Scott; 
Jim  Howell.  Preston  Foster;  .lini  Rogers,  Margaret 
i  n.l-.iv;  Tommy  Howell,  Robert  Shaw;  Joan  Mar- 
shall. Mary  Healy;  Skip  Rogers.  George  Finest;  .1/ 
Will  una-.,  Kane  Richmond;  Walt  Dorgan,  Msjde 
Rosenbloom;  Crandall,  Douglas  Wood;  Harold 
Chong,  Sen  Yung;  Gerald  Grant,  Paul  Stanton; 
Wally  Ri,  hards,  Tom  Seidel;  Dunk,  Fdward  Gar- 
gan;  Joe  II  linger  lord,  Harry  Tyler;  Irving  Glassman, 
Sidney  Miller;  Chief  Pilot  Lawson,  Edwin  Stanley. 


•  ■ 


.  ,  cXut/io/  un  uAwi  Cou0a/ 


A  few  drops  of  I-Sparkle  and  all  the  redness 
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To  restore  that  clear-eyed  look,  that  exciting 
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OROK  provides  the  first  and  only  complete 
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At  fine  department 
and  drug  store;,  or 
write  to  — 


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Many  1940  ex 
am  i  nations 
expected. 


REDUCE 

The  Hollywood  Way 

HERE  it  is  .  .  .  the  now  Sylvia  of  Hol- 
lywood book  you  have  been  waiting 
for.  Streamline  Your  Fume,  is  .in- 
other  Mme.  Sylvia  book  destined  to  become 
a  best  seller.  A  book  that  goes  ris;lit  to  the 
heart  of  your  figure  troubles  and  sixes  you 
definite,  practical  helps  that  will  make  you 

even  more  attractive  .  .  .  glamorous  .  .  . 
desirable. 

Excess  fat  spells  age  in  any  language.  Any 
spreading  of  the  hips  puts  you  in  the  ma- 
tron's class  regardless  of  >  our  years.  In 
Streamline    Tour    Finnic     Madame    Sylvia 

tells   you   how   to   take   off   fat   and   put    it    on 

where  you  want  it.  There's  nothing  impos- 
sible about   it.      In   fact    you'll  enjoy  reducing 

this  modern  Hollywood  way. 

Streamline  Your  Figure  Is  more  than  a  re- 
ducing book,  it  tills  you  how  to  acquire 
beautiful  legs  .  .  .  how  to  Improve  the  ap- 
pearance of  your  breasts  .  .  .  how  to  have 
a    lovely    neck   ...   a    beautiful    back    and    a 

well   proportioned   face.     The  pages  of  this 

book   are    packed    to    the    brim    With    practical 

instructions  illustrated  by  32  full  page  pho- 
tographs   from    life.      Moreover,    you    can 

carry  out  Sylvia's  simple  instructions  in  the 

privacy  of  your  boudoir. 

Head  Mme.  Sylvia's  new  book  and  regain 
the  loveliness  and  physical  charm  that  you 
have  let  slip  through  your  fingers,   Th>   price 

Of  this  new   book   is  but    SI    at  all  booksellers 

or  from  publishers  direct 

Macfadden   Book   Co.,   Dept.  P-l 
205  E.  42nd  St.,  New  York.  N.  Y. 


JANUARY,      I  940 


The   Shadow  Stage 


(Continued  from  page  59) 


•  THE  END  OF  A  DAY-Juno  Films 
A  POIGNANT  and  absorbing  screen 
drama  is  this  French  film  dealing  with 
a  group  of  aged  Thespians  living  to- 
gether in  a  home  for  retired  actors. 
The  skillful  Julien  Duviyier,  co-author 
and  director,  has  built  up  a  sympa- 
thetic picture  of  an  assorted  group  of 
people,  pathetic  in  their  memories  of  past 
triumphs  and  failures,  noble  in  their 
fierce  pride  as  members  of  a  glorious 
profession. 

With  a  fine  cast,  headed  by  Victor 
Francen,  Louis  Jouvet  and  Michel 
Simon,  each  character  is  clearly  defined. 
Among  them  is  Marny.  classical  actor 
of  the  old  school;  St.  Clair,  great  lover 
and  supreme  egoist;  Cabrissade,  the 
eternal  Pan. 

Behind  the  subtle  balance  of  comedy 
and  tragedy  and  the  attention  to  detail 
in  the  film,  is  the  work  of  a  true  crafts- 
man. Director  Duvier  has  exercised  re- 
straint with  a  theme  that  could  easily 
be  maudlin,  and  displayed  rare  under- 
standing of  fundamental  human  emo- 
tions. 

MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE-Monogram 

nLL  right,  it's  another  one  about  pris- 
ons. Still,  in  all  fairness,  it  must  be  said 
this  is  one  of  the  better  in  its  class;  it's 
based  on  the  Canon  City,  Colorado, 
prison  riot  of  1929  and  there's  a  priest 
(played  by  Charles  Bickford)  who  sac- 
rifices self  for  the  unfortunate  criminals. 
Dennis  Moore  and  Barton  MacLane  do 
especially  good  work.  The  story  is  bru- 
tally clear-cut  and  so  is  the  direction. 

ON  YOUR  TOES-Warners 

nOW  such  a  company  as  Warner  Broth- 
ers could  take  the  best  musical  New 
York  offered  last  year  and  turn  it  into 
a  weak  movie  is  beyond  our  compre- 
hension. The  excitoomph  of  Zorina  may 
help  you  survive  what  has  happened  to 
the  gags,  but,  at  best,  one  can  say  that 
"On  Your  Toes"  has  slipped  to  the  heel- 
and-toe  rating,  with  second  degree 
fallen  arches. 

Sam  Goldwyn  tried  to  put  Zorina  over 
a  couple  of  years  ago,  you  may  remem- 
ber, but  her  vogue  didn't  catch  up  with 
her  until  this  season.  Eddie  Albert,  also 
snaffled  from  Broadway,  plays  the 
hoofer  who  writes  a  great  American 
Ballet,  joins  up  with  a  traveling  Russian 
company  and  falls  hard  for  the  premiere 
danseuse.  Despite  the  general  feeling 
of  disappointment  over  the  translation 
of  this  to  the  screen,  it  must  be  admitted 
Zorina  is  good;  the  ballets  delightful. 

LITTLE  ACCIDENT-Universal 

WELL,  if  you  like  babies.  .  .  .  This  may 
remind  you  of  some  of  the  Dionne 
Quintuplet  pictures,  in  which  story  was 
merely  dragged  in  for  an  excuse  to  show 
endless  photographs  of  the  infants.  You 
are  expected  to  be  held  in  your  seats, 
this  time,  by  the  charms  of  one  kid 
alone,  Baby  Sandy.  She's  awfully  cute, 
but  not  that  cute. 

Hugh  Herbert  is  cast  as  the  baby- 
columnist  of  a  newspaper;  Sandy's 
father  leaves  her  in  Hugh's  office,  think- 
ing Mr.  Herbert  is  a  woman.  All  this 
leads  up  to  a  contest,  in  which  Sandy  is 
entered. 

THE  FLYING  DEUCES-RKO-Radio 

LAUREL  and  Hardy  up  to  their  old 
tricks  again — this  time  as  enlistees  in 
an  African  Post  of  the  Foreign  Legion. 
They've  joined  up  because  Hardy  has 
been  spurned  by  a  loved  one.     As  in 


all  efforts  of  this  pair,  you  will  note 
some  new,  ingenious  and  inventive  se- 
quences, as  well  as  many  which  are 
quite  routine.  It  is  all  slapstick.  Jean 
Parker  and  Reggie  Gardiner  are  also  in 
the  cast. 

THE  SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE-M-G-M 

LEW  AYRES  is  still  the  young  assistant 
doctor,  assigned  this  time  to  find  out 
what's  the  matter  with  Helen  Gilbert, 
an  heiress.  She  thinks  she's  got  a  brain 
tumor  because  she's  going  blind,  but 
Ayres  diagnoses  the  whole  thing  as  psy- 
chological hysteria.  Getting  her  fixed 
up  is  important  because  her  father  is 
a  potential  donor  to  the  hospital.  Dur- 
ing the  film  Lionel  Barrymore  collapses, 
and  his  assistant  (Dr.  Kildare)  has  to 
pretend  he's  mc:'e  interested  in  Miss 
Gilbert's  millions  than  in  medicine,  so 
the  old  man  will  take  a  rest.  And,  of 
course,  all  the  mucking  around  the  boy 
does  with  Helen  makes  his  real  sweet- 
heart, Laraine  Day,  get  sore.  There  is 
simplicity  in  the  direction  and  a  down- 
to-earthness  without  frills  in  story 
treatment — if  it  doesn't  give  you  a  tem- 
porary case  of  hypochondria. 

BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY-Columbia 

DaGWOOD  BUMSTEAD  loses  his  job 
and  comes  unhappily  home  to  discover 
that  Baby  Dumpling  has  lost  the  dog, 
Daisy;  furthermore,  Baby  Dumpling  has 
gone  wandering  off  to  find  her.  Where- 
fore the  original  catastrophe  pales  into 
insignificance.  Baby  Dumpling  finds 
Daisy  in  the  home  of  a  rich  little  crip- 
ple, whom  he  coaxes  into  walking  for 
the  first  time;  and  out  of  this  silly  busi- 
ness come  some  events  that  have  to  do 
with  the  job  Dagwood  lost  way  up  there 
in  the  beginning  of  the  paragraph — re- 
member? Penny  Singleton,  Larry 
Simms  and  Arthur  Lake  are  still  cast 
as  the  Bumstead  family. 

LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS-Paramount 

TOR  those  of  you  who  like  to  sneak  out 
to  the  Lyceum  and  whoop  and  holler 
with  Hopalong  Cassidy,  here's  another 
in  the  series.  This  time  Bill  Boyd  Hops 
Along  to  South  America  on  an  assign- 
ment to  deliver  cattle,  and  uncovers  two 
murders  en  route.  He  has  great  fun 
with  them.  The  piece  gives  you  ro- 
mance in  the  person  of  Steffi  Duna. 
Sidney  Blackmer  and  Pedro  de  Cordoba 
help  a  lot. 


SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING-Warners 

ACTION  and  melodrama  are  the  ex- 
cuses for  this  minor  story — there's  noth- 
ing new  about  it,  but  you  may  enjoy 
watching  nice-looking  Ronald  Reagan 
as  a  G-Man.  He  pairs  with  Eddie  Foy, 
who  offers  some  comedy.  It's  welcome, 
too,  considering  the  piece  deals  with 
prison  and  convicts.  Warner  Brothers 
always  give  you  a  jailbreak  in  these 
program  productions  and  this  particular 
one  is  very  exciting.  Margot  Stevenson 
has  the  romantic  assignment. 

SCANDAL  SHEET-Columbia 

IT'S  too  bad,  but  there  just  isn't  one 
thing  to  be  said  for  this  film.  It's  all 
about  newspapermen,  but  they  are 
newspapermen  such  as  you  never  saw 
in  your  life,  even  in  the  movies.  Otto 
Kruger  is  the  publisher,  with  a  secret 
son,  played  by  Eddie  Norris;  a  girl 
friend  (Ona  Munson,  who  also  edits  the 
woman's  page) ;  and  a  penchant  for 
homicide.  He  kills  off  one  of  his  em- 
ployees to  get  records  of  Norris'  birth, 
and  from  there  on  the  story  goes  wacky. 

20,000  MEN  A  YEAR-20th  Century-Fox 

IHROUGH  association  you  may  have 
some  idea  that  this  is  about  Sing  Sing. 
Well,  it's  not.  It's  the  story  of  how 
Uncle  Sam  is  training  young  men  to  fly. 
That's  all  it  is,  though — a  catalogue,  a 
class  in  aviation.  When  it  comes  to 
story,  you  may  just  as  well  relax. 
Randy  Scott  plays  a  washed-up  profes- 
sional pilot  who  takes  a  job  as  flying 
instructor  at  the  CAA,  rescues  some 
lost  flyers,  and  shares  the  fade-out  with 
Margaret  Lindsay.  The  rest  of  the  cast, 
including  Preston  Foster,  Mary  Healy 
and  Maxie  Rosenbloom,  doesn't  show 
very  often,  or  very  much. 

SUED  FOR  LIBEL    RKO-Radio 

IIERE'S  a  murder  picture  with  a  swell 
new  twist.  You  see,  Morgan  Conway  is 
acquitted  of  the  murder  of  his  broker- 
age partner  but  Linda  Hayes,  a  she- 
reporter,  pulls  a  trick  on  a  rival  press- 
man by  telling  him  the  verdict's 
"guilty."  Kent  Taylor  dramatizes  the 
thing  on  the  air  and  Conway  sues  for 
libel;  so  Linda  and  Taylor  start  dig- 
ging into  Conway's  past  to  stop  the  ac- 
tion. What  they  find  is  the  answer  to 
three  killings,  altogether — and  will  you 
be  surprised! 


STATEMENT  OK  THE  OWN  EKSHIP.  M  \NAOEMENT,  <   1RCUI.  \  HON    ETC  .   REOIJIRED    BY   THE 
A(  TSOK  CONGRESS  OK  AUC.IiST  24,   I  "11.  AND   MARCH  3,  1933.  ..(  I'lIUTUI'I.AV,  | ,  ,1 1  jl  i -,  1 .. -<  1  monthly 
at  Chicago.  Illinois,  for  October  1.  1939. 
State  of  New  York         Iss. 
County  of  New  York   / 

Before  me,  a  notary  public  in  and  for  the  State  and  county  aforesaid,  personally  appeared  Ernest  V.  Heyn, 
who.  having  been  duly  sworn  according  to  law.  deposes  and  says  that  he  is  the  Editor  of  the  PHOTO- 
PLAY and  that  the  following  is,  to  the  best  of  his  knowledge  and  belief,  a  true  statement  of  the  ownership, 
management  (and  if  a  daily  paper,  the  circulation  ),  etc  .  of  the  aforesaid  [lublieutuiu  for  tin'  date  shown  in  the 
above  caption,  required  by  the  Act  of  August  24.  1912.  as  amended  by  the  Act  of  March  3,  1933,  embodied  in 
section  537,  Postal  Laws  and  Regulations,  printed  on  the  reverse  of  this  form,  to  wit: 

1.  That  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  publisher,  editor,  managing  editor,  and  business  managers  are.' 
Publisher.  Macfadden  Publications-,  Inc..  122  E.  42d  St..  New  York  City;  Editor.  Ernest  V.  Heyn,  122  E.  42d 
St..  New  York  City;  Managing  Editor.  None;  Business  Managers,  None. 

2.  That  the  owner  is:  (If  owned  by  a  corporation,  its  name  and  address  must  be  stated  and  also  immedi- 
ately thereunder  the  names  and  addresses  of  stockholders  owning  or  holding  one  per  cent  or  more  of  total 
amount  of  stock.  If  not  owned  by  a  corporation,  the  names  and  addresses  of  the  individual  owners  must  be 
given.  If  owned  by  a  firm,  comoanv.  or  other  unincorporated  concern,  its  name  and  address,  as  well  as  those 
of  each  individual  member,  must  be  :i.n,  I  Owner:  Maeladden  Publications.  Inc..  122  E.  42.1  St..  New  York 
City.  Stockholders  in  Maeladden  Pubheat.ions.  Inc.;  liernarr  Macfadden  Foundation,  Inc.,  122  E.  42d  St.. 
New  York  City;  Bernarr  Macfadden,  Miami  Beach.  Florida. 

3.  That  the  known  bondholders,  mortgagees,  and  other  security  holders  owning  or  holding  1  per  cent  or 
more  of  total  amount  of  bonds,  mortgages,  or  other  securities  are:  (If  there  are  none,  so  state.)    None. 

4.  That  the  two  paragraphs  next  above,  giving  the  names  of  the  owners,  stockholders,  and  security  holders, 
if  any,  contain  not  only  the  list  of  stockhold'  rs  and  security  holders  as  they  appear  upon  the  books  of  the  com- 
pany, but  also,  in  cases  where  the  stockholder  or  security  holder  appears  upon  the  books  of  the  company  as 
trustee  or  in  any  other  fiduciary  relation,  the  name  of  the  person  or  corporation  lor  whom  such  trustee  is  acting, 
is  given;  also  that  the  said  two  paragraphs  contain  statements  embracing  affiant's  lull  knowledge  anil  belief  as 
to  the  circumstances  and  con  lit  ions  under  which  stockholders  anil  security  holders  who  do  not  appear  upon  the 
books  of  the  company  as  trustees,  hold  stock  anil  securities  in  a  capacity  other  than  that  of  a  bona  fide  owner; 
and  this  affiant  has  no  reason  to  believe  that  any  other  person,  association,  or  corporation  has  any  interest 
direct  or  indirect  in  the  said  stock,  bonds,  or  other  securities  than  as  so  stated  by  him. 

5.  That  the  average  number  of  copies  of  each  issue  of  this  publication  sold  or  distribtited.  through  the 

mails  or  otherwise,  to  paid  subscribers  d tiring  the  twelve  months  preceding  the  date  shown  above  is 

(I'lns  information  is  regime,  1  Iroin  daily  [in  hi  nations  only.) 

(Signed)      ERNEST  V.  HEYN. 
Sworn  to  and  subscribed  before  me  this  19th  day  of  September,  1939. 

(SEAL)  JOSEPH  M.  ROTH 

Notary  Public  Westchester  County 
Certificate  Filed  in  N.Y.  Co.  No  439 
N.  Y.  Co.  Register's  No.  1  R  299 
Commission  l-Jvpiies  March  30,  1941 


THOSE  HIGH  GRAY  WALLS-Columbia 

I  HIS  is  a  psychological  study,  an  analy- 
sis of  a  fear  trauma,  and  not  too  ob- 
scure for  general  consumption.  Walter 
Connolly  plays  a  small-town  doctor 
who  helps  a  wounded  convict;  and  he 
himself  is  sent  to  prison.  Instead  of 
being  allowed  to  help  in  the  hospital,  he 
is  sent  to  the  tailor  shop  because  Ons- 
low Stevens,  prison  physician,  doesn't 
want  competition.  It's  Stevens  who  has 
the  fear  complex,  and  Connolly  diag- 
noses it.  At  least,  what  with  the  super- 
abundance of  films  about  jails  this 
month,  you  will  appreciate  the  original- 
ity of  the  idea.  Connolly  gives  his  usual 
fine  performance. 

•  BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL-M-G-M 

IT'S  a  touchy  subject,  religion;  but  by 
careful  production,  good  use  of  good 
story,  and  the  activities  of  Virginia 
Weidler,  it  has  been  made  touching  and 
inspirational  in  this  film.  Virginia's  an 
orphan  with  a  deep  and  ingenuous  faith 
in  God.  The  effect  (of  this  belief  in 
Deity)  on  adults  with  whom  she  comes 
in  contact  forms  the  basis  for  the  story. 
Gene  Reynolds  foils  for  Virginia,  with 
a  touch  of  very  young  romance  thrown 
in;  Guy  Kibbee,  Ian  Hunter  and  Henry 
Hull  all  contribute  fine  performances. 
It  is,  however,  the  little  star's  picture, 
from  beginning  to  end. 

BEWARE  SPOOKS-Columbia 

JOE  E.  BROWN,  the  Great  Mouth,  stars 
in  no  A-classic  this  time,  but  his  in- 
comparable brand  of  comedy,  so  fasci- 
nating to  his  loyal  fans,  is  intact.  He's  a 
rookie  policeman,  on  the  force  because 
of  his  dead  father's  fine  record,  and  the 
Captain  assigns  him  to  catch  Marc 
Lawrence,  a  bank  robber.  Joe's  just  off 
on  his  honeymoon  with  Mary  Carlisle 
and  does  a  bad  job  so  far  as  Lawrence  is 
concerned;  but  at  a  resort  he  discovers 
some  murders  and  there  is  climax  in  a 
spook-house.   Very  funny. 

THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE-Mayer-Burstyn 

WAR  and  censorship  prevented  the  Eu- 
ropean release  of  this  unusual  film — as 
strong  a  plea  for  peace  as  we've  yet 
seen.  A  veteran  of  the  World  War, 
whose  comrades  were  all  killed  in  ac- 
tion, is  convinced  that  they  have  not 
died  in  vain.  Once  again,  however, 
comes  the  call  to  arms,  and  when  he 
realizes  no  man  can  stem  the  tide,  he 
turns  to  the  War  dead.  They  arise, 
thousands  strong,  mutilated  and  bloody, 
to  accuse  the  world  of  breaking  its 
pledge  for  peace. 

We  warn  you — this  is  a  strong  dose  of 
propaganda,  yet  the  film  cannot  be  dis- 
missed with  a  shrug.  There  is  a  splen- 
did performance  by  Victor  Francen  as 
the  war  veteran;  and  Les  Gueules  Cas- 
sees  (the  Mutilated  Veterans  of  the  Last 
War),  seen  in  the  March  of  the  Dead, 
give  the  picture  a  terrifying  reality. 

•  INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY-Warners 

I  HIS  won't  let  you  sit  still  in  your  seats 
a  moment.  The  plot  is  built  around  the 
always  touching  design  of  two  brothers 
and  one  girl.  Pat  O'Brien  is  cast  as  the 
elder  brother,  a  cocky  racing  driver  who 
wants  to  help  the  kid,  John  Payne,  at 
the  racing  game.  But  Payne  falls  in 
love  with  Ann  Sheridan  and  Pat  gets 
sore,  because  he  doesn't  approve  of  Ann. 
You'll  see  an  accidental  killing  when 
O'Brien  gets  drunk  and  some  wonder- 
ful race  shots.  Altogether  it's  smash- 
bang  entertainment. 


82 


PHOTOPLAY 


Brief    Reviews 


CHICKEN  WAGON  FAMILY— 20th  Century. 
Fox 
Originally  scheduled  for  Will  Rogers,  this  has 
been  adapted  to  the  talents  of  Jane  Withers.  She's 
swell,  but  the  piece  isn't  quite  right  for  Leo  Carrillo, 
who  makes  his  living  by  exchanging  merchandise 
for  chickens.  Spring  Byington  and  Marjorie  Weaver 
contribute  their  bit.   (Nov.) 

COAST  GUARD— Columbia 

Not  a  new  plot,  but  entertaining.  Randy  Scott 
is  a  cocky  pilot  in  the  coast  guard  who  wins  Ralph 
Bellamy's  sweetheart  (Frances  Dee)  away  from 
him.  then  gets  himself  into  a  situation  from  which 
Bellamy  has  to  save  him.  Walter  Connolly  has  a 
small  role.  (Dec.) 

COWBOY  QUARTERBACK,  THE— Warners 
Bert  Wheeler's  first  solo  without  the  late  Bob 
Woolsey  is  a  dated  story  of  a  hick  football  player 
who  gels  into  big  time.  Gamblers  try  a  frame-up 
anil  it  looks  bad  until  Bert's  girl,  Marie  Wilson, 
comes  along.  Gloria  Dickson  helps  a  little.  (Nov.) 

DANCING  CO-ED— M-G-M 

When  Lee  Bowman,  movie  dancer,  finds  he  will 
need  a  new  partner,  publicity  agent  Roscoe  Karns 
tosse-  a  co-ed  contest.  Lana  Turner,  a  Broadway 
hoofer,  turns  college  girl  for  the  stunt;  Richard 
Carlson,  newshound  for  the  school  paper,  starts  an 
Investigation,  There's  a  surprise  ending  when  Ann 
Rutherford  enters  the  contest.  Artie  Shaw  gets  hot 
with   his  clarinet.    (Nov.) 

if  DAY  THE  BOOKIES  WEPT,  THE— 
RKO-Radio 

Good  comedy,  with  Joe  Penner  at  his  best.  He's 
a  cab  driver  in  love  with  Betty  Grable.  His  pals 
send  him  to  buy  a  horse  and.  of  course  he  gets 
stuck.  But  when  Betty  discovers  the  old  nag  loves 
liquor — do  they  have  fun!  And  so  will  you.  (Dec.) 

DISPUTED  PASSAGE— Paramount 

A  forceful  melodrama  dealing  with  the  struggle 
of  a  young  doctor  (John  Howard)  to  choose  be- 
tween science  and  love  for  Dorothy  Lamour.  Akim 
Tamiroff  plays  an  older  physician  who  ruins  the 
romantic  setup.  When  Dottie  marches  off  to  China 
and  Howard  follows,  Tamiroff  must  decide  whether 
to  stick  to  his  guns  or — (Dec.) 

*DUST  BE  MY  DESTINY— Warners 

A  depressing,  although  gripping  study  of  social 
problems,  with  John  Garfield  again  imprisoned 
unjustly.  As  a  result,  he  hates  everything — except 
Priscilla  Lane.  But,  finally,  out  of  tragedy  comes 
readjustment.  Garfield  turns  in  the  performance 
you've  come  to  expect  of  him.  (A'of.) 

if  EACH  DAWN  I  DIE— Warners 

There's  a  quiet  brutality,  a  believable  horror 
about  this  film  in  which  Jimmy  Cagney  portrays 
an  innocent  victim  who  is  sent  to  prison  by  crooked 
politicians.  His  newspaper  friends,  particularly 
Jane  Bryan,  take  up  the  fight.  There's  murder  and 
a  jail-break  riot  done  in  a  superlative  manner. 
George  Raft,  as  a  fellow  convict,  has  never  done  a 
better  job.  Add  George  Bancroft,  Maxie  Rosen- 
bloom  and  John  Wray  to  the  list  who  make  this 
picture   a   must.    (Oct.) 

if  ESPIONAGE  AGENT— Warners 

Full  of  thrills,  and  sufficiently  timely  to  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end.  Joel  McCrea  is  the  Nemesis 
of  spies.  He  marries  one  (Brenda  Marshall)  and 
when  what  she's  done  catches  up  with  her,  Joel 
resigns  his  post  to  help  her  run  down  the  ringleader. 
George  Bancroft,  Jeffrey  Lynn  and  others  com- 
plete the  cast.  (Dec.) 

if  ETERNALLY  YOURS— Wangers-U.A. 

You'll  like  this  story  in  which  Loretta  Young 
marries  master  magician  David  N'iven  and  becomes 
his  associate  in  a  magic  act.  However,  David's 
femme  fans  are  too  fond  of  him.  so  Loretta  does  a 
disappearing  act  that  is  a  dilly;  divorces  David 
and  marries  Broderick  Crawford;  but  David  won't 
give  up.  Billie  Burke.  ZaSu  Pitts  and  Raymond 
Walburn  rustle  up  a  brace  of  laughs.  (Nov.) 

EVERYBODY'S  HOBBY— Warners 

A  new  family-cycle  picture — with  stamp-col- 
lector Irene  Rich  the  mother  of  a  family  of  hobby- 
ists. Daughter  Jean  Sharon  collects  photograph 
records;  brother  Jackie  Moran  is  an  amateur  radio 
bug;  father  Henry  O'Neill  is  a  camera  fiend.  Fun 
for  juveniles.  (Nov.) 

EVERYTHING'S  ON  ICE— RKO-Radio 

Little  Irene  Dare  zips  across  ice  like  a  miniature 
Henie  in  this  amusing,  but  unimportant,  film. 
Fourflusher  Roscoe  Karns  takes  his  nieces  Irene 
and  Lynne  Roberts  to  Florida  where  he  lives  in 
high  style,  hoping  to  marry  off  Lynne.  Of  course, 
he  chooses  another  fourflusher.  (Nov.) 

FAST  AND  FURIOUS— M-G-M 

A  murder  mystery  built  around  a  beauty  pageant, 
with  bathing  beauties,  a  lion-taming  act  and  villains 
bumping  people  off.  Ann  Sothern  plays  Franchot 
Tone's  gum-chewing  wife.  Lee  Bowman,  Ruth 
Hussey  and  sundry  beauties  co-operate.   (Dec.) 

if  FIFTH  AVENUE  GIRL— RKO-Radio 

Ginger  Rogers  has  another  hit,  and  it's  as  cute  as 
punch.  A  man  who  is  being  ignored  by  his  wife 
pretends  romance  with  a  pretty  down-at-the-heels 
girl  to  make  his  wife  jealous.  You  can  imagine  the 
complications,  especially  when  the  man  is  Walter 
Connolly,  the  wife  is  Verree  Teasdale  and  the 
innocent  peak  of  the  isosceles  is  Ginger.   (Nov.) 

FIGHT  FOR  PEACE,  THE— Warwick- 
Monogram 
A   medley   of   authentic   newsreels   and .  graphic 
cartoons    issued    for    the    purpose    of    promoting 
anti-war    sentiment.     Its    fragmentary    record    of 


(Continued  jrom  page  4) 


dying  monarchies  and  flourishing  dictatorships, 
from  the  cause  of  the  First  World  War,  up  to  the 
eve  of  the  present  conflict  is  well  worth  seeing.  (Dec.) 

FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND  HOW  THEY 
GREW— Columbia 
Maybe  you  loved  the  Peppers  when  you  were 
six,  but  this  is  a  bit  thick  for  adults.  Edith  Fellows, 
Clarence  Rolb  and  Dorothy  Peterson  follow  the 
script  dutifully.  All  the  Liltle  Peppers  are  so 
virtuous,  and  this  has  the  expected  effect  on  a 
meanie  when  he  is  quarantined  in  their  house.  (Dec.) 

if  FRONTIER  MARSHAL— 20th  Century- 
Fox 

You  can  guess  from  the  title  what  this  is  about. 
Tombstone,  Arizona,  is  the  locale  where  silver  is 
discovered.  The  bad  element  comes  in  and  Marshal 
Randolph  Scott  sets  out  to  quell  the  lawlessness. 
Cesar  Romero,  Nancy  Kelly  and  Binnie  Barnes  all 
help  to  make  this  good  cinema.    (Oct.) 

FULL  CONFESSION— RKO-Radio 

Victor  McLaglen,  in  another  "Informer"  role, 
plays  i  criminal  who  thinks  he  is  expiring,  con- 
fess-; a  murder  to  priest  Joseph  Calleia.  then  re- 
on'ii-  It's  Callcia's  job  to  make  him  confess 
to  the  law.  Sally  Eilers  has  a  small  role.  (Nov.)  ' 

GIRL  FROM  RIO — Monogram 

An  indifferent  production,  in  which  Movita  is 
forced  to  leave  Rio  on  the  eve  of  her  debut  as  a 
singer,  in  order  to  help  her  brother  out  of  a  jam. 
She  gets  a  job  in  a  night  club  and  hunts  down  the 
real  meanie.  Warren  Hull  and  Alan  Baldwin 
contribute.    (Nov.) 

if  GOLDEN  BOY— Columbia 

Clifford  Odet's  famous  play  introduces  William 
Holden  as  the  emotionally  unstable  musician  who 
forsakes  a  career  in  the  arts  for  one  in  the  prize 
ring.  He  is  caught  up  by  unscrupulous  racketeers 
who  shove  him  to  eventual  downfall.  Barbara 
Stanwyck,  Adolphe  Menjou  and  others  help  the 
definite  "A"  mood  of  the  production  with  their 
work.  It's  excellent  drama.  (Nov.) 

HAWAIIAN  NIGHTS— Universal 

A  happy  little  story,  this.  Johnny  Downs  plays 
tin-  son  of  a  hotel  owner  who  loses  his  job  when  he 
organizes  a  band.  He  takes  his  musical  lads  to 
Hawaii  and  makes  a  success  of  his  father's  rival. 
Comes  romance  in  the  person  of  Constance  Moore. 
Matty4Malneck's  orchestra  is  swell.  (Nov.) 

if  HEAVEN  WITH  A  BARBED  WIRE 
FENCE— 20th  Century-Fox 

A  story  of  disillusionment.  Glenn  Ford  is  the 
New  Yorker  who  works  six  years  to  buy  a  ranch, 
starts  thumbing  his  way  to  his  property  and  collects 
troubles  along  the  way,  among  them:  hobo  Nicholas 
Conte;  Spanish  refugee  Jean  Rogers;  and  tramp 
Raymond  Walburn.  It  has  movement.  (Oct.) 

HERE  I  AM  A  STRANGER— 20th  Century- 
Fox 
Richard  Greene  and  Richard  Dix  combine 
talents  here  and  both  are  good.  Greene,  raised 
by  his  mother  and  stepfather,  meets  his  real  father. 
The  piece  is  the  emotional  adjustment  of  the  two. 
Gladys  George  plays  the  mother.  (Dec.) 

HERO  FOR  A  DAY— Universal 

Football  time  is  here.  Charley  Grapewin,  ex- 
football  star  and  now  a  night  watchman,  is  used 
for  a  publicity  stunt  by  his  alma  mater.  He  be- 
comes a  male  "Apple  Annie."  Meanwhile,  Dick 
Foran  carries  the  ball,  and  lovely  Anita  Louise 
falls  in  love  with  him.  (Dec.) 

if  HOLLYWOOD  CAVALCADE— 20th 
Century-Fox 

A  gay  history  of  movieland,  told  in  terms  of 
drama  and  slapstick,  rainbowed  by  Technicolor 
and  gorgeously  acted  throughout.  A  would-be  di- 
rector, Don  Ameche,  discovers  a  would-be  star, 
Alice  Faye,  and  brings  her  to  Hollywood.  She  falls 
in  love  with  him,  but  marries  Alan  Curtis.  The 
tangle  of  their  love  serves  as  a  plot  on  which  to 
hand  such  milestones  as  the  Keystone  Kops  and 
Sennett  Bathing  Beauties.  See  it.  (Dec.) 

*  HONEYMOON  IN  BALI— Paramount 

This  has  color  and  glamour,  and  Fred  MacMur- 
ray  and  Madeleine  Carroll  on  a  South  Sea  Island. 
You  see,  Madeleine  is  a  business  woman  content 
with  her  unromantic  lot  until  earthy  Mr.  Mac- 
Murray  comes  along.  Then  Sex,  a  la  Tropics, 
intrudes.  You'll  like  Helen  Broderick  and  little 
Carolyn   Lee,   too.    (Dec.) 

HOTEL  FOR  WOMEN— 20th  Century-Fox 

Shades  of  "Stage  Door."  You'll  see  a  lot  of 
models  and  chorus  girls  living  in  a  hostelry  presided 
over  by  Elsa  Maxwell,  and  follow  their  troubles. 
New  Linda  Darnell  should  turn  into  a  bright  star, 
and  Ann  Sothern  is  very  good,  indeed.  James  Elli- 
son is  the  romantic  lead.    (Oct.) 

HOUSEKEEPER'S  DAUGHTER,   THE— 
Roach-U.A. 

A  rich  boy  who  turns  reporter  accidentally  un- 
covers a  gangster  murder.  Joan  Bennett  is  his 
housekeeper's  offspring  and  despite  the  fact  she  is 
a  reformed  gangland  moll,  she  gets  the  hero. 
Adolphe  Menjou  and  John  Hubbard  try  hard. 
(Dec.) 

IRISH  LUCK— Monogram 

Here  we  have  Frankie  Darro  playing  a  bellhop 
whose  father  is  mysteriously  slain.  Frankie  sets  out 
to  discover  the  murderer.  He's  quite  engaging  and 
Mantan  Moreland.  a  colored  fellow,  turns  in  an 
interesting    performance.    (Nov.) 

if  I  STOLE  A  MILLION— Universal 

Swell  melodrama,  with  George  Raft  (capably 
abetted  by  Claire  Trevor)  portraying  a  man  who, 


through  circumstances  beyond  his  control,  is 
labeled  a  criminal  and  works  out  his  peeve  again-l 
the  world  by  going  really  bad.  Dick  Foran,  Henry 
Armetta  and  Victor  Jury  contribute  to  the  emo- 
tional power  of  this  film.    (Oct.) 

IN  NAME  ONLY— RKO-Radio 

If  you're  a  pushover  for  Cary  Grant  and  Carole 
Lombard,  you'll  like  this.  Kay  Francis  is  the  wife 
who  won't  give  Cary  a  divorce  to  marry  Carole, 
despite  the  fact  that  she  has  never  loved  him.  But 
Carole  wins  out  in  the  end.  Charles  Coburn  and 
Helen  Vinson  have  routine  roles,  Katharine  Alex- 
ander is  good,  and  Grant,  magnificent.  (Oct.) 

if  INTERMEZZO,  A  LOVE  STORY— 
Selznick  International 
This  is  art  in  the  cinema.  It's  a  love  interlude  in 
the  lives  of  concert  pianist  Ingrid  Bergman  (new 
to  our  screen  and  strangely  compelling)  and 
violinist  Leslie  Howard.  Edna  Best  plays  the  wife 
whom  Leslie  leaves  for  his  romantic  idyl  with 
Ingrid.  There's  charm  to  the  story.  (Dec.) 

JAMAICA  INN— Mayflower-Paramount 

You're  in  on  the  secret  that  Charles  Laughton  is 
the  leader  of  a  gang  who  wreck  ships  for  their 
cargoes  in  this  free  adaptation  of  Daphne  du 
Maurier's  novel.  But  neither  the  members  of  his 
gang,  nor  pretty  Maureen  O'Hara,  know  that  he  is 
the  archvillain.  Hairbreadth  escapes,  last  minute 
rescues  will  satisfy  those  who  like  action.  Mr. 
Laughton,  as  usual,  dominates  every  scene.    (Oct.) 

KATIA— Mayer-Burstyn 

There's  little  dramatic  punch  in  this  story  which 
traces  the  devotion  of  Czar  Alexander  II  (John 
Loder)  for  his  mistress,  the  Princess  Katia  (Dan- 
ielle Darrieux),  who  finally  becomes  his  wife,  but 
pictorially  speaking,  this  French  lilm  is  beautiful. 
Marie  Helene  Daste,  as  the  ailing  Czarina,  do  an- 
nates every  scene  she  is  in.  (Dec.) 

KID  NIGHTINGALE— Warner 

This  singing  John  Payne  really  looks  promising. 
Here  he's  a  prize  fighter  who  warbles  when  he  isn't 
fighting.  Walter  Catlett,  fight  manager,  takes  him 
in  hand  and  leads  him  at  last  to  a  chance  at  the 
championship.  Jane  Wyman  furnishes  the  romantic 
interest.  Action  flies  along  at  a  fancy  pace.  (Dec.) 

if  LADY  OF  THE  TROPICS— M-G-M 

Oriental  Saigon  provides  the  lush  background  for 
Hedy  Lamarr  and  Robert  Taylor  in  this  story  of  a 
young  American  engineer  who  braves  the  dangers 
of  far  places;  with  Joseph  Schildkraut  as  the  smooth 
scoundrel  who  is  killed  by  Hedy  when  she  discovers 
his  interest  in  her  is  business,  not  sentiment.  Taylor 
and  Schildkraut  give  performances  to  be  proud  of, 
while  Hedy  is  her  most  beautiful.self.    (Oct.) 

MAN  THEY   COULD  NOT  HANG,   THE— 
Columbia 

Boris  Karloff,  a  mad  scientist  who  can  bring  the 
dead  back  to  life,  is  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  an 
experiment;  the  police  think  his  victim  is  dead 
and  convict  Karloff  of  murder.  He  sets  out  to  kill 
the  judge,  jury  and  district  attorney.  Roger 
Pryor,  Lorna  Gray  and  Robert  Wilcox  try  to 
cope  with  it  all.  (Nov.) 

if  MARX  BROTHERS  AT  THE  CIRCUS— 
M-G-M 

The  Marx  Brothers  team  up  with  a  whole 
menagerie  this  time  when  they  come  to  the  rescue 
of  Kenny  Baker,  who  is  about  to  lose  his  circus  and 
pretty  Florence  Rice  to  the  villainous  Fritz  Feld. 
Harpo  and  Chico  give  their  usual  funny  solos. 
There  are  plenty  of  circus  acts,  camels,  elephants 
and  a  lovely  gorilla.  (Nov.) 

MILLION  DOLLAR  LEGS— Paramount 

A  college  picture,  dedicated  in  motif  and  action 
to  the  present  generation.  A  football  hero  and  a 
mathematical  genius  (respectively,  John  Hartley 
and  Peter  Hayes)  help  Betty  Grable  carry  the 
slight  burden  of  plot.    (Oct.) 

MIRACLES  FOR  SALE— M-G-M 

The  kids  will  love  this  since  it's  all  about  magi- 
cians. There's  murder,  too,  and  Robert  Young, 
paired  with  pretty  Florence  Rice,  to  solve  it.  If  you 
believe  in  ghosts,  you'll  be  pretty  annoyed  at  the 
expose.    (Oct.) 

if  MR.  SMITH  GOES  TO  WASHINGTON— 
Columbia 

This  is  a  kind  of  "Mr.  Deeds,"  in  which  lanky 
Jimmy  Stewart  ambles  about  Washington  like  a 
streamlined  version  of  Lincoln.  He  gets  mixed  up 
in  dirty  politics,  but  sticks  to  his  ideals  through  the 
urgings  of  his  hard-boiled  secretary,  Jean  Arthur. 
There's  a  rousing  climax  in  the  Senate.  Edward 
Arnold  and  Claude  Rains  are  the  political  villains. 
The  entire  cast  contribute  fine  performances,  but 
it's  Capra's  direction  that  makes  this.  (Nov.) 

MR.  WONG  IN  CHINATOWN— Monogram 
Boo!  It's  Boris  Karloff  who  makesa  nice  menacing 
Chinaman  in  whose  home  a  Chinese  princess  is 
murdered.  Marjorie  Reynolds  is  the  newspaper 
woman  who  rushes  around  and  helps  out.  There's 
a  romance  angle  between  her  and  Grant  Withers. 
And  there's  comedy  to  keep  you  chuckling.    (Oct.) 

NEWS  IS  MADE  AT  NIGHT— 20th 
Century-Fox 
There's  conflict  in  this  when  Editor  Preston 
Foster's  best  friend  turns  out  to  be  a  criminal  and 
an  innocent  man  is  awaiting  execution  because  of 
Foster's  machinations.  Lynn  Bari  plays  a  sob 
sister.    Good  pace  throughout.    (Oct.) 

if  NINOTCHKA— M-G-M 

Greta  Garbo  brinns  .i  smile  to  her  face  and  a  rare- 
buoyancy  to  her  step  in  the  role  of  a  lieutenant  in 
the  Russian  army  who  is  sent  to  Paris  to  find  out 


Capturing  the  very  spirit  of  the  prevailing 
peasant  model  The  adjustable  SUSPENDERS 
are  rich,  black  velveteen  on  red  or  green 
felt  ground,  with  exquisite  wool  embroid- 
ered flowers.  They  clip  on— no  buttons. 
The  BEIT  is  mode  to  match,  with  red  or 
green  rickrack  trim.  Specify  size  when 
ordering.  Either  of  these  fashions  will 
be  sent  promptly  for  only   $1.    postpaid. 

II   WIST   42nd    STRUT,  NIW  YO«K 


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hot  or  cold,  tends  to  relieve  periodic  pain. 
It  is  gentle  and  non-habit  forming.  You  can 
get  a  bottle  of  Angostura  in  any  drug  store. 


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IT'S  easy  to  get  quick  relief  from  stuffy 
nostrils  with  Mentholatum.  This 
soothing  ointment  reduces  the  local 
congestion,  thus  helping  to  clear  the 
breathing  passages.  Mentholatum  also 
checks  sniffling,  sneezing,  soreness  due 
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JAN  U ARY,      I  940 


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why  the  sale  of  government-owned  Jewels  has 
not    been   consummated.    The   attractive   Melvyn 

Douglas  convinces  her  that  love  is  more  important 
than  the  benefit  of  t  lie  masses.  Tin-  sophistication  of 
Ina  Claire  is  a  perfect  foil  for  the  amusing  per- 
formance  Garbo  turns  in.  (Nov.) 

*  NURSE  EDITH  CAVELL— RKO-Radio 
Remember  the  execution  of  Edith  Cavell,  the 

English  nurse  who  -I  uted  an  undermvci  system  of 
wounded  Allies  to  safety  during  the  World 
War?  \s  that  nurse.  Anna  Neagle  turns  m  a  per- 
formance worthy  01  Academy  Award  attention. 
Edna  May  Oliver.  /aSu  1'itt-  and  May  Robson 
contribute   line   work,   too.    {Nov.) 

*OLD  MAID.  THE— Warners 

A  line  movie,  good  drama — but  so  long,  so  dreary. 
Iiette  Davis  plays  the  young  girl  who  loves  George 
Brent,  the  man  Miriam  Hopkins  discards.  After 
Brent  is  killed  in  the  Civil  War,  Bette  gives  birth  to 
his  daughter.  Bette  allows  Miriam  to  adopt  the 
child  and  turns  herself  into  a  sour  old  maid.  The 
baby  grows  up  (Jane  Bryan),  hating  Bette.  Miss 
Davis  gives  a  superb  portrayal,  but  Miriam  Hop- 
kins almost  succeeds  in  matching  it.  (Oct.) 

$1,000  A  TOUCHDOWN— Paramount 

There's  no  sense  to  this,  but  it's  funny.  Martha 
Rave's  broke,  sells  her  house  to  keep  the  college 
open,  discovers  Joe  E.  Brown,  descendant  of  a  long 
line  of  actors,  so  she  turns  the  place  into  a  dramatic 
school,  starts  a  football  team  and  puts  claustro- 
phobic Joe  in  it.  Guess  who.wins.  (Dec.) 

OUR  LEADING  CITIZEN— Paramount 

Bob  Burns  tries  hard  in  this,  but  it's  certainly  not 
fare  for  the  intellectual  audience.  There's  a  lot  of 
stuff  about  strikes,  and  more  flag-waving  than  en- 
tertainment. Susan  Hayward  supplies  the  romantic 
interest.  Elizabeth  Patterson,  Kathleen  Lockhart 
and  Charles  Bickford  do  credible  work.  (.Oct.) 

PACK  UP  YOUR  TROUBLES— 20th 
Century-Fox 
Time:  The  last  World  War.  Place:  France.  Plot: 
The  Ritz  Brothers,  a  vaudeville  team,  unable  to 
get  bookings  because  of  their  German  name,  join 
the  army.  In  France  they  team  up  with  Jane 
Withers,  whose  father,  Joseph  Schildkraut,  is  a 
spy.  There's  bombing  and  blasting — but  little 
entertainment  value  here.  (Dec.) 

*  PRIVATE  LIVES  OF  ELIZABETH  AND 

ESSEX.  THE— Warners 

You  may  feel  that  this  is  lacking  in  the  fire  that 
Queen  Elizabeth's  lusty  to-do  with  Lord  Essex 
might  have  inspired,  but  Bette  Davis,  as  the  evil- 
tempered,  enamored-of-power  Queen  delights  in 
her  role,  and  Errol  Flynn,  as  Essex,  is  magnificent 
to  look  upon.  The  grandeur  of  that  court,  the  vital 
color  of  a  nation  not  yet  effete  called  for  Techni- 
color. Donald  Crisp,  Olivia  de  Havilland,  Vin- 
cent Price,  Henry  Daniell  and  Alan  Hale  add  to  the 
high  quality  of  the  production.  (Dec.) 

*  RAINS  CAME.  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

Louis  Bromfield's  story  of  a'group  of  people  caught 
in  the  flood  and  earthquake  of  India;  the  effect 
upon  each  when  disaster,  disease  and  death  touch 
them,  is  transferred  to  the  screen  with  compelling 
fidelity.  Tyrone  Power,  Myrna  Loy  and  George 
Brent  give  the  top  performances  of  their  careers; 
with  Maria  Ouspenskaya,  H.  B.  Warner,  Joseph 
Schildkraut  and  Brenda  Joyce  following  close  on 
their  heels.  (Nov.) 

*REAL   GLORY,   THE— Goldwyn-U.A. 

Another     blood-and-thunder     epic.  Locale: 

Philippines.  Year:  1906.  When  the  Moros,  resent- 
ing the  intrusion  of  the  new  government,  use  the 
dreaded  cholera  as  their  lethal  weapon,  Gary 
Cooper  does  an  excellent  job  as  doctor,  soldier, 
organizer,  and  still  has  time  for  some  tender  love 
scenes  with  Andrea  Leeds.  David  Niven  and 
Broderick  Crawford  are  excellent.  (Ocl.) 

RETURN  OF  DR.  X.,  THE— Warners 

Wow!  what  a  murder  mystery — and  with  Hum- 
phrey Bogart  thrown  in  as  further  nightmare 
mate  rial.  Wayne  Morris,  reporter,  finds  actress 
Lya  Lys  murdered.  She  turns  up  later  to  sue  his 
paper.  Another  person  is  found  murdered  by  the 
same  sort  of  wound,  and  no  evidence  of  blood. 
Then  Humphrey,  as  Dr.  Xavier,  turns  out  to  have 
been  electrocuted  two  years  ago.  Boo!  (Nov.) 

SHOULD  HUSBANDS  WORK?— Republic 

Here's  the  Higgins  bunch  again,  played  by  James, 
Lucile  and  Russell  Gleason.  All  the  fuss  is  about 
Pas  job,  because  there's  going  to  be  a  merger  and 
Ma  messes  things  up.  Marie  Wilson  is  her  usual 
dumb-bunny  character.    (Oct.) 

RIO— Universal 

The  story  of  what  happens  to  the  trusted  wife  of 
a  French  convict  has  Victor  McLaglen  as  the 
friend  of  Basil  Rathbone,  who  is  the  French 
capitalist  under  conviction.  Sigrid  Gurie  is  the 
wife,  and  Robert  Cummings  the  young  American 
she  falls  for  in  Rio.  There's  a  good  escape  sequence 
and  some  bloody  killing.  (Dec.) 

ROARING  TWENTIES,  THE— Warners 

Those  mad,  prosperous,  Prohibition  Twenties! 
The  story  starts  when  World  War  veteran  Jimmy 
Cagney  looks  up  a  girl  who  has  been  writing  to 
him  and  discovers  she  is  Priscilla  Lane.  Circum- 
stances draw  him  into  the  liquor  racket,  take  him 
through  the  market  crash,  and  into  the  depression 
when  Priscilla  finds  happiness  with  his  buddy, 
Jeffrey  Lynn.  Gladys  George.  Frank  McHugli  and 
Humphrey  Bogart  have  supporting  roles.  (Dec.) 

RULERS  OF  THE  SEA— Paramount 

A  rousting  story  of  the  first  Atlantic  crossing  in  a 
steam-driven  boat,  with  Douglas  Fairbanks,  jr. 
P,la,,'"\§  l^e  youns  mate  who  has  faith  in  steam. 
Will  Fyfle  is  superb  as  the  Scots  inventor  of 
steam  motors.  George  Bancroft  plays  a  die-hard 
sailing   skipper,    and    Margaret    Lockwood    is   ap- 


(Dec.) 


SPELLBINDER.  THE— RKO-Radio 

A  natural  for  Lee  Tracy.  He's  a  fast-gab  lawyer 
verging  on  the  shady  side.  Plot:  Tracy  defends 
murderer;  freed  rascal  woos  and  weds  Tracy's 
daughter,  Barbara  Read;  Tracy  kills  him.  Patric 
Knowles  and  Allan  Lane  struggle  hard.  (Ocl.) 


JUNE    in    JANUARY 

BY 
GWENN   WALTERS 


Polka  dot  and  plain  fabric 
combine  in  Catalina's  satin 
lastex  one-piece,  front- 
skirted     1940    bathing    suit 


WHY  all  the  to-do  about  bathing 
suits  and  shorts,  cottons  and 
ginghams  at  this  time  of  year? 

Why?  Because  Photoplay  is  the  first 
with  fashion  news  and  California  is 
knee-deep  in  playtime.  Yes,  it's  resort 
season,  so  here's  news  about  play  clothes 
you'll  want  to  pack  in  your  old  kit  bag 
for  your  travels  toward  the  sun! 

You  can't  go?  Well,  this  news  is  just 
as  important  to  you  as  it  is  to  wan- 
derers, for  it  will  soon  be  time  to  start 
planning  an  early  vacation  wardrobe. 

You've  probably  noticed  that  the 
clothes  on  this  page  are  not  posed  on 
your  favorites  of  the  screen.  Why? 
Our  apologies  to  you  and  the  stars,  be- 
cause we  snapped  these  pictures  on  the 
models  during  the  recent  showing  of 
California  resort  clothes  which  was 
held  at  Palm  Spring's  famous  Racquet 
Club. 

The  charming  frock  on  the  left  of  the 
double  photo  (above  right)  is  Agnes 
Barrett's  rayon  and  cotton  seersucker 
model  that  is  belted  with  royal  blue 
silk  jersey  to  match  the  wooden  buttons 
that  march  up  the  front.  The  stripes 
are  red,  white,  royal  blue  and  green. 

Irene  Bury's  sport  coat-frock  of  blue 
and  white  striped  synthetic  linen  is 
shown  on  the  right.  The  horizontal 
stripes  of  the  front  under  slip  contrast 
the  bias  styling  of  the  fabric  of  the 
coat-frock  which  is  closed  at  neck  and 
waist  with  self-fabric  ties.  The  crushed 
crown  of  the  white  toyo  hat  is  of  blue 
grosgrain  ribbon — the  bag  also  combines 
these  two  fabrics. 

Louella  Ballerino  made  the  white  cot- 
ton pique  play  dress  (right)  and  styled 
it  in  ballerina  fashion  with  a  circle 
skirt,  wing  shoulders  and  a  ruffle  edged 
corselet  that  laces  up  the  front  with 
navy  blue  cord  to  match  the  trim. 

Polka  dot  and  plain  fabric  combine 
in  Catalina's  satin  lastex  one-piece, 
front-skirted  1940  bathing  suit  (top). 
The  body  of  the  suit  is  wine  red — the 


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are 


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A  white  cotton  pique  play  dress, 
styled  in  ballerina  fashion  with 
circle    skirt    and    wing    shoulders 

brassiere  top  and  belt,  powder  blue  with 
white  dots. 

A  summary  of  resort  and  cruise  fash- 
ion news  places  particular  stress  on 
color,  not  only  the  brilliant  hues  of  last 
year,  but  also  an  abundance  of  pastels. 
White  holds  its  supremacy  as  the  lead- 
ing fashion  color.  Red  finds  place  on 
every  other  costume  as  trim  or  accent. 
In  general,  you'll  see  your  favorites  well 
represented — white  and  navy,  white  and 
brown,  green,  blue,  yellow  and  pink. 


*  STANLEY  AND  LIVINGSTONE^20th 

Century-Fox 

Inspiring  and  dignified,  this  story  of  Henry  M. 
Stanley's  safari  into  darkest  Africa  in  search  of  Dr. 
Livingstone,  famous  Britisli  missionary.  Spencer 
Tracy  and  Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke,  as  Livingstone,  are 
sensitively  the  title  roles.  Nancy  Kelly  and  Richard 
Greene  are  seen  briefly  as  lovers,  while  Charles 
Coburn  and  Walter  Brennan  furnish  wisps  of 
comedy.    (Oct.) 

STAR  MAKER,  THE— Paramount 

Bing  Crosby's  newest  vehicle  is  no  bargain,  darn 
it!  11  s  the  story  of  Gus  Edwards,  kiddie  impresario. 
Bing  plays  the  poor  songwriter  who  marries  Louise 
Campbell,  refuses  to  take  an  ordinary  job  and  con- 
ceives the  idea  of  offering  children  to  the  public 
as  entertainment.  This  introduces  songstress  Linda 
Ware;  Walter  Damrosch  leads  a  symphony 
orchestra;  Bing  sings;  Ned  Sparks  and  Laura 
Hope  Crews  contribute  comedy.  (Nov.) 

STOP.   LOOK   AND   LOVE— 20th   Century- 
Fox 

"Marrying  daughter  off"  is  cleverly  exploited 
here.  Minna  Gombell  plays  the  mother  who, 
married  to  William  Frawley,  expends  her  energy  to 
find  a  husband  for  daughter  Jean  Rogers.  Jean 
finds  Bob  Kellard,  but  Mama  almost  ruins  the 
romance.    (Nov.) 

•  THESE  GLAMOUR  GIRLS— M-G-M 

Youth  scintillates  against  a  college  background. 
Anita  Louise,  Jane  Bryan  and  Ann  Rutherford  are 
three  lovely  debs,  and  you  know  Lew  Ayres  is  a 
college  senior  without  being  told.  A  crack  shows  in 
his  sophisticated  coating,  however,  when  Lana 
Turner,  honky-tonk  hostess,  shows  up  at  his 
school's  veddy  exclusive  houseparty.  Marsha  Hunt 
makes  a  fine  college  widow.    (Oct.) 

THREE  SONS— RKO-Radio 

It's  the  story  of  a  man  whose  consuming  interest 
in  life  is  his  department  store,  land  who  wants 
his  boys  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Only  they 
don't.  There  isn't  much  to  keep  you  fascinated. 
Edward  Ellis  plays  the  father,  Kent  Taylor, 
Robert  Stanton  and  Dick  Hogan  the  offspring. 
(Dec.) 

THUNDER  AFLOAT— M-G-M 

Captain  Wally  Beery  lives  on  a  tugboat  with  his 
daughter,  Virginia  Grey,  until  a  Boche  sub  puts 
them  off  and  sinks  the  tug.  Beery  joins  the  Navy 
so  he  can  get  revenge  but  his  former  rival,  Chester 
Morris,  is  now  his  superior  officer  and  Beery  doesn't 
take  kindly  to  discipline.  So  he  takes  his  sub-chaser 
off  on  a  solo  hunt  for  the  enemy.  It's  a  personal 
battle  between  Beery  and  the  subs.  (Nov.) 

TORCHY  PLAYS  WITH  DYNAMITE— 
Warners 

Jane  Wyman  takes  Glenda  Farrell's  place  in  this 
romantic  finale  of  the  Torchy  Blane  series,  when  she 
walks  off  with  detective  Allen  Jenkins.  There's 
prison  stuff,  and  a  chase.  Tom  Kennedy  and  Bruce 
MacFarlane  trot  along  with  the  story.  (Nov.) 

TWO  BRIGHT  BOYS— Universal 

Freddie  Bartholomew  and  Melville  Cooper,  son 
and  father,  live  by  their  wits,  get  in  the  clutches  of 
Alan  Dinehart,  who  uses  them  to  make  a  grab  at 
oil  lands  owned  by  Jackie  Cooper  and  his  mother, 
Dorothy  Peterson.  The  boys  do_nice  jobs.  (Dec.) 

UNDER-PUP,  THE— Universal 

Cinema  history  is  made  in  this  with  the  discovery 
of  a  new  singing  star — eleven-year-old  Gloria  Jean. 
The  story  is  a  simple  one:  A  poor  girl  wins  a 
contest  and  is  taken  to  a  rich  girls'  camp.  All  the 
pampered  darlings  snoot  Gloria — except  little 
Virginia  Weidler,  but  Gloria  works  out  her  prob- 
lems with  the  aid  of  Billy  Gilbert,  Kenneth  Brown 
and  Billy  Lenhart.  Nan  Grey  and  Robert  Cum- 
mings supply  romance.  See  this.  (Nov.) 

UNEXPECTED  FATHER— Universal 

Reminiscent  of  Shirley  Temple's  "Little  Miss 
Broadway,"  this,  with  Sandy  Henville  playing 
Shirley's  role  of  a  child  in  danger  of  being  put  in  an 
institution  and  vaudeville  folk  rallying  round. 
Shirley  Ross,  Dennis  O'Keefe  and  Mischa  Auer 
stooge  for  the  charming  Sandy.    (Oct.) 

WAY  DOWN  SOUTH— Principal— RKO- 
Radio 

Bobby  Breen's  latest  has  better  interest  than  its 
predecessors.  Everything  happens  in  Louisiana 
when  Ralph  Morgan,  playing  Bobby's  father,  is 
killed  and  Edwin  Maxwell,  the  attorney,  tries  to 
rob  the  boy  of  his  inheritance.    (Oct.) 

•k  WHAT  A  LIFE— Paramount 

An  amusing  picture  in  which  Jackie  Cooper,  an 
adolescent  trying  to  make  adjustments  peculiar  to 
his  particular  age,  walks  away  with  a  difficult 
assignment.  Betty  Field,  Cooper's  sweetheart; 
James  Corner,  his  rival;  John  Howard  and  Kath- 
leen Lockhart  all  deliver  good  performances.  (Dec.) 

WHEN  TOMORROW  COMES— Universal 

Tragedy  and  trouble  stalk  Irene  Dunne  and 
Charles  Boyer  in  this.  It  all  starts  when  Charles,  a 
famous  pianist,  drops  into  the  restaurant  where 
Irene  is  a  waitress.  It  takes  a  hurricane  to  show 
them  that  they  love  one  another,  but  love  is  not  for 
them.  Charles  can't  desert  his  irrational  wife, 
Barbara  O'Neil.  You  may  like  this,  if  you  enjoy 
suffering  in  charming  company.    (Oct.) 

WOMEN.  THE— M-G-M 

Clare  Boothe's  Broadway  success  is  an  un- 
compromising story  of  the  eternal  battle  of 
women  for  males  and  money.  Norma  Shearer  is 
excellent  as  the  devoted  mother  and  wife,  and 
Joan  Crawford  is  in  there  slugging  as  the  hard- 
bitten clerk  who  uses  every  wj_>  to  catch  Norma's 
husband.  The  fat  part  fell  to  Roz  Russell  and  she 
made  capital  of  it.  Mary  Boland  and  Joan  Fon- 
taine are  grand.  Botli  sexes  will  have  fun  at  this. 
(Nov.) 

if  WIZARD  OF  OZ,  THE— M-G-M 

This  superb  fantasy  of  a  little  girl  transported  by 
cyclone  to  a  magic  wonderland  is  a  "must"  for  chil- 
dren and  adults  alike.  The  cast  alone' — Frank 
Morgan  in  the  title  role,  Judy  Garland  as  Dorothy; 
Bert  Lahr,  the  Cowardly  Lion;  Ray  Bolger,  the 
Scarecrow;  Jack  Haley,  the  Tin  Woodman;  Billie 
Burke,  the  Good  Fairy;  and  Margaret  Hamilton,  the 
Wicked  Witch;  might  have  been  dreamed  into  being 
just  for  this  picture.    In  Technicolor.    (Ocl.) 


PH  OTOPLAY 


!ELEN  MACFADDEN  now  gives  you  new  secrets   of 


CONTENTS 


|AKE  THE  RIGHT  ROAD  TO  BEAUTY 

Broadway  and  Hollyw /  Beauty  Marts  •  Does  Figure  or 

wace  Count  Most?  •  Improving  Physical  and  Facial  Traits 

RING  LOVELINESS  TO  YOUR  SKIN 
How  to  Banish   Shin   Defects  •   Facial   Creams  and  the 
Face  Mask  •  Some  Complexion  Facts 

HERE'S  BEAUTY  IX  YOUR  BATH 

Bathing-Its  Whys  and  Wherefores  •  The  Sun-bath  and 
How  to  Use  It  •  Help  Your  Skin  to  Breathe-In  Beauty 

HOI.ESOMEXESS  FROM  YOUR  FOOD 
Control  Your  Figure  by  Your  Diet  •  Food  and  Skin  Col- 
oring •  Beauty-Builders  for  Your  Food  List 

HE  SECRET  OF  YOUTHFULXESS 

Why  the  Wise  Exercise  •  Exercising  Indoors  and  Out- 
doors •  Deep  Breathing  Helps  Build  Beauty 

[FSTROUS  HAIR  CAX  BE  YOURS 

Your  Hair  Can  Spell  Charm  .  Added  Beauty  for  Your 
Hair  •  Special  Needs  of  Varied  Types  of  Hair 

EEP  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH 

Beautify  Your  Eyes-But  Safely  •  What  You  Should 
Know  about  Eve  Makeup  •  Massage  and  Exercise  for 
Eye  Beauty 

ASTIXG  BEAUTY  FOR  YOUR  TEETH 

Hozv  Foods  Promote  Tooth  Health  •  The  Tooth  Brush  and 
Tooth  Beauty  •  Exercising  Teeth  and  Cuius 

XHAXCE  YOUR  FACIAL  BEAUTY 

Accent  Your  Personality  by  Makeup  •  Ways  to  Wake  Up 
Lacy  Skin  •  Using  Powder  and  Rouge  Properly 

IAKE  THE  BEST  OF  YOUR  TYPE 

Warnings  for  Blondes  and  Brunettes  .  How  to  Choose 
Colors  Best  for  You  •  Improving  Eyebrows  and  Eyelashes 

iLAMOUR  CAX  BE  YOURS  TOO 

How  Screen  Stars  Acquire  Allure  •  Ways  to  Improve 
Facial  Outlines  •  Personality  Plus  Can  be  Cultivated 

>AILY  STEPS  IX  BEAUTY- BUILDING 

Practical  Beautv  Proarams  for  Home  and  Office  Girls 
•  Routines  to  Beautify  Your  Form  •  Hobbies  that  I'av 
Beauty  Dividends 


ovewness 


IN  HER  FIRST  BOOK 

HELP  YOURSELF  TO  BEAUTY 


YO  U  need  no  longer  wish  for  beauty.  You 
need  no  longer  envy  any  girl.  For  alluring 
beauty  and  radiant  loveliness  can  now  be 
yours.  Not  by  magic,  but  by  adhering  to  the 
startling  secrets  revealed  by  Helen  Macfadden 
in  her  exceptionally  practical  book  Help  Your- 
self to  Beauty. 

Here,  without  doubt,  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable books  of  our  time.  A  book  that  tells 
you  how  to  develop  radiant  health  .  .  .  how  to 
add  new  loveliness  and  glamour  .  .  .  how  to 
keep  the  glow  of  youth— at  all  ages. 

Daughter  of  Bernarr  Macfadden 

The  author  of  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty  is  the 
daughter  of  Bernarr  Macfadden— America's 
No.  1  health  exponent.  Helen  Macfadden,  no 
novice  as  a  writer,  has  contributed  dozens  of 
outstanding  beauty  articles  to  Physical  Cul- 
ture and  other  leading  magazines.  But  she  has 
saved  her  most  successful  beauty  secrets  for 
this  great  new  book  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty. 
Here  you  will  discover  for  the  very  first  time 
how  through  easy,  simple  methods  you  can 
reach  out  and  acquire  real  beauty  .  .  .  lasting 
beauty. 

Former  Ziegfeld  Follies  Girl 

Helen  Macfadden  was  one  of  the  late  Florenz 
Ziegfeld's  glamour  girls.  Many  of  the  beauty 
secrets  described  in  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty 
were  acquired  from  the  great  impresario  him- 

ONLY$1.00 

ON    SALE    AT   ALL    BOOK    AND    DEPARTMENT    STORES 


HELEN  MACFADDEN 


self.  Others  were  taught 
her  by  her  father,  Ber- 
narr Macfadden.  Yet 
most  of  the  startling  new 
aids  to  beauty  were 
gleaned  by  personally 
interviewing  and  study- 
ing some  of  the  most 
lovely  ladies  in  Amer- 
ica. This  is  why  Help 
Yourself  to  Beauty  is  so 

important  ...  so  essential  to  your  future  Love- 
liness ...  so  necessary  to  your  future  happiness. 

Wake  Up  Your  Latent  Beauty 

Few  women  realize  that  they  themselves  hold 
the  key  to  their  own  beauty.  Few  women 
realize  that  they  can  accent  their  beauty  to 
glamorous  proportions  by  merely  knowing 
how  to  camouflage  their  defects  and  feature 
their  natural  loveliness. 

Yes,  beauty  is  something  that  can  be  won 
and  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty  is  the  book  that 
will  win  it  for  you.  For  packed  between  its 
1 80  exciting  pages  are  many  tricks  to  magnify 
your  beauty  and  develop  in  yourself  that  de- 
lightful and  exciting  thing  known  as  allure. 
That  elusive  quality  which  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference between  an  every  day  person  and  a 
romantic,  thrilling  personality. 


77:,-  price  of  this  great  new 
book  is  but$l.Q0at  all  booksell- 
ers or  from   publishers  direct. 


Bernarr  Macfadden  says:  "In  any  part  of  the 
world  — even  in  this  day  of  beauty-culture  — you 
may  find  girls  and  women  who  appear  less  beau- 
tiful than  they  should  be.  Important  as  any  ex- 
ternal means  to  enhance  beauty  may  be,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  sources  of  beauty  and  allure  are 
not  merely  superficial,  but  are  deep  seated.  That 


Help  Yourself  lo  Beauty  reflects  a  feminine  mind 
—as  it  happens  my  daughter  is  the  author— seems 
to  promise  a  more  fitting  touch  than  might  at  tend 
treatment  of  the  same  subject  on  my  part.  And 
this  promise,  I  believe,  is  fulfilled  in  this  book. 

"You  should  find  it  a  safe  and  sure  guide  to 
charm  and  beauty." 


^^HjfjWtljUU^^^H 

M  \<TAIH">EX   BOOK   GO. 

205  East  42nd  Street,  New  York,  X.  Y. 

1), 

,t  p-1 

Send  me,  postage  prepaid,  the  book  Help 
Beauty  by  Helen  Macfadden.  I  enclose  $1.00. 

'out 

elf  to 



CITY                                                                                           vim 

why  the  sale  of  government-owned  Jewels  has 
not  been  consummated,  ["he  attractive  Melvyn 
Douglas  convinces  her  that  love  Is  more  important 
than  the  Iniulit  of  tin-  in  nation  of 

In. i  Claire  is  a  1  I  he  amusing  per- 

formance Gftrbo  turns  in. 

*  NURSE  EDITH  CAVELL— RKO-Radio 
Remember  the  execution  ol   Edith  Cavell,  tiie 

English  nurse  who  started  an  undercover  systi-m  of 
helping  wounded  Allies  to  safety  during  the  World 
War?  Vs  that  mirso,  Anna  Ne.ie.le  turns  in  a  per- 
formance  worthy  ol  Academy  \w.ud  attention. 
Kdn. i  May  Oliver,  ZaSu  Pitts  and  May  Robson 
contribute  fine  work,  too.   [No    I 

*OLD  MAID.  THE— Warners 
A  fine  movie,  good  drama — but  so  long,  so  dreary. 

Bette  Davis  plays  the  young  girl  who  loves  George 
Brent,  the  man  Miriam  Hopkins  discards.  Alter 
Brent  is  killed  in  the  Civil  War.  Bette  gives  birth  to 
his  daughter.  Bette  allows  Miriam  to  adopt  the 
child  and  turns  herself  into  a  sour  old  maid.  The 
baby  grows  up  (Jane  Bryan),  hating  Bette.  Miss 
Davis  gives  a  superb  portrayal,  but  Miriam  Hop- 
kins almost  succeeds  in  matching  it.  (Oct.) 

SI. 000  A  TOUCHDOWN— Paramount 

There's  no  sense  to  this,  but  it's  funny.  Martha 
Rave  s  broke,  sells  her  house  to  keep  the  college 
open,  discovers  Joe  E.  Brown,  descendant  of  a  long 
line  of  actors,  so  she  turns  the  place  into  a  dramatic 
school,  starts  a  football  team  and  puts  claustro- 
phobic Joe  in  it.  Guess  who  wins.  (Dec.) 

OUR  LEADING  CITIZEN— Paramount 

Bob  Burns  tries  hard  in  this,  but  it's  certainly  not 
fare  for  the  intellectual  audience.  There's  a  lot  of 
stuff  about  strikes,  and  more  flag-waving  than  en- 
tertainment. Susan  Hayward  supplies  the  romantic 
interest.  Elizabeth  Patterson,  Kathleen  Lockhart 
and  Charles  Bickford  do  credible  work.  (Oct.) 

PACK  UP  YOUR  TROUBLES— 20th 
Century-Fox 
Time:  The  last  World  War.  Place:  France.  Plot: 
The  Ritz  Brothers,  a  vaudeville  team,  unable  to 
get  bookings  because  of  their  German  name,  join 
the  army.  In  France  they  team  up  with  Jane 
Withers,  whose  father,  Joseph  Schildkraut,  is  a 
spy.  There's  bombing  and  blasting — but  little 
entertainment  value  here.  (Dec.) 

+  PRIVATE  LIVES  OF  ELIZABETH  AND 
ESSEX,  THE— Warners 
You  may  feel  that  this  is  lacking  in  the  fire  that 
Queen  Elizabeth's  lusty  to-do  with  Lord  Essex 
might  have  inspired,  but  Bette  Davis,  as  the  evil- 
tempered,  enamored-of-power  Queen  delights  in 
her  role,  and  Errol  Flynn,  as  Essex,  is  magnificent 
to  look  upon.  The  grandeur  of  that  court,  the  vital 
color  of  a  nation  not  yet  effete  called  for  Techni- 
color. Donald  Crisp,  Olivia  de  Havilland,  Vin- 
cent Price,  Henry  Daniell  and  Alan  Hale  add  to  the 
high  quality  of  the  production.  (Dec.) 

*  RAINS  CAME,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

Louis  Bromfield's  story  of  a'group  of  people  caught 
in  the  flood  and  earthquake  of  India;  the  effect 
upon  each  when  disaster,  disease  and  death  touch 
them,  is  transferred  to  the  screen  with  compelling 
fidelity.  Tyrone  Power,  Myrna  Loy  and  George 
Brent  give  the  top  performances  of  their  careers; 
with  Maria  Ouspenskaya,  H.  B.  Warner,  Joseph 
Schildkraut  and  Brenda  Joyce  following  close  on 
their  heels.  (Nov.) 

*REAL   GLORY,   THE— Goldwyn-U.A. 

Another     blood-and-thunder     epic.  Locale: 

Philippines.  Year:  1906.  When  the  Moros,  resent- 
ing the  intrusion  of  the  new  government,  use  the 
dreaded  cholera  as  their  lethal  weapon,  Gary 
Cooper  does  an  excellent  job  as  doctor,  soldier, 
organizer,  and  still  has  time  for  some  tender  love 
scenes  with  Andrea  Leeds.  David  Niven  and 
Broderick  Crawford  are  excellent.  (Oct.) 

RETURN  OF  DR.  X.,  THE— Warners 

Wow!  what  a  murder  mystery — and  with  Hum- 
phrey Bogart  thrown  in  as  further  nightmare 
material.  Wayne  Morris,  reporter,  finds  actress 
Lya  Lys  murdered.  She  turns  up  later  to  sue  his 
paper.  Another  person  is  found  murdered  by  the 
-a  me  sort  of  wound,  and  no  evidence  of  blood. 
Then  Humphrey,  as  Dr.  Xavier,  turns  out  to  have 
been  electrocuted  two  years  ago.  Boo!  (Nov.) 

SHOULD  HUSBANDS  WORK?— Republic 

Here's  the  Biggins  bunch  again,  played  by  James, 
Lucile  and  Russell  Gleason.  All  the  fuss  is  about 
Pa's  job,  because  there's  going  to  be  a  merger  and 
Ma  messes  things  up.  Marie  Wilson  is  her  usual 
dumb-bunny  character.    (Oct.) 

RIO— Universal 

The  story  of  what  happens  to  the  trusted  wife  of 
a  French  convict  has  Victor  McLaglen  as  the 
friend  of  Basil  Rathbone,  who  is  the  French 
capitalist  under  conviction.  Sigrid  Gurie  is  the 
wife,  and  Robert  Cummings  the  young  American 
she  falls  for  in  Rio.  There's  a  good  escape  sequence 
and  some  bloody  killing.   (Dec.) 

ROARING  TWENTIES,  THE— Warners 

Those  mad,  prosperous,  Prohibition  Twenties! 
The  story  starts  when  World  War  veteran  Jimmy 
Cagney  looks  up  a  girl  who  has  been  writing  to 
him  and  discovers  she  is  Priscilla  Lane.  Circum- 
stances draw  him  into  the  liquor  racket,  take  him 
through  the  market  crash,  and  into  the  depression 
when  Priscilla  finds  happiness  with  his  buddy, 
Jeffrey  Lynn.  Gladys  George,  Frank  McHugh  and 
Humphrey  Bogart  have  supporting  roles.  (Dec.) 

RULERS  OF  THE  SEA— Paramount 

A  rousting  story  of  the  first  Atlantic  crossing  in  a 
steam-driven  boat,  with  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr. 
playing  the  young  mate  who  has  faith  in  steam. 
Will  Fyffe  is  superb  as  the  Scots  inventor  of 
steam  motors.  George  Bancroft  plays  a  die-hard 
sailing  skipper,  and  Margaret  Lockwood  is  ap- 
pealing. (Dec.) 

SPELLBINDER,  THE— RKO-Radio 

A  natural  for  Lee  Tracy.  He's  a  fast-gab  lawyer 
verging  on  the  shady  side.  Plot:  Tracy  defends 
murderer;  freed  rascal  woos  and  weds  Tracy's 
daughter,  Barbara  Read;  Tracy  kills  him.  Patric 
Knowles  and  Allan  Lane  struggle  hard.  (Oct.) 


JUNE    in    JANUARY 


Polka  dot  and  plain  fabric 
combine  in  Catalina's  satin 
lastex  one-piece,  front- 
skirted     1940    bathing    suit 


WHY  all  the  to-do  about  bathing 
suits  and  shorts,  cottons  and 
ginghams  at  this  time  of  year? 

Why?  Because  Photoplay  is  the  first 
with  fashion  news  and  California  is 
knee-deep  in  playtime.  Yes,  it's  resort 
season,  so  here's  news  about  play  clothes 
you'll  want  to  pack  in  your  old  kit  bag 
for  your  travels  toward  the  sun! 

You  can't  go?  Well,  this  news  is  just 
as  important  to  you  as  it  is  to  wan- 
derers, for  it  will  soon  be  time  to  start 
planning  an  early  vacation  wardrobe. 

You've  probably  noticed  that  the 
clothes  on  this  page  are  not  posed  on 
your  favorites  of  the  screen.  Why? 
Our  apologies  to  you  and  the  stars,  be- 
cause we  snapped  these  pictures  on  the 
models  during  the  recent  showing  of 
California  resort  clothes  which  was 
held  at  Palm  Spring's  famous  Racquet 
Club. 

The  charming  frock  on  the  left  of  the 
double  photo  (above  right)  is  Agnes 
Barrett's  rayon  and  cotton  seersucker 
model  that  is  belted  with  royal  blue 
silk  jersey  to  match  the  wooden  buttons 
that  march  up  the  front.  The  stripes 
are  red,  white,  royal  blue  and  green. 

Irene  Bury's  sport  coat-frock  of  blue 
and  white  striped  synthetic  linen  is 
shown  on  the  right.  The  horizontal 
stripes  of  the  front  under  slip  contrast 
the  bias  styling  of  the  fabric  of  the 
coat-frock  which  is  closed  at  neck  and 
waist  with  self-fabric  ties.  The  crushed 
crown  of  the  white  toyo  hat  is  of  blue 
grosgrain  ribbon — the  bag  also  combines 
these  two  fabrics. 

Louella  Ballerino  made  the  white  cot- 
ton pique  play  dress  (right)  and  styled 
it  in  ballerina  fashion  with  a  circle 
skirt,  wing  shoulders  and  a  ruffle  edged 
corselet  that  laces  up  the  front  with 
navy  blue  cord  to  match  the  trim. 

Polka  dot  and  plain  fabric  combine 
in  Catalina's  satin  lastex  one-piece, 
front-skirted  1940  bathing  suit  (top). 
The  body  of  the  suit  is  wine  red — the 


'Von    a  w'nter   , 
^e,     c    lin     *n<*  i,L?°«      l(Jl 


3dr 


A  white  cotton  pique  pla  dress, 
styled  in  ballerina  fashic  with 
circle    skirt    and    wing    sr  jlders 

brassiere  top  and  belt,  powder  b  e  with 
white  dots. 

A  summary  of  resort  and  crui  fash- 
ion news  places  particular  st  ss  on 
color,  not  only  the  brilliant  hue  of  last 
year,  but  also  an  abundance  of  astels. 
White  holds  its  supremacy  as  t  lead- 
ing fashion  color.  Red  finds  )  ice  on 
every  other  costume  as  trim  onccent. 
In  general,  you'll  see  your  favorss  well 
represented— white  and  navy,  wite  and 
brown,  green,  blue,  yellow  and  pk. 


*  STANLEY  AND  LIVINGSTONE-20th 
Century-Fox 
Inspiring  and  dignified,  this  story  of  Henrv  M 
Stanley's  safari  into  darkest  Africa  in  search  of  Dr 


Spencct 


84 


Livingstone,  famous  British  missionary 
Tracy  and  Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke,  as  Livingstone  an 
sensitively  the  title  roles.  Nancy  Kelly  and  Richard 
Greene  are  seen  briefly  as  lovers,  while  Chari. 
Coburn  and  Walter  Brennan  furnish  wis™  „ 
comedy.    (Oct.)  v*  m 

STAR  MAKER,  THE— Paramount 

Bing  Crosby's  newest  vehicle  is  no  bargain  darn 
it!  It's  the  story  of  Gus  Edwards,  kiddie  impresa  „ 
Bing  plays  the  poor  songwriter  who  marries  Lou  » 
Campbell,  refuses  to  take  an  ordinary  job  and  crm 
ceives  the  idea  of  offering  children  to  the  nubh> 
as  entertainment.  This  introduces  sonsstromii-j 
Ware;  Walter  Damrosch  leads  aSymph^ 
orchestra;  Bmg  sings;  Ned  Sparks  and  Laura 
Hope  Crews  contribute  comedy.  (Nov.) 

STOP.   LOOK   AND   LOVE— 20th  Century. 
Fox  * 

"Marrying  daughter  off"  is  cleverly  exploited 
here.  Minna  Gombell  plays  the  mother  who 
married  to  \\  llham  Frawley,  expends  her  energy  to 
find  a  husband  for  daughter  Jean  Rogers  Ipan 
finds  Bob  Kellard.  but  Mama  almost  ruins  the 
romance.    (Nov.) 

•  THESE  GLAMOUR  GIRLS— M-G-M 

Youth  scintillates  against  a  college  background 
Anita  Louise,  Jane  Bryan  and  Ann  Rutherford  are 
three  lovely  debs,  and  you  know  Lew  Ayres  is  a 
college  senior  without  being  told.  A  crack  showsinl 
his  sophisticated  coating,  however,  when  Lata  i 
Turner,  honky-tonk  hostess,  shows  up  at  his  i 
school's  veddy  exclusive  houseparty.  Marsha  Hunt  J 
makes  a  fine  college  widow.    (Oct.) 

THREE  SONS— RKO-Radio 

It's  the  story  of  a  man  whose  consuming  interejB 
in  life  is  his  department  store,  and 
his  boys  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Only  they 
don't.  There  isn't  much  to  keep  you  fascinated.' 
Edward  Ellis  plays  the  father,  Kent  Taylor  J 
Robert  Stanton  and  Dick  Hogan  the  offspring' 
(Dec.) 

THUNDER  AFLOAT— M-G-M 

Captain  Wally  Beery  lives  on  a  tugboat  with  ■ 
daughter,  Virginia  Grey,  until  a  Boche  sub  puts 
them  off  and  sinks  the  tug.  Beery  joins  the  Navy 
so  he  can  get  revenge  but  his  former  rival,  Chestejl 
Morris,  is  now  his  superior  officer  and  Beery  doesn't! 
take  kindly  to  discipline.  So  he  takes  his  sub-chaser 
off  on  a  solo  hunt  for  the  enemy.  It's  a  persomM 
battle  between  Beery  and  the  subs.  (iVoti.) 

TORCHY  PLAYS  WITH  DYNAMITE-  j 
Warners 
Jane  Wyman  takes  Glenda  Farrell's  place  in  thill 
romantic  finale  of  the  Torchy  Blane  series,  when  she] 
walks  off  with  detective  Allen  Jenkins.  There'* 
prison  stuff,  and  a  chase.  Tom  Kennedy  and  Bruce 
MacFarlane  trot  along  with  the  story.  (Nov.) 

TWO  BRIGHT  BOYS— Universal 

Freddie  Bartholomew  and  Melville  Cooper,  s 
and  father,  live  by  their  wits,  get  in  the  clutches ofl 
Alan  Dinehart.  who  u-es  them  to  make  a  grab  atl 
oil  lands  owned  by  Jackie  Cooper  and  his  mothea 
Dorothy   Peterson.   The  boys  do_nice  jobs.  (Dec.j| 

UNDER-PUP,  THE— Universal 

Cinema  history  is  made  in  this  with  the  discovery^ 
of  a  new  singing  star — eleven-year-old  Gloria  Jean.' 
The  story  is  a  simple  one:  A  poor  girl  wins  a 
contest  and  is  taken  to  a  rich  girls'  camp.  All  the 
pampered  darlings  snoot  Gloria — except  little 
Virginia  Weidler,  but  Gloria  works  out  her  prob- 
lems with  the  aid  of  Billy  Gilbert,  Kenneth  Brown 
and  Billy  Lenhart.  Nan  Grey  and  Robert  Cum- 
mings supply  romance.  See  this.  (Nov.) 

UNEXPECTED  FATHER— Universal 

Reminiscent  of  Shirley  Temple's  "Little  Miss 
Broadway,"  this,  with  Sandy  Henville  playing 
Shirley's  role  of  a  child  in  danger  of  being  put  in  an 
institution  and  vaudeville  folk  rallying  round. 
Shirley  Ross,  Dennis  O'Keefe  and  Mischa  Auer 
stooge  for  the  charming  Sandy.    (Oct.) 

WAY  DOWN  SOUTH— Principal— RKO- 
Radio 
Bobby  Breen's  latest  has  better  interest  than  its 
predecessors.  Everything  happens  in  Louisiana 
when  Ralph  Morgan,  playing  Bobby's  father,  is 
killed  and  Edwin  Maxwell,  the  attorney,  tries  to 
rob  the  boy  of  his  inheritance.    (Oct.) 

•k  WHAT  A  LIFE— Paramount 

An  amusing  picture  in  which  Jackie  Cooper,  an 
adolescent  trying  to  make  adjustments  peculiar^ 
his  particular  age,  walks  away  with  a  difficult 
assignment.  Betty  Field,  Cooper's  sweetheart; 
James  Corner,  his  rival;  John  Howard  and  Kath- 
leen Lockhart  all  deliver  good  performances.  (Dec.) 

WHEN  TOMORROW  COMES— Universal 

Tragedy  and  trouble  stalk  Irene  Dunne  and 
Charles  Boyer  in  this.  It  all  starts  when  Charles,  a 
famous  pianist,  drops  into  the  restaurant  where 
Irene  is  a  waitress.  It  takes  a  hurricane  to  show 
them  that  they  love  one  another,  but  love  is  not  for 
them.  Charles  can't  desert  his  irrational  wife, 
Barbara  O'Neil.  You  may  like  this,  if  you  enjoy 
suffering  in  charming  company.    (Oct.) 

WOMEN,  THE— M-G-M 

Clare  Boothe's  Broadway  success  is  an  un- 
compromising story  of  the  eternal  battle  ot 
women  for  males  and  money.  Norma  Shearer  is 
excellent  as  the  devoted  mother  and  wife,  ana 
Joan  Crawford  is  in  there  slugging  as  the  hard- 
bitten clerk  who  uses  every  w. .  _■  to  catch  Norma  s 
husband.  The  fat  part  fell  to  Roz  Russell  and  she 
made  capital  of  it.  Mary  Boland  and  Joan  hon- 
taine  are  grand.  Both  sexes  will  have  fun  at  tins. 
(Nov.) 

•  WIZARD  OF  OZ,  THE— M-G-M 

This  superb  fantasy  of  a  little  girl  transported  by 
cyclone  to  a  magic  wonderland  is  a  "must  tor  cnii- 
dren  and  adults  alike.  The  cast  alone— "ans 
Morgan  in  the  title  role.  Judy  Garland  as  »'«  ; 
Bert  Lahr,  the  Cowardly  Lion:  Ray  Bolg«.  "* 
Scarecrow:  Jack  Haley,  the  Tin  Woodman:  » 
Burke,  the  Good  Fairy:  and  Margaret  Hamilton,  lie 
'  —itch;  might  have  been  dreamed  into  oeins 
lis  picture.    In  Technicolor.    (Oct.) 


„ 


ELEN  MACFADDEN  now  gives  you  new  secrets  of 


IN  HER  FIRST  BOOK 


CONTENTS 


KE  THE  RIGHT  ROAD  TO  BEAUTY 

Broadway  and  Hollyu:  od  Beauty  Marts  .  Does  Figure  or 

Face  Count  Most?  •  Itnprcn  ing  Physical  and  Facial  Traits 

[XG  LOYELTXESS  TO  YOUR  SKIX 

Ho:c  to  Banish   Skin  Defects  •   Facial  Creams  and  the 

Face  Mask  •  Some  Complexion  Facts 

ERE'S  BEAUTY  IX  YOUR  BATH 

Bathing-Its  Whys  and  Wherefores  •   The  Sun-bath  and 

Hole  to   Use  It  •  Help  Your  Skin  to  Breathe-In  Beauty 

IOI.ESOMEXESS  FROM  YOUR  FOOD 
Control  Your  Figure  hy  Your  Diet  •  Food  and  Skin  Col- 
oring •  Beauty-Builders  for  Your  Food  List 
E  SECRET  OF  YOUTHFULNESS 
Why  the  Wise  Exercise  •   Exercising  Indoors  and  Out- 
doors •  Deep  Breathing  Helps  Build  Beauty 

STROUS  HAIR  CAN  BE  YOURS 

Your  Hair  Can  Spell  Charm  •   Added  Beauty  for  Your 

Hair  •  Special  Xeeds  of  I'aricd  Types  of  Hair 

EP  THE  EYES  OF  YOUTH 

Beautify  Your  Eyes-But  Safely  •  What  You  Should 
Know  about  Eye  Makeup  •  Alassagc  and  Exercise  for 
Eye  Beauty 

STIXG  BEAUTY  FOR  YOUR  TEETH 

Haw  Foods  Promote  Tooth  Health  •  The  Tooth  Brush  and 
Tooth  Beauty  •  Exercising  Teeth  and  Gums 

HAXCE  YOUR  FACIAL  BEAUTY 

Accent  Your  Personality  by  Makeup  •  li'avs  to  Wake 

Lacy  Skin  •  Using  Po-jcdc'r  and  Rouge  Properly 

,KE  THE  BEST  OF  YOUR  TYPE 

Warnings  for  Blondes  and  Brunettes  ■   How  to   Choose 

Colors  Best  for  You  •  Improving  Eyebrows  and  Eyelashes 

AMOUR  CAN  BE  YOURS  TOO 

Hotv  Screen  Stars  Acquire  Allure  •    Ways  to   Improve 

Facial  Outlines  •  Personality  Plus  Can  be  Cultivated 

ILY  STEPS  IX  BEAUTY- BUILDING 

Practical   Beauty   Proaroms   for   Home   and    Office   Girls 

'Routines  to  Beautify   Your  Form   •   Hobbies  that  Pay 

Beauty  Dividends 


Up 


HELP  YOURSELF  TO  BEAUTY 


VOU  need  no  longer  wish  for  beauty.  You 
J  need  no  longer  envy  any  girl.  For  alluring 
bauty  and  radiant  loveliness  can  now  be 
yars.  Not  by  magic,  but  by  adhering  to  the 
soiling  secrets  revealed  by  Helen  Macfadden 
imer  exceptionally  practical  book  Help  Your- 
sc  to  Beauty. 

-lere,  without  doubt,  is  one  of  the  most  re- 
mrkable  books  of  our  time.  A  book  that  tells 
yo  how  to  develop  radiant  health  .  .  .  how  to 
ad  new  loveliness  and  glamour  .  .  .  how  to 
kep  the  glow  of  youth— at  all  ages. 

Daughter  of  Bernarr  Macfadden 

I  e  author  of  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty  is  the 
(1  ighter  of  Bernarr  Macfadden— America's 
N».  1  health  exponent.  Helen  Macfadden,  no 
mice  as  a  writer,  has  contributed  dozens  of 
o. standing  beauty  articles  to  Physical  Cul- 
tie  and  other  leading  magazines.  But  she  has 
s  ed  her  most  successful  beauty  secrets  for 
tis  great  new  book  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty. 
I  [re  you  will  discover  for  the  very  first  time 
hw  through  easy,  simple  methods  you  can 
r  tch  out  and  acquire  real  beauty  .  .  .  lasting 
bauty. 

Former  Ziegfeld  Follies  Girl 

Felen  Macfadden  was  one  of  the  late  Florenz 
/  igfeld's  glamour  girls.  Many  of  the  beauty 
screts  described  in  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty 
A-re  acquired  from  the  great  impresario  him- 

0NLY$1.00 

CJ    SALE    AT   ALL    BOOK    AND    DEPARTMENT    STORES 


HELEN  MACFADDEN 


self.  Others  were  taught 
her  by  her  father,  Ber- 
narr Macfadden.  Yet 
most  of  the  startling  new 
aids  to  beauty  were 
gleaned  by  personally 
interviewing  and  study- 
ing some  of  the  most 
lovely  ladies  in  Amer- 
ica. This  is  why  Help 
Yourself  to  Beauty  is  so 
important  ...  so  essential  to  your  future  Love- 
liness ...  so  necessary  to  your  future  happiness. 

Wake  Up  Your  Latent  Beauty 

Few  women  realize  that  they  themselves  hold 
the  key  to  their  own  beauty.  Few  women 
realize  that  they  can  accent  their  beauty  to 
glamorous  proportions  by  merely  knowing 
how  to  camouflage  their  defects  and  feature 
their  natural  loveliness. 

Yes,  beauty  is  something  that  can  be  won 
and  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty  is  the  book  that 
will  win  it  for  you.  For  packed  between  its 
180  exciting  pages  are  many  tricks  to  magnify 
your  beauty  and  develop  in  yourself  that  de- 
lightful and  exciting  thing  known  as  allure. 
That  elusive  quality  which  makes  all  the  dif- 
ference between  an  every  day  person  and  a 
romantic,  thrilling  personality. 


The  price  of  this  great  nctv 
book  is  but  $1.00  at  all  booksell- 
ers or  from  publishers  direct. 


Bernarr  Macfadden  says:  "In  any  nt  of  the 
world  — even  in  this  day  of  beauty-c  ture— you 
may  find  girls  and  women  who  appetless  beau- 
tiful than  they  should  be.  Importan&s  any  ex- 
ternal means  to  enhance  beauty  may  1  I  am  con- 
vinced that  the  sources  of  beautv  aivallure  are 
not  merely  superficial,  but  are  deep  sued.  That 


Help  Yourself  lo  Beauty  reflects  a  feminine  mind 
—as  it  happens  my  daughter  is  the  author— seems 
to  promise  a  more  fitting  touch  than  might  attend 
treatment  of  the  same  subject  on  my  part.  And 
this  promise,  I  believe,  is  fulfilled  in  this 

"You  should  find  it  a  safe  and  sure  guic 
charm  and  beauty." 


MACFADDEN1,  BOOK  CO.  L>«jpt.  i 

205  East  42nd  Street,  New  York,  X.  Y. 

i,  the  book  Help  Yourself 

!:;.]!  Men.  I  enclose  $1.00. 


rf* 


Watch  the  change  to  Chesterfield 

says  DONNA  DAE 

CHESTERFIELD'S  JANUARY  GIRL 

starring  with 
FRED  WARING'S  PENNSYLVANIANS 


FORECASTING  MORE  SMOKING  PLEASURE  FOR  1940 


Copyright  1940.  Liggett  &  Myers  Tobacco  Co. 


(change  to  Chesterfields  and  you'll  get 
what  you  want . . .  real  mildness  and  better  taste. 
You  can't  buy  a  better  cigarette. 


» 


FEBRUARY 


ISSUE 


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UIE  ORE  ROT 


Biont 


by  james  mm 


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A  FORMER  ZIECFELD  CLAMOUR  GIRL  GIVES  YOU  HER  SECRETS  FOR  AN 


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Satiny,  youthful  skin  •  Luxurious,  lustrous  hair 

Eyes  that  thrill  •  Facial  beauty  •  And  all 

those  charms  that  add   up  to 

RADIANT  GLAMOUR 


NOW,  for  the  first  time,  you 
can  discover  how  the  famous 
beauties  of  the  stage,  screen 
and  society  maintain  their  alluring 
complexions.  You  can  learn  how 
to  bring  luscious,  colorful  results  to 
the  most  commonplace  face.  How 
to  lend  sparkle  to  your  eyes,  glow  to 
your  cheeks,  vividness  to  your  lips. 
Yes,  you  can  learn  how  to  develop 
your  beauty  to  glamorous  propor- 
tions by  merely  following  the  simple, 
easy  instructions  contained  in  Helen 
Macfadden's  new  book,  Help  Your- 
self to  Beauty. 

Helen  Macfadden,  daughter  of  Ber- 
narr  Macfadden,  was  one  of  the  late 
Florenz  Ziegfeld  glamour  girls.  She 
has  packed  her  book,  Help  Yourself 
to  Beauty,  brim-full  of  practical, 
new  beauty  secrets  —  secrets  that 
will  enable  you  to  acquire  new  love- 
liness .  .  .  radiant  beauty. 

Beauty  Is  An  Art 

Today  no  girl  need  fade  out  of  the 
picture  because  her  face  is  not  as 
fair  as  her  ideals  dictate.  Smart 
girls  realize  that  beauty  is  an  art. 


And  beauty,  like  any  other  art,  can 
be  mastered  only  by  following  the 
advice  of  an  authority.  Copy  the 
simple  tricks  Helen  Macfadden  ex- 
plains in  Help  Yourself  to  Beauty 
and  you  can  master  the  art  of 
beauty. 

Everyone  who  reads  Help  Yourself 
to  Beauty  has  it  within  her  power 
at  this  very  moment  to  act  rather 
than  dream  of  what  she  would  like 
to  become  in  her  physical  appear- 
ance. Unless  you're  born  with  a 
stunning  figure  and  a  gorgeous  face, 
the  world  is  not  going  to  come  and 
seek   you   out.     You've  got   to  do 


CRITICS   RAVE   OVER   HELEN    MACFADDEN'S    BOOK 


New  York  Mirror:  A  guide  to 
health  glamour  via  food  and 
exercise  •  New  York  Times: 
Advice  on  charm  •  New  York 
Herald  Tribune:  General  and 
specific  care  of  personal  appear- 
ance •  New  York  World-Tele- 
gram: Helen  Macfadden  gives 
a  fine  list  of  hints  which  should 
be  helpful  •  The  Boston 
Globe:  Tells  you  how  to  be  a 
glamour    girl      •      Philadelphia 


Daily  News:  A  prerequisite  to 
beauty  •  Newark  Sunday  Call: 
Miss  Macfadden  has  injected 
plenty  of  common  sense  into 
her  advice  to  beauty  seekers 
•  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Enquirer:  A 
practical  new  handbook  of  fem- 
inine loveliness  •  Charleston 
Gazette:  The  book  has  an  easy, 


Cont 


suggestions  on 


tha 


be   followed 


itb 


West     Palm     Beach     Post     and 


consideration  different  needs 
for  office  girls  and  housewives. 
The  book  is  a  good  one  • 
Winston-Salem  Journal  and 
Sentinel:  Help  Yourself  to 
Beauty  is  the  book  that  tells 
you  how  to  keep  your  zest  for 
life  and  with  it  that  "school- 
girl complexion"  •  Bridge- 
port, Conn.,  Times-Star:  A 
straightforward  and  eminently 
sensible  plan  for  every  woman. 


H 

ssA 

things  to  yourself  and  for  yourself 
if  you're  going  to  be  rated  as  an 
attractive  girl  or  woman.  It's  easy 
to  visualize  one's  self  as  a  radiant, 
lovely  being.  But  achieving  that 
dream  is  built  on  cleverness  plus  a 
foundation  of  health!  Beauty  is 
something  that  can  be  won  and  Help 
Yourself  to  Beauty  will  win  it  for 
you. 

This  practical  handbook  of  beauty 
contains  chapters  on  the  care  of  the 
hair,  skin,  teeth,  eyes,  and  gives  a 
series  of  daily  steps  in  beauty- 
building,  with  special  attention  to 
routines  for  the  beautification  of  the 
figure. 

Get   This  180-Page  Book  Today 

Help  Yourself  to  Beauty  has  an 
easy,  flowing  style  and  is  written  in 
simple,  understandable  language.  It 
contains  180  pages  and  is  beauti- 
fully bound  in  deep  red  cloth.  The 
price  of  this  splendid  book  is  only 
$1.00  postpaid.  Send  for  your  copy 
of  this  amazing  book  TODAY. 


MACFADDEN  BOOK  CO..  Dept.  P-2 

205  East  42nd  Street.  New  York.  N.  Y. 

Send  me,  postage  prepaid,  the  book,  Help  Your- 
self to  Beauty,  by  Helen  Macfadden.  I  enclose 
$1.00. 


Z^tH^T 


By  Frances  Hughes,  New  York  Fashion  Editor 
Assisting    Gwenn    Walters,    Fashion    Editor 


FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


1.  YOUR  OVERHEAD 

"Your  first  spring  hat  must  top  your  suit," 
says  Gage,  doing  over  our  fall  favorite,  the 
postilion,  into  a  slick  straw  braid  for  spring! 
Exotic  violets  ...  a  chenille-dotted  veil  .  .  . 
we  gals  certainly  cling  to  the  frivolities  that 
flatter.  And  we  baffle  our  beaux  by  team- 
ing this  coachman's  folly  with  our  most 
severely  tailored  suits.  We  ourselves  are 
just  as  baffled  by  the  tiny  price— $5.00. 


2.  LIPS  AND  FINGERTIPS 

We've  often  wondered,  haven't  you, 
why  such  nail  polish  experts  as  Rev- 
Ion,  knowing  that  smart  women  al- 
ways match  lips  to  fingertips,  never 
took  that  one  next  step  that  would 
have  made  life  so  simple  for  us  gals — 
made  lipsticks  to  match  their  nail  var- 
nishes? And  now,  suddenly,  they  have. 
They've  already  matched  their  famous 
nail  varnishes — "Bravo,"  "Red  Dice," 
"Windsor,"  "Chilibean,"  "Shy"  and 
"Sunrose"  to  lipsticks,  complete  in  a 
harlequin  pouch  to  carry  in  your  purse 
wherever  you  go.  $1.60 — and  it's  just 
what  you've  been  waiting  for. 


3.  FIFTY  YEARS  OF  COOKING  UP 
CREAMS 

After  50  years  of  concocting  a  Per- 
fect Cold  Cream,  Dagget  &  Ramsdell 
have  just  whipped  up  a  brand  new 
formula.  The  new  baby  is  lighter 
and  fluffier  even  than  a  whipped 
cream  dessert!  But  for  its  wrap- 
pings, they  went  back  to  fifty  years 
ago  in  celebration  of  their  Golden 
Jubilee — fifty  years  of  cooking  up 
creams!  You'll  like  the  quaint  Vic- 
torian lettering  on  the  labels;  the 
pearly  jars  and  the  pale  pink  covers. 
And  you'll  be  specially  glad  to  hear 
that  they've  kept  the  good  old  price 
of  10c  for  the  tiniest  jar,  up  to  $1.15 
for  the  biggest. 


4.  SWEATER  STORY 

Leon  brings  back  the  "little  girl" 
sweater  in  Tish-U-Knit,  to  team  with 
pastel  flannel  skirts.  Like  any  self- 
respecting  baby  sweater,  it  buttons 
down  the  back;  the  front  is  cut  out 
into  graceful  flower  petals.  As  for  the 
new  lacy  stitch,  you'll  have  to  quote 
the -tiny  price  of  $3.00  before  even 
the  experts  will  believe  it's  not  hand- 
made! Your  pick  of  every  pastel  on 
the  Florida  palette. 


5.  TRICKS  FOR  THE  TUB 

It's  gadgets  like  these  pink  bath 
sponges  of  Schiaparelli's,  reeking  of 
Shocking  perfume,  that  make  the 
daily  scrub  in  the  tub  a  pleasure  in- 
stead of  a  bore.  Plop!  and  they 
dilate  into  full  size  washcloths, 
scrub  you  clean  and  make  you  smell 
sweet  for  hours  after.  Ten,  tucked 
into  this  pretty  cylinder,  will  cost  you 
$1.50  and  add  ten  times  the  fun  to 
every  bath. 


6.  TO  A  BEAUTY 

Sweets  to  the  sweet,  and  to  a  beauty, 
this  beautiful  square  gold  compact 
and  lipstick  duet  by  Elizabeth  Arden. 
Engine-turned,  with  neat  little  golden 
ribs  for  service  stripes,  and  a  plaque 
that  simply  sings  out  for  a  mono- 
gram. The  one-arm  lipstick  simpli- 
fies life  with  an  automatic  pop-up 
top,  while  the  jeweled  slide  makes 
extra  elegance  to  look  at.  You  can 
snare  the  set  for  $4.50 — and  little 
enough  for  such  superlative  taste. 


Going  some  place?  Most  everybody  is  this  winter.  You'd  be  surprised  if  you 
knew  the  vital  statistics  of  vacations!  One  of  the  biggest  department  store-  in 
the  country  told  us  that  40  per  cent  of  their  people  are  now  taking  winter  instead 
of  summer  vacations  every  year!  As  for  the  leisure  classes — well,  you  know  how 
they  follow  the  sun!  So  we  simply  put  two  and  two  together  and  decided  to 
find  you  some  going-away  gadgets  this  month.  Then  somebody  said,  "But  there 
are  stay-at-homes  too,  in  spite  of  the  statistics."  So  we  compromised.  We  looted 
the  shops  and  emerged  with  something  for  everybody.  Business  girl  or  butterflv, 
gadabout  or  grind,  there's  something  for  you  personally  in  these  pages.  Take 
your  pick,  then  write  to  Frances  Hughes,  Photoplay  Magazine,  122  East  42 
Street,  New  York  City,  for  the  name  of  the  shop  that  sells  it. 


7.  PUT  IT  IN  WRITING 

Don't  go  off  without  your  note  paper. 
How  are  people  to  know  you're  "hav- 
ing wonderful  time"?  Tell  them 
about  it  on  Eaton's  "Louis  XIV," 
which  comes  in  such  pleasant  colors 
as  shell  pink,  mist  blue,  or  tawny 
white,  with  deckled  edges,  too,  for 
extra  swank.  For  fifty  cents  you  get 
24  notes  and  24  envelopes  in  a 
spirited  box  with  a  circus  pony 
prancing  on  the  cover.  Gadabouts 
will  want  to  write  to  stay-at-homes 
and  vice  versa. 


.NICE  FOOTWORK! 

Look  what's  happened  to  Kedettes!     The  U.  S. 
Rubber    Company    kept   only    the    rubber   soles, 
then   started  a  revolution!     Beautiful   uppers  of 
tweedy   cotton    plaid    or   snow-white   linen  .  .  . 
wedge  soles  for  perfect  arch  support 
.    .   .   peep   toes   for   air-conditioning, 
and  shirred  elastic  ankle  straps  for 
artful  anchorage.   The  price  tag — be- 
lieve it  or  not — reads  under  $3.00; 


9.  DOUBLE  SUB-DEB  OR  NOTHING! 

Try  Coty's  "Double  Sub-Deb"  lipstick 
and  you'll  settle  for  nothing  less.  The 
Double  Sub-Deb  makes  a  point  of 
doubling  up  on  everything.  Double 
intensity  in  the  Magnet  Red  for  lips 
that  must  be  doubly  red  this  season; 
and  double  the  usual  quantity  of 
lipstick  in  a  handsome  case  that  sells 
for  less  than  half  the  usual  price— 
$1.00. 


10.  YOUR  UNDERPINNINGS 

Let's  assume  you're  heading  south — 
a  lovely  thought!  You'll  make  your 
get-away  in  a  suit,  but  underneath 
it  all  there  ought  to  be  a  "Vassarette" 
if  you're  interested  in  a  streamlined 
chassis.  Hand-span  figgers  can  do 
with  the  Junior  pantie-girdle  at  $3.50, 
but  the  lady  of  parts  will  want  this 
$15.00  Vassarette  De  Luxe,  a  per- 
suasive ruler  of  "Lastex,"  rayon  and 
lisle,  with  a  tricote  bra  that  melts 
into  your  skin  and  Inviz-A-Grip  gar- 
ters to  banish  all  bulges. 


11.  HOW'S  YOUR  LUBRICATING 
SYSTEM  ? 

Drying  up  this  winter?  Never  mind! 
Charles  of  the  Ritz  has  a  dandy 
Sensitive  Skin  Cleanser  that  takes 
care  of  everything.  Going  on,  it 
feels  like  rich  table  cream.  Coming 
off,  it  seems  to  melt  the  grime  off 
with  it,  and  no  need  to  stretch  and 
pull  and  punish  your  face  to  get  it 
clean.  A  very  good  thing  for  sensi- 
tive skins,  too,  for  they  require  in- 
gredients that  soothe  and  lubricate 
while  they  dig  in  for  dirt.  Think,  too, 
how  elegant  the  cone-shaped  bottle 
will  look  on  your  bathroom  shelf  or 
dressing  table.  $1.25  to  $4.00,  ac- 
cording to  size. 


FEBRUARY 


940 


(Far  More  Shopping  News,  See  Page 


Nineteen- forty  brings 


DAVID  O    SELZNICK*S/.nw/«rt/w  of  MARGARET  MITCHELL'S 

Story  of  the  Old  South 

GONE  WITH  THE  WIND 

in  TECHNICOLOR  starring 

CLARK  GABLE 

as  Rhett  Butler 

LESLIE  HOWARD  •OLIVIA  De  HAVILLAND 

and  presenting 

VIVIEN  LEIGH 

as  Scarlett  O'Hara 

A  SELZNICK  INTERNATIONAL  PICTURE 

Directed  by  VICTOR  FLEMING 

Screen  Play  by  SIDNEY  HOWARD    •    Music  by  Max  Sterner     > 

A  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  Release 


PHOTOPLAY 


MOTION 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN 

EXECUTIVE   EDITOR 


HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL 


ART   EDITOR 


RUTH  WATERBURY 

EDITOR 


FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 


On  the  Cover — Clark  Gable,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse 

HIGHLIGHTS    OF   THIS    ISSUE 

Vivien  Leigh,  Rhett  Butler  and  I Clark  Gable  ^  1  •  # 

as  told  to  Ruth  Waterbury         12  J  tofaGMCUULGVll 

A  Cable' s-eye  view  of  '  'Gone'with  the  Wind"  +***  rvTrn^^rvr  •-• 

How  Movies  Can  Help  Keep  Us  Out  of  War  ....       Eleanor  Roosevelt        15 
America's  First  Lady  offers  a  solution  for  today's  most  vital  problem 

The  Man  Garbo  Would  Diet  For Harmony  Haynes  16 

Can  this  be  love?  Ask  Dr.  Hauser  himself!  .  .  .__    ,  ...  _-»...     ,  ,        .,  ,, 

T         T  .    T        ,  ..    _  „  //   I  AMES  HILTON  does  not  write  for  the  screen," 

Tears  Into  Laughter Jim  Tully  17 

Barbara  Stanwyck's  story— as  only  an  Irishman  can  tell  it  J    sa;d  Frank  S.  Nugent  in  his  glowing  review  of  "We 

Round-Up  of  Neglected  People Sara  Hamilton  18  .       „  .      ,       M       v    ,   T.  nLJ. 

Eight  talented  players  very  much  in  the  spot-news-light  Are   Not  Alone      in   the    New  York  limes.        Mis 

Categorically  Speaking as  told  to  Howard  Sharpe  nove|s  have  a  quietude,  a  gentleness  and  charm  which 

Bill  as  Seen  by  Myrna  Loy 20 

Myrna  as  Seen  by  Bill  Powell 21  are,  ostensibly,  too  fragile  and  too  precious  to  with- 

Cash— and  Cary       .        .        .        .       .        .        .        .        .        .        .     Alma  Roberts  22                           stand  +he  hurly-burly  trip  into  cinemaland.  Yet .  .  .  "We 

What  money  has  done  for  Mr.  Grant — and  vice  versa  '           ' 

We  Are  Not  Alone James  Hilton  23                           Are  Not  Alone'  emerges  as  a  film  of  rare  tenderness 

Photoplay' s  Movie  Book  of  the  Month    (somewhat  condensed)  complete  .  ...                                     . 

in  this  issue.'  and  beauty  ...  Mr   Hilton,  we  repeat,  does  not  write 

Photoplay  Fashions  .        .       .       .        .       .       .       .        .       .        .   Gwenn  Walters       49  for  the  screen;  but  the  screen  has  found  in  his  writings 

Advance  styles  for  playtime  wear,  both  before  and  after  dark 

Swiss  Family  Hollywood Gene  Towne  and  Graham  Baker       64  a  vast  store  of  the  one  substance  it  so  greatly  needs: 

Up-to-the-minute  fiction  in  laugh-a-minute  speed  .       ,, 

Claudetle  Colbert  Tells  Why  I  Like  Hollywood    .        .        as  told  to  Jack  Smalley       67  Humanity. 

She's  an  enthusiastic  "native  daughter."  Can  you  guess  her  reasons? 

Mr.  Nugent  ends  his  report  with  the  comment,  "It 
The  Camera  Speaks: —  ,  ,  .,      ,         ».  ...  „ 

must  be  counted  one  ot  the  best  tilms  ot  the  year. 

Old  Stars  Wear  Best 40 

They  made  film  history  in  silent  days— they're  making  it  today.  ,        , .    .       .       .,    .  - 

„,.„._,,  ._  And  the  book  on  which  it  is  based,  I  submit,  is  one  of 

Iheir  ravonte  Photographs 42 

Chosen  by  Hollywood' s  favorite  photographers  the  best  novels  of  its  year.    That  novel  is  published  in 

A  sneak-preview  of  the  film  starring  Laurence  Olivier  and  Joan  Fontaine  this  issue  of  PHOTOPLAY.     For  the  price  of  this  mag- 

Jeanie  with  the  Light  Brown  Hair 48  azine  you  are  offered  this  dividend— and  will  be  of- 

Holiday  treat!  Special  arrangement  of  a  Stephen  Foster  love  song!  ' 

fered  a  similar  dividend  in  each  issue  of  PHOTOPLAY 

NEWS,    VIEWS    AND    REVIEWS 

from  now  on. 

Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars 1 

Boos  and  Bouquets 4  The  ^ovie  Book  of  the  Month  Is  an  innovation  that 

Choose  the  Best  Picture  of  1939 5 

Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures 6  I  hope  you  will  like.    Some  of  the  greatest  writers  of 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury  9  America  and  England  will  be  included  in  this  library! 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade  46 

Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 59 

The  Shadow  Stage 62 

PHOTOPLAY'S  Own  Beauty  Shop Carolyn  Van  Wyck  68  •"!  // 

Movies  in  Your  Home Jack  Sher  70  >  ^jK/^/P' 

Hands-Up! Frances  Hughes  75  {/X/VJ*^  (J 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 87 

VOL.  LIV.,  No.  2,  FEBRUARY,  1940 

Published  Monthly  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.,  333  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  111.  •  Bernarr  Macfadden,  President  •  Irene  T.  Kennedy,  Treasurer  •  Wes.oy  F.  Pape  Secretary  •  General  Offices, 
205  East  42nd  St  New  York  N.  Y  •  Editorial  and  Advertising  Offices,  Chanin  Building,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Curtis  Harrison,  Advertising  Manager  •  Charles  H.  Shattuck,  Manager,  Chicago 
Office  •  London  Agent  Atlas  Publishing  and  Distributing  Company,  Ltd.,  18  Bride  Lane,  London,  E.  C.  4  •  Yearly  Subscription:  $2.50  in  the  United  States,  $3.00  in  U.  S.  Possessions  and  Territories,  also 
Cuba,  Mexico  Haiti  Dominican  Republic,  Spain  and  Possessions,  and  Central  and  South  American  countries  excepting  British  Honduras,  British,  Dutch  and  French  Guiana.  $2. SO  in  Canada  and  New- 
foundland. All  other  countries  $5.00.  Remittances  should  be  made  by  check,  or  postal,  or  express  money  order  •  CAUTION— Do  not  subscribe  through  persons  unknown  to  you  •  While  manuscripts,  photo- 
graphs and  drawings  are  submitted  at  the  owners'  risk,  every  effort  will  be  made  by  this  organization  to  return  those  found  unavailable  if  accompanied  by  sufficient  1st  class  postage,  and  explicit  name  and 
address.  But  we  will  not  be  responsible    for    any  losses    of  such    matter.  Entered    as  second-class  matter  April  24    1912    at  the  post-office  at  Chicago,  111.,  under  the  act  of  March  3,  1879.  Copyright,  1940,  by 

Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  de  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TEST 

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A  "ROARING"  MISTAKE? 

I  HIS  is  a  big  "boo"  for  Priscilla  Lane; 
in  fact,  it  is  a  blast  of  icy  contempt,  be- 
cause she  was  too  much  of  a  cream  puff 
to  dress  the  part  for  "The  Roaring 
Twenties."  Everyone  else  in  the  cast 
was  willing  to  wear  the  clothes  and 
hairdress  of  the  era  the  picture  tried  to 
recreate,  but  she  wore  a  1939  coiffure  all 
through  the  play,  in  her  part  as  a  night- 
club singer.  What  singer  in  those  days 
failed  to  have  a  shingle  or  boyish  bob? 
None.  I  suppose  the  cream  puff  was 
afraid  to  "sacrifice"  six  inches  of  her 
precious  tresses  for  verisimilitude! 
Priscilla  Lane  is  not  the  first  (witness 
Ginger  Rogers  in  "The  Castles") ,  but  she 
is  the  worst  so  far.  If  they  won't  co- 
operate, let  them  retire.  There  are 
dozens  of  competent  actresses  who 
would  have  their  ears  shingled,  if  nec- 
essary, for  a  part  like  this! 

Rosemary  Allen, 
San  Francisco,  Calif. 


Irish  colleen  in  California:  Maureen 
O'Hara — who  plays  the  gypsy  girl 
in  "The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame" 


COMPLETE  WITH  SOUND! 

IN  a  recent  broadcast,  I  heard  a  certain 
individual  who  had  appeared  in  "The 
Great  Train  Robbery,"  and  other  early 
thrillers.  Hearing  this  gentleman  talk 
about  the  old  days  in  pictures  caused 
me  to  reminisce  just  a  little. 

Along  in  1898  or  1899,  at  a  street  fair 
in  Keokuk,  Iowa,  in  a  black  tent,  oper- 
ated by  Lester  and  Kent,  I  witnessed  my 
first  motion  picture.  Later,  probably 
1904,  I  was  perhaps  the  first  person  in 
the  country  to  introduce  sound  effects  in 
motion  pictures.  This  was  done  in  con- 
nection with  that  epic  of  the  screen, 
"The  Great  Train  Robbery,"  at  a  fire- 
men's tournament  in  Council  Bluffs, 
Iowa.  At  this  time,  I  worked  for  a  gen- 
tleman by  the  name  of  Peterson,  who, 
in  a  large  storeroom,  operated  a  penny 
arcade  and  ice-cream  cone  counter  at 
the  front  end  and  a  motion -picture  show 
at  the  back. 

After  operating  "The  Great  Train 
Robbery"  a  short  time  as  a  silent  pic- 
ture, I  conceived  the  idea  of  making  the 
shooting  episodes  a  little  more  realistic. 
Accordingly,  we  moved  the  curtain  out 
about  three  feet  from  the  wall  and,  with 
five  .22  revolvers,  two  .32's  and  one  .38 
— sitting  in  a  convenient  window  back 
of  the  curtain  so  that  the  guns  could  be 
pointed  out  the  window  in  order  not  to 
fill  the  room  with  smoke — we  let  'em 
have  it.  After  we  had  the  new  sound 
effects,    we    certainly   packed   them   in. 


During  the  scene  where  the  bandits 
blew  up  the  safe  in  the  middle  of  the 
express  car,  I  would  stand  right  behind 
the  curtain  with  the  .38  and,  as  the  safe 
blew  up,  I  would  pull  the  trigger.  The 
loud  effect  of  the  .38,  coupled  with  the 
fact  that  the  flash  could  be  seen  by  the 
audience  through  the  screen,  went  over 
big.  One  night,  during  this  particular 
part,  I  stood  a  little  bit  too  close  to  the 
screen,  and  the  discharge  of  the  gun  set 
the  curtain  on  fire,  but  it  was  put  out 
without  doing  any  material  damage. 

From  that  period  up  until  now,  one 
cannot  help  but  marvel  at  the  progress 
made  in  the  industry,  and  from  my  early 
observation  and  slight  connection  with 
the  industry  during  that  period,  this 
progress  is  of  never-ending  interest  to 
the  writer. 

J.  W.  Beckwith, 
Aberdeen,  S.  Dak. 

PHOTOPLAY  TAKES  A  BOO 

I  HE  trite  old  adage,  "There's  always 
first  time  for  everything,"  must  be  true. 
At  least,  this  is  the  first  time  I've  ever 
written  to  a  magazine,  either  in  com- 
mendation or  condemnation.  Up  until 
now,  Photoplay  has  always  managed  to 
give  a  fairly  accurate  and  unbiased 
criticism  of  the  current  pictures.  There- 
fore, I  felt — after  reading  the  review  of 
Mr.  Bromfield's  "The  Rains  Came"— that 
somehow  everyone  in  your  reviewing 
department  missed  reading  the  book. 

Surely,  if  one  had  read  it,  one  could 
never  in  his  wildest  imagination  have 
thought  that  Myrna  Loy  gave  the  slight- 
est semblance  of  an  interpretation  of 
Lady  Esketh's  character.  Even  in  the 
picture,  Lady  Esketh  was  obviously  not 
a  nice  person  and  apparently  Miss  Loy 
was  in  a  tough  spot — -trying  to  be  Lady 
Esketh  and  Myrna  Loy  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  with  the  unfortunate  result 
that  she  was  neither  one  nor  the  other 
very  convincingly. 

George  Brent  did  a  swell  job  of  car- 
rying the  entire  picture  with  the  very 
adequate  help  of  Maria  Ouspenskaya. 
They  and  they  alone  almost — I  repeat, 
almost — saved  what  might  have  been 
one  of  the  outstanding  pictures  of  ths 
year  from  being  a  complete  bore.  In 
short,  "The  Rains  Came,"  if  honestly 
analyzed,  let  a  powerful  book  down  with 
a  horrible  thud. 

Do  please  continue  with  your  honest 
opinions  of  pictures  and  do  not  let  even 
the  charming  Miss  Loy  lead  you  astray, 
as  we,  the  good  old  public,  must  have 
at  least  one  reliable  source  of  informa- 
tion. 

Dorothy  S.  Page, 
Trenton,  N.  J. 

GOOD  TASTE 

W  HY,  oh,  why,  when  all  our  newspapers 
and  radios  are  screaming  of  war,  op- 
pression and  broken  faith,  have  the 
movies  chosen  to  drench  themselves  in 
(Continued  on  page  70) 


PHOTOPLAY 


CHOOSE  THE   BEST 
PICTURE     OF     1939 

Each  year  Hollywood  watches  for   PHOTOPLAY'S   Gold  Medal  Award. 
Once  again  our  readers  are  invited  to  select  the   winner.    Vote  now! 


THE  balloting  for  "The  Best  Picture 
of  1939"  which  began  in  the  January 
issue  is  making  Photoplay's  Gold 
Medal  Editor  work  overtime.  Indicative 
of  the  widespread  interest  in  our  famous 
award  are  the  hundreds  upon  hundreds 
of  votes  that  are  pouring  into  the  office. 
Is  your  vote  among  them?  If  not,  here 
is  your  chance  to  express  your  choice 
for  the  outstanding  picture  of  the  past 
year.  Tell  your  friends  about  it,  too. 
The  balloting  is  open  to  everyone — old 
and  young — and  every  vote  counts! 
The  winning  film  for  1938  was  "Sweet- 
hearts." Which  film  will  win  for  1939? 
The  Gold  Medal  Award,  which  has 
been  presented  by  Photoplay  every 
year  since  1921,  is  one  of  the  great  hon- 
ors of  the  screen  world.  The  winning 
picture  is  not  the  selection  of  a  small 
group  of  movie  "specialists."  It  repre- 
sents a  much  larger  vote  than  that.  It 
is  the  chosen  favorite  of  the  Smiths  from 
Main  Street,  the  Joneses  from  Broad- 
way; it  is  the  voice  of  all  America  and 
other  parts  of  the  world  (the  votes  come 
in  from  every  corner  of  the  globe) 
speaking  out  on  its  movie  preference. 
Small  wonder  Hollywood  carefully 
studies  the  results  of  this  poll! 

We  have  listed  here  many  of  the  out- 
standing pictures  of  1939  so  that  you 
may  refresh  your  memory  on  those  you 
saw  last  year.  We  wish  to  stress,  how- 
ever, that  your  selection  is  not  limited 
to  this  list.  You  may  vote  for  any  film 
released  in  1939.  (Note:  Due  to  the  fact 
that  their  release  dates  have  been 
changed  to  1940,  we  have  had  to  omit 
several  films  included  in  last  month's 
list.) 

You  may  use  the  ballot  provided  be- 
low, or  just  write  your  choice  on  a  slip 
of  paper  and  mail  it  to  the  Gold  Medal 
Editor,  Photoplay,  122  East  42nd  Street, 
New  York,  N.  Y.  It  is  as  simple  as  all 
that! 

DON'T  FAIL  TO  CAST  YOUR  VOTE 
FOR  THE  BEST  PICTURE  OF  1939! 
DO  IT  NOW! 


0  UTSTA  N  D  I 
PICTURES     OF 


N  G 
1939 


Allegheny  Uprising 
Andy  Hardy  Gets 

Spring  Fever 
Another  Thin  Man 
Babes  in  Arms 
Bachelor  Mother 
Balalaika 
Beachcomber,  The 
Beau  Geste 
Blackmail 

Broadway  Serenade 
Cat  and  the 

Canary,  The 
Child  Is  Born,  A 
Clouds  Over  Europe 
Dark  Victory 
Daughters 

Courageous 
Destry  Rides  Again 
Dodge  City 
Drums  Along  the 

Mohawk 
Dust  Be  My  Destiny 
Each  Dawn  I  Die 
East  Side  of  Heaven 
Everything  Happens 

at  Night 
First  Love 
Five  Came  Back 
Four  Feathers 
Golden  Boy 
Gone  with  the 

Wind 
Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips 
Good  Girls  Go  to 

Paris 
Great  Victor 

Herbert,  The 
Green  Hell 
Gunga  Din 
Harvest 
His  Girl  Friday 
Hollywood 

Cavalcade 
Honeymoon  in  Bali 
Hunchback  of  Notre 

Dame,  The 
Idiot's  Delight 
In  Name  Only 
Intermezzo,  a  Love 

Story 
Jamaica  Inn 
Jesse  James 


Lady  of  the  Tropics 
Let  Freedom  Ring 
Little  Princess,  The 
Love  Affair 
Maisie 

Man  About  Town 
Man  of  Conquest 
Mr.  Smith  Goes  to 

Washington 
Ninotchka 
Nurse  Edith  Cavell 
Old  Maid,  The 
On  Borrowed  Time 
Only  Angels  Have 

Wings 
Private  Lives  of 

Elizabeth  and 

Essex,  The 
Pygmalion 
Rains  Came,  The 
Real  Glory,  The 
Rebecca 
Roaring  Twenties, 

The 
Rose  of  Washington 

Square 
Rulers  of  the  Sea 
Stagecoach 
Stanley  and 

Livingstone 
Stolen  Life 
Story  of  Alexander 

Graham  Bell,  The 
Story  of  Vernon  and 

Irene  Castle,  The 
These  Glamour 

Girls 
They  Shall  Have 

Music 
Three  Smart  Girls 

Grow  Up 
Tower  of  London, 

The 
Under-Pup,  The 
Union  Pacific 
We  Are  Not  Alone 
What  a  Life  . 
Wizard  of  Oz 
Women,  The 
Wuthering  Heights 
Young  Mr.  Lincoln 


1 

PHOTOPLAY     MEDAL     OF     HONOR     BALLOT 

GOLD  MEDAL  EDITOR 

PHOTOPLAY  MAGAZINE 

CHANIN   BUILDING,   122  EAST  42nd  STREET 

NEW  YORK  CITY 

In   my   opinion   the    picture    named    below   is  the 
best  motion-picture  production  released  in    1939 

NAME  OF  PICTURE 

NAME 

ADDRESS 

\\ 


You  cant  win  New  Luck  with 
an  Old  Shade  of  Powder!" 


Is  the  shade  that  flattered  you  once . . .  spoiling  your  charm 
today?  Find  the  one  shade  of  my  powder  that's  lucky  for  you  now! 


HOW  MANY  MONTHS  have  passed  since 
you  checked  up  on  your  jace  powder? 
Can  you  be  sure  that  right  now  you're  not 
wearing  a  shade  of  face  powder  that  is 
robbing  you  of  your  charm,  ruining  your 
chance  for  popularity? 

The  shade  you  wore  four  months  ago 
can  be  all  wrong  for  your  skin  as  it  is  today. 
For  skin  tones  change  with  the  seasons— 
and  the  right  shade  will  natter  you,  but 
the  wrong  shade  can  make  you  look  older 
—years  older. 

That's  why  I  make  my  powder  in  ten 
lovely  and  lucky  shades.  This  year  my 
new  Rachels  are  particularly  flattering. 
And  in  every  one  of  my  10  shades  you  will 
see  not  the  dead  grey  of  a  coarse,  dull 
powder. . .  but  only  the  opalescent  film 
that  lets  your  own  true  beauty  come  shin- 
ing through. 

Find  Your  Lucky  Shade!  Send  for  all 

ten  of  my  shades  which  I  am  glad  to  send 
you  free.   Perhaps  my  new  Champagne 


Rachel  will  be  your  lucky  one— perhaps 
Brunette— or  Natural.  I  urge  you  to  com- 
pare—compare—compare! Try  all  ten— 
don't  skip  even  one.  For  the  shade  you 
never  thought  you  could  wear  may  be  the 
one  right  shade  for  you. 

Make  the  "Bite  Test"  When  you  re- 
ceive my  ten  shades,  make  the  "Bite  Test" 
too.  Put  a  pinch  of  the  face  powder  you 
are  now  using  between  your  teeth  and 
grind  your  teeth  slowly  upon  it.  If  there's 
the  slightest  particle  of  grit  in  the  pow- 
der, this  test  will  reveal  it. 

Now,  make  the  same  test  with  Lady 
Esther  Face  Powder.  And  you  will  find  not 
the  tiniest  trace  of  grit.  Then,  you'll  under- 
stand why  Lady  Esther  Face  Powder 
never  gives  you  that  flaky,  "powdered" 
look  and  why  it  clings  so  perfectly  for 
4  full  hours. 

So  write  today  for  my  glorious  new  pow- 
der shades.  Find  the  one  that  transforms 
you  into  a  lovelier,  luckier  you! 


(You  can  paste  this  on  a  penny  postcard) 
Lady  Esther,  7118  West  65th  Street, 


r  p  n  n  |     Please  send  me  FREE  AND  POSTPAID  your  10  nc\ 
rlSLL.     face  powder,  also  a  tube  of  your  Four  Purpose  Fl 


shades  of 
ace  Cream. 


Men's  eyes  will  tell  you  when 
you've  jound  your  Lucky  shade  of 
Lady  Esther  Face  Powder. 


City. 


_State_ 


(IJ you  live  in  Canada,  urile  Lady  Esther,  Toronto,  Ont.) 


FEBRUARY,      I  940 


ADVENTURES  OF  SHERLOCK  HOLMES,  THE-20th  Century- 
Fox 

When  Professor  Moriarily  decides  to  steal  the  Crown  Jewels  from 
the  Tower  of  London,  he  doesn't  figure  on  Sheer-Luck  Holmes'  un- 
canny deductions.  Basil  Rathbone  and  Nigel  Bruce  play  Holmes 
and  Dr.  Watson.  Alan  Marshal  and  Ida  Lupino  are  the  lovers  and 
George  Zucco,  the  Professor.  Lots  of  murders  but  little  pace.  (Nov.) 

ALLEGHENY  UPRISING-RKO-Radio 

Before  the  American  Revolution  the  Allegheny  Valley  settlers 
worked  up  a  rebellion  to  keep  industrialists  from  selling  ammunition 
to  the  Indians.  John  Wayne  plays  the  leader  of  the  protesting 
settlers  and  Claire  Trevor  adds  the  romance.  Recommended  with 
reservations.    (Jan.) 

ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS-Paramount 

A  college  picture  in  which  football  gives  way  to  the  problems  of 
undergraduate  marriages.  The  story  revolves  around  the  marital 
woes  of  Joseph  Allen,  Jr.,  and  Jean  Cagney;  John  Arledge  and  Betty 
Moran;  Peter  Hayes  and  Virginia  Dale.     (Jan.) 

•  AMAZING  MR.  WILLIAMS,  THE-Columbia 

Melvyn  Douglas  carries  off  his  role  of  a  slap-happy  detective 
with  much  zest,  but  Joan  Blondell,  his  sweetheart,  can't  be  too 
happy  when  every  date  is  broken  because  of  a  murder.  Edward 
Brophy,  a  convicted  criminal,  Ruth  Donnelly  and  others  add  to  the 
fun.    Full  cf  laughs. 

•  ANOTHER  THIN  MAN-M-G-M 

Bill  Powell's  first  since  his  illness — and  it's  amusing.  As  usual, 
the  Myrna  Loy-Powell  family,  now  blessed  with  a  baby,  sparkles 
with  smart  talk.  Bill,  of  course,  gets  mixed  up  in  another  murder 
mystery  in  which  C.  Aubrey  Smith  is  the  victim  and  his  daughter, 
Virginia  Grey,  complicates  the  plot.  Otto  Kruger  is  the  D.  A., 
aided  and  hindered  by  Nat  Pendleton.    (Jan.) 

•  BABES  IN  ARMS-M-G-M 

They  don't  come  any  funnier.  Mickey  Rooney,  as  the  son  of  ex- 
vaudeville  artist  Charles  Winninger,  tries  to  change  the  family 
fortunes  by  organizing  his  own  show.  With  the  aid  of  Judy  Garland, 
Betty  Jaynes,  June  Preisser,  he  puts  on  routines  that  will  have 
you  in  the  aisles.  Guy  Kibhee  is  the  kindly  judge  who  keeps  the 
kids  out  of  the  state  work  school.  Don't  miss  this.  (Nov.) 

•  BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL-M-G-M 

It's  a  touchy  subject,  religion;  but  Virginia  Weidler  has  made  this 
an  inspirational  film.  She's  an  orphan  whose  faith  has  its  effect  on 
adults.  Gene  Reynolds  foils  for  her;  Guy  Kibbee,  Ian  Hunter  and 
Henry  Hull  contribute.    (Jan.) 

•  BALALAIKA-M-G-M 

The  title  is  the  name  of  a  cafe  in  Russia  in  1914  where  Cossack 
Prince  Nelson  Eddy  comes  upon  the  stunning  Ilona  Massey  of  the 
gorgeous  voice.  There's  a  revolutionist  plot,  the  war.  and  Paris 
after  the  war.  Eddy  dees  a  fine  job  and  is  in  perfect  voice.  Ilona  is 
a  discovery  and  an  important  one.    You'll  like  this.    (Jan.) 

BEWARE  SPOOKS-Columbia 

Rookie  cop  Joe  E.  Brown  is  assigned  to  catch  Marc  Lawrence, 
bank  robber,  but  Joe's  off  on  his  honeymoon  with  Mary  Carlisle. 
At  the  resort,  however,  he  runs  up  against  some  murders,  and 
there's  a  climax  in  a  spook  house.    Boo!    (Jan.) 

BLACKMAIL-M-G-M 

A  morbid  but  thrill-packed  movie  revolving  around  oil-well  fires 
and  the  methods  of  fighting  them.  There's  an  escaped  criminal,  a 


Consult  This  Movie  Shopping  Guide  and 
Save  Your  Time,  Money  and  P'" 


PICTURES    REVIEWED    IN 


SHADOW     STAGE 
THIS    ISSUE 

Page 

BIG  GUY,  THE-Universal 84 

CAFE  HOSTESS-Columbia  84 
CISCO  KID  AND  THE  LADY,  THE-20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox    84 

CITY  IN  DARKNESS-20th  Century-Fox  .  .  84 
COVERED  TRAILER,  THE-Republic  84 

DAY-TIME  WIFE-20th  Century-Fox  .  ...  84 
DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN— Universal   .    ...  84 

FOUR  WIVES-Warners 63 

GERONIMOI-Paramount  63 

GONE  WITH  THE  WIND— Selznick-M-G-M  62 
GREAT  VICTOR  HERBERT,  THE-Paramount    62 

GREEN  HELL-Universal 63 

GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS-Paramount  .62 

HARVEST-Marcel  Pagnol  Prod 84 

HIS  GIRL  FRIDAY-Columbia  63 

HONEYMOON'S  OVER,  THE-20th  Century-Fox  84 
JOE  AND  ETHEL  TURP  CALL  ON  THE  PRESI- 

DENT-M-G-M 84 

LEGION  OF  THE  LAWLESS-RKORadio  84 

LIGHT  THAT  FAILED,  THE-Paramount  .  63 
NICK  CARTER,  MASTER  DETECTIVE-M-G-M  84 
NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS,  THE-Paramount       .        84 

OF  MICE  AND  MEN-Roach-U.  A 63 

REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT-Paramount  84 

THAT'S    RIGHT -YOU'RE   WRONG -RKO- 

Radio 84 

TOWER  OF  LONDON-Universal  84 

TWO  THOROUGHBREDS-RKO-Radio  .84 
WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE-Warners 62 


•  INDICATES    PICTURE  WAS   ONE  OF  THE 
BEST  OF  THE  MONTH  WHEN  REVIEWED 


-r 


E  WS 


"The  Amazing  Mr.  Williams"  has  one 
weakness — curiosity.  Melvyn  Douglas, 
as  the  comedy-thriller  hero,  tries 
his  detecting  on  Ruth  Donnelly,  as 
Joan  Blondell  and  Ed  Brophy  look  on 


chain  gang,  and  Edward  G.  Robinson,  who  does  a  swell  job.  Gene 
Lockhart  and  Bobs  Watson  are  good,  too.  (Dec.) 

BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY-Columbia 

Dogwood  Bumpstead  loses  his  job;  Baby  Dumpling  loses  the  dog 
Daisy  and  goes  off  to  find  her.  Whereupon  the  original  catastrophe 
pales  into  insignificance.  Penny  Singleton,  Arthur  Lake  and  Larry 
Simms  remain  the  Bumpsleads.    (Jan.) 

CALL  A  MESSENGER-Universal 

The  Little  Tough  Guys  and  the  Dead  End  Kids  merge  in  this 
story  of  a  telegraph  official  (Robert  Armstrong)  who  thinks  he 
might  work  some  regeneration  by  giving  the  kids  jobs.  The  idea 
clicks.  Anne  Nagel,  Victor  Jory  and  Mary  Carlisle  support  the 
boys.  (Dec.) 

CALLING  ALL  MARINES-Republic 

Here's  a  strange  story  of  gangsters  who  attack  the  U.  S.  Marines 
to  steal  a  bomb.  There's  plenty  of  blasting  and  noise,  but  Helen 
Mack,  Donald  Barry,  Robert  Kent  and  Warren  Hymer  all  seem 
mildly  bewildered  at  what  they're  doing.  (Dec.) 

*  CAT  AND  THE  CANARY,  THE-Paramount 

A  thriller' — and  funny!  Paulette  Goddard  is  heir  to  the  estate 
of  an  eccentric  millionaire,  but  there's  a  second  will  in  case  she 
should  die  or  become  insane  within  a  month.  With  a  dangerous 
lunatic  loose,  uncanny  noises  and  clutching  hands,  there's  plenty 
to  keep  you  screeching.  Paulette  makes  a  convincingly  frightened 
heiress  and  shares  a  hectic  romance  with  Bob  Hope.  (Dec.) 

-A-  CHALLENGE,  THE-Denham  Films 

The  villain  of  this  melodrama  is  a  mountain;  the  hero,  the  breath- 
taking escapes  from  snowslides  in  the  Alps  in  the  1860's.  The 
rivalry  of  an  Italian  and  an  Englishman  (Luis  Trenker  and  Robert 
Douglas);  the  rivalry  of  three  countries  to  be  the  first  to  scale 
the  Matterhorn  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.  It's  intense  drama.  (Dec.) 

CHARLIE  CHAN  AT  TREASURE  ISLAND— 20th  Cenlury-Fox 

Routine  Chan  fare  with  philosophical  Charlie  uncovering  the 
hocus-pocus  of  one  Dr.  Zodiac,  mystic.  An  expose  of  fake  mediums, 
which  Sidney  Toler,  as  Chan,  docs  admirably.  Cesar  Romero, 
Pauline  Moore  and  Wally  Vernon  help  the  plot.  (Nov.) 

CHICKEN  WAGON  FAMILY-20th  Century-Fox 

Originally  scheduled  for  Will  Rogers,  this  has  been  adapted  to  the 
talents  of  Jane  Withers.  She's  swell,  but  the  piece  isn't  quite  right 
for  Leo  Carrillo,  who  makes  his  living  by  exchanging  merchandise 
for  chickens.  Spring  Byington  and  Marjorie  Weaver  contribute 
their  bit.    (Nov.) 

COAST  GUARD-Columbia 

Not  a  new  plot,  but  entertaining.    Randy  Scott  is  a  cocky  pilot  in 

the  coast  guard  who  wins  Ralph   Bellamy's  sweetheart  (Frances 

Dee)  away  from  him,  then  gets  himself  into  a  situation  from  which 

Bellamy  has  to  save  him.   Walter  Connolly  has  a  small  rcle.    (Dec.) 

(Continued  on  page  85) 


PHOTOPLAY 


THE  BRrogA 


PRISCILLA  LANE 

ROSEMARY  LANE 

LDLA  LANE 

GALE  PAGE 

The  Four  Daughters'  are  now  the 

FOUR 
WIVES 

(It's  a  Four  Belle  Picture) 

CLAUHE  RAINS 

Jeffrey  Lynn  •  Eddie  Albert 

MAY  ROBSON  •  FRANK  McHUGH 
DICK  FORAN  •  HENRY  O'NEILL 

Screen  Play  by  Julius  J.  and  Philip  G.  Epstein  and  Maurice 
Hanline  •  Suggested  by  the  Boob, "Sister  Act,"  by  Fannie  Hurst 
Music  by  Max  Steiner'A  Warner  Bros.-First  National  Picture 

Directed  by 

MICHAEL  CURTIZ 


The  Character  of 
'Mickey    Bordenr 

as  He  Appeared  in 
'Four  Daughters,* 

is    Portrayed    by 

JOHN 

GARFIELD 


W, 


**fi' 


fm 


EH 


J 


' 


ThRILLINGLY  ON  THE  SCREEN!  Those  stirring 
days  of  minstrels  and  river  boats. ..when  a  great  and  stormy  love  put  America's 
joys  and  sorrows  to  music  and  gave  us  the  songs  we  took  to  our  hearts  forever! 


Tlc>10* 


OLD  KENTUCKY  HOME 


SW**EE 


*IVER 


(OLD 


HOtoB) 


WW 


UKJEJ& 


The  Story  of  Stephen  C.  Foster,  the  Great  American  Troubadour 

with 

DON  AMECHE  •  ANDREA  LEEDS  •  AL  JOLSON 

and 

FELIX  BRESSART    •    CHICK  CHANDLER 

RUSSELL   HICKS     •    GEORGE   REED 

and  HALL  JOHNSON  CHOIR 

Directed  by  SIDNEY  LANFIELD  •  Associate  Producer  Kenneth 
Macgowan    •   Screen  Play  by  JobnTaintor  Foote  and  Philip  Dunne 

DARRYL  F.  ZANUCK  in  Charge  of  Production 

A  20th  Century-Fox  Picture 


PHOTOPLAY 


CLOSE  UPS 


LONG  SHOTS 


BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


Typifying  the  spirit  of 
Hollywood  today  —  Bob 
Young's  reaction  to 
"Northwest     Passage"  .  .  . 


9/OH;  *"<*  He„ 


HAPPY  NEW  YEAR,  readers,  from  Pho- 
toplay and  Hollywood  .  .  .  Photoplay 
will  most  certainly  try,  in  each  one  of  its 
next  twelve  issues,  to  give  a  glorious  one  to 
you  .  .  .  and  if  it  accurately  reflects  the  mood 
around  Hollywood  right  now  it  simply  must 
bring  you  happiness  .  .  .  for  Hollywood  is  in  a 
strange  new  mood  these  days,  but  one  which 
should  mean  wonderful  things  for  us  mere 
ticket-buyers.  .  .  . 

For  Hollywood,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  all 
save  pitiful  Europe,  is  settling  down  from  its 
war  jitters  .  .  .  the  hecklers  outside  the  film 
colony  always  say  that  we  inside  it  talk  nothing 
but  pictures  .  .  .  that's  only  half-true  .  .  . 
movies  are  an  absolutely  international  product 
and  therefore  what's  going  on  in  the  rest  of  the 
world  touches  Hollywood  in  its  sensitive,  eco- 
nomic nerve  .  .  .  but  even  more  important  than 
that,  the  people  who  make  pictures  today  come 
from  every  race  and  every  locality  .  .  .  the 
transatlantic  telephones  were  working  constant- 
ly while  Charles  Boyer,  Norma  Shearer,  Mau- 
reen O'Sullivan,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  George 
Raft,  and  many  others  were  over  there  .  .  .  but 
behind  these  glittering  people  there  are  the 
scores  of  musicians,  cameramen,  technicians 
who  are  German  or  French  or  Italian  or  Brit- 
ish-born and  who  have  friends  and  relatives  at 
the  front  to  worry  over.  .  .  . 

The  economic  worries  sobered  Hollywood  .  .  . 
then  its  heart  was  wrung  by  the  plight  of  inno- 
cent millions  of  human  beings  .  .  .  then  it  got 


concerned  with  its  own  labor  troubles  within 
the  studios  .  .  .  but  with  the  beginning  of  this 
new  year  the  town  that  is  supposed  to  be  all 
nonsense  has  adjusted  itself  in  a  way  that  re- 
flects the  sober,  shrewd  brains  that  actually 
guide  it  .  .  .  and  suddenly,  by  its  very  ability 
to  keep  on  being  itself  and  producing  its  own 
products,  you  do  realize  that  movies  are  truly 
creative  and  that  Hollywood  in  its  mood  today 
is  not  unlike  that  of  Fifteen  Century  Florence 
that,  when  wars  were  raging  all  about  it,  kept 
on  calling  up  the  beautiful  visions  which  Bot- 
ticelli and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Michelangelo 
painted  for  posterity.  .  .  . 

Hollywood  got  its  big  stars,  even  Boyer,  safely 
back  ...  it  has,  temporarily,  at  least,  settled  its 
labor  troubles  ...  it  is  quietly  learning  how  to 
make  good  pictures  at  a  lesser  cost  .  .  .  the  best 
of  the  English  producers  have  settled  down  here 
.  .  .  Eric  Pommer  and  Charles  Laughton,  Her- 
bert Wilcox  and  Anna  Neagle,  Alexander  Korda 
and  the  beautiful  Merle  Oberon,  the  very  Amer- 
ican Ben  Goetz,  who  produced  in  London  for 
M-G-M  .  .  .  they  are  all  in  town,  working 
vividly,  and  the  freshness  of  their  point  of  view 
is  bound  to  reflect  itself  in  the  pictures  that  will 
be  produced  in  the  next  year.  .  .  . 

rROWLING  around  Hollywood,  I  have  never 
encountered  more  enthusiasm  than  I  have  in  the 
last  month  .  .  .  (and  incidentally  how  one  does 
prowl  out  here  in  wintertime  .  .  .  just  as  Holly- 
wood does  everything  in  reverse  to  the  patterns 


everywhere  else,  it  takes  most  of  its  vacations 
in  the  winter  rather  than  in  summer  and  getting 
around  takes  a  rambling  reporter  from  the 
snows  of  Arrowhead  to  the  heat  and  charm  of 
the  desert  where  the  verbena  is  blooming  early 
this  year,  spreading  its  deep  purple  carpet  out 
miles  and  miles  over  the  yellow-white  sand  un- 
til it  is  engulfed  in  the  eternally  blue  sky).  .  .  . 

Henry  Fonda  simply  bubbles  over  when  he 
talks  about  the  new  flat  lighting  in  "Grapes  of 
Wrath"  and  John  Ford's  direction  .  .  .  Henry 
says  it  is  all  new  and  revolutionary  ...  no  in- 
dividual in  any  of  the  scenes  is  focused  upon, 
leaving  all  the  rest  of  the  cast  in  darkness  .  .  . 
(like  those  scenes  in  "The  Women"  where 
Norma  Shearer  has  so  much  light  on  her  face 
and  everyone  else  is  so  blacked  out  that  around 
town  they  said  the  billing  on  the  picture  ought 
to  be  "Norma  Shearer  and  her  Ethiopians") 
.  .  .  the  lighting  in  "Grapes"  makes  everyone 
in  all  the  scenes  look  exactly  as  they  do  in 
real  life.  .  .  . 

You  run  into  Robert  Young,  playing  the  role 
Bob  Taylor  turned  down  in  "Northwest  Pas- 
sage" and  he  is  glowing  with  excitement  over 
that  opus  .  .  .  Bob  says  the  picture  stops  where 
many  readers  believe  the  book  itself  should 
have  stopped  .  .  .  right  here  in  America  .  .  . 
but  that  he  thinks  it  is  going  to  be  one  of  the 
finest  things  ever  screened  ...  "I  hear  you're 
terrific,"  I  say  .  .  .  "Don't  you  believe  it,"  says 
Bob,  "I've  seen  myself  .  .  .  but  wait  till  you 
see  Tracy".  .  .  . 


Black-eyed  Ann  Rutherford,  she  of  the 
Hardy  family,  comes  hurdling  by  .  .  .  with  all 
this  talk  of  Linda  Darnell's  beauty  (all  of  which 
is  justified)  .  .  .  I  think  it  is  high  time  somebody 
talked  about  the  Rutherford  beauty  which  is 
just  as  striking  .  .  .  Ann  is  in  "Gone  with  the 
Wind,"  praise  be,  for  she  is  too  good  an  actress 
and  too  dynamic  a  personality  to  get  lost,  as  she 
might  otherwise,  in  a  series,  even  as  great  a  one 
as  the  Hardy s  .  .  .  the  kid  is  just  back  from  her 
first  trip  to  New  York  and  she  can  neither  sit 
still  nor  stop  talking  for  an  instant,  she  is  so 
thrilled  by  it  .  .  .  she  and  Lana  Turner  fall  on 
one  another's  necks,  throwing  "darlings"  around 
the  place  and  the  strong  men  of  Metro  going  by 
shake  like  jello  at  the  vibrant  contrast  of  red- 
head against  brunette.  .  .  . 

You  go  down  to  Palm  Springs  in  the  fond 
delusion  that  you  are  going  to  rest  and  the  first 
night,  sitting  in  the  Raquet  Club  bar,  you  are 
surrounded  on  all  four  sides  by  Gilbert  Roland, 
Charlie  Butterworth,  Ralph  Bellamy,  Wesley 
Ruggles,  Franchot  Tone,  Louise  Stanley,  George 
Brent  .  .  .  and  Ralph  tells  you,  with  a  mocking 
grin,  that  what  he  is  playing  in  this  new  version 
of  ("The  Front  Page")  "His  Girl  Friday"  at  Co- 
lumbia is  really  the  girl's  role  .  .  .  and  Gilbert 
is  aglow  over  the  fact  that  the  South  American 
market  is  getting  more  important  and  that 
therefore  he  is  being  offered,  at  long  last,  some 
contracts  worth  considering  .  .  .  and  Charlie 
Butterworth  talks  about  the  play  he  has  been 
signed  for  on  Broadway  this  winter  .  .  .  Wesley 
Ruggles  talks  about  the  curious  mix-up  where- 
by both  he  and  Leo  McCarey  got,  by  sheerest 
accident,  two  stories  with  identical  plots  for 
their  next  productions  .  .  .  and  meanwhile  the 
mood  rises  and  wanes  again  and  nobody  notices 
the  passage  of  time  because  the  conversation  is 
so  exciting  and  as  always  Brent's  remarks  assay 
as  far  and  away  the  most  intelligent  ...  it  is 
his  argument,  by  the  way,  that  "The  Fighting 
69th"  is  the  greatest  indictment  against  war  that 
has  ever  been  screened  .  .  .  "it  shows  the  hor- 
rible, senseless  futility  of  all  war,"  George 
says.  .  .  . 

IOU  come  back  to  town  to  rest  up  from  your 
Palm  Springs  rest  and  bump  into  Joel  McCrea, 
who  is  delighted  with  his  next  picture,  "He 
Married  His  Wife,"  and  who  says  he  is  so  busy 
that  he  barely  has  time  to  get  back  to  his  ranch 
nights  and  see  Frances  and  his  two  sons  .  .  . 
"It's  always  the  same  in  Hollywood,"  grins 
Joel.  "Either  you  don't  work  at  all  or  you 
work  yourself  into  a  nervous  breakdown"  .  .  . 
you  go  to  lunch  at  the  Somerset  House  (which 
is  quite  the  smartest  place  in  town  right  now, 
what  with  Ann  Lehr  giving  these  luncheons  for 
charity)  and  there  is  Irene  Dunne,  that  most 
perfect  lady,  who  confesses  she  quite  adores 
working  with  Cary  Grant  on  account  of  no  mat- 
ter what  her  mood  (and  being  Irish  she  is  nat- 
urally moody)  Cary  can  always  make  her  laugh 
.  .  .  you  go  to  the  Victor  Hugo  because  you 
want  to  hear  how  well  Rudy  Vallee  is  doing 
with  a  band  that  he  just  whipped  up  over  night 
right  here  in  town  .  .  .  and  there  is  Sonja  Henie 
of  the  dancing  eyes  who  chatters  like  a  mag- 
pie about  the  skating  tour  she  is  starting 
shortly  .  .  .  and  then  she  throws  you  completely 
by  inviting  you  to  watch  the  rehearsal  of  her 
troupe  and  when  you  accept  she  calmly  an- 
nounces that  rehearsals  start  at  seven-thirty 
a.m.  at  a  downtown  skating  rink  .  .  .  meaning 
you  must  get  up  at  five-thirty  to  keep  the  date 
.  .  .  but  somehow  you  do.  .  .  . 

IT  goes  on  and  on  like  that  .  .  .  day  after  day, 
and  particularly  night  after  night  .  .  .  and  you 
couldn't  be  human  and  not  respond  to  the  color 
and  vitality  of  it  .  .  .  and  then,  one  fine  day, 
you  go  for  tea  with  Maureen  O'Sullivan,  who 
did  the  daring  and  impossible  feat,  of  leaving 
Ireland  on  a  Tuesday  evening  and  landing  in 
Hollywood  the  following  Thursday  a.m.  .  .  .  and 
as  always  about  Maureen,  there  is  that  air  of 


"He  Married  His  Wife"  accounts  for  the 
broad  grin  on  Joel  McCrea's  face  .  .  . 

quietness  and  peace  .  .  .  the  sunlight  falls  down 
warmly  over  her  garden  and  there  is  no  sound 
anywhere  save  one  extravagant  bird  that  is 
singing  its  heart  out  as  it  perches  atop  a  white 
oleander  bush  .  .  .  and  Maureen,  who  was 
caught  in  London  the  day  war  broke  out,  and 
who  even  now  is  deeply  concerned  because  her 
husband,  John  Farrow,  may  be  called  up  any 
minute  .  .  .  Maureen  says,  "At  first  I  resented 
it  that  nobody  in  Hollywood  talked  the  war  .  .  . 
that  all  we  seemed  concerned  with  was  going  on 
and  making  things  funny  or  beautiful  or  poig- 
nant or  whatever  the  script  demanded  .  .  .  but 
now,  as  I  think  of  my  baby  asleep,  and  as  I  think 
of  all  the  other  people  who  are  in  love  and  who 
want  merely  to  be  happy  ...  I  see  the  wisdom 
of  it  .  .  .  and  I  begin  to  believe,  perhaps  quite 
irrationally,  that,  perhaps,  by  just  ignoring  this 
war,  we  may  escape  it  .  .  .  that's  what  I  hope, 
anyway.  .  .  ." 

That's  what  I  hope,  also  .  .  .  and  that's  what 
Hollywood  is  trying  to  do  .  .  .  and  there's  its 
plan  to  give  you  and  me  our  Happy  New  Year. 


. .  .  while  Sonja  Henie  chatters  about  a 
skating    tour    she    is    starting    shortly 


10 


BAD  GIRL- 


GOOD  GUY— GREAT  PICTURE.'.'.' 


'«E<WEMBER  THE 


NIGHT' 


'A"  you 


WOme»zrealike_ 


ything 


REMEMBER  THENIGH^ 


t0ups«aguy... 


have, 


,    «.  ™e  the  way  Y°u 


danced 
way  y°u 


haver 


v  for  a  good  gn? 
"That's  no  way  for  a  s 


to 


talk  to  a  bad  girU 


^O^tf^^ 


^mW/JUWvSttr/JL 


**»£=**•  *; 


s*-* 


I 


Barbara  Stanwyck  •  Fred  MacMurray 

REMEMBER  THE   NIGHT" 

Slick  as  "Honeymoon  in  Bali". . .  Explosive  as  "Midnight", . .  Romantic  as  "Love  Affair" 

with  BEULAH  BONDI 

Elizabeth  Patterson  •  Sterling  Holloway     •    Directed  by  Mitchell  leisen 

Original  Screen  Ploy  by  Preston  Sturges 


Of  Course 
X  '"AMOUNT  P.CU.- 


EBRUARY,      I  940 


f 


'/ 


That  reaction  certainly  shows  I'm  no  casting  director!" 


TO  begin  with  I'd  like  to  state  that  despite 
what  a  lot  of  papers  said  there  was  never 
any  feud  between  Vivien  Leigh  and  me 
during  the  filming  of  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  or  at 
any  time  thereafter. 

Hollywood  goes  just  as  much  to  extremes 
when  it  comes  to  male  and  female  stars  cast  to- 
gether as  it  does  on  any  other  subject.  Get  a 
man  and  a  woman  in  a  picture  together  and 
you  are  immediately  reported  as  either  fighting 
or  romancing.  The  fact  that  in  eighty  per  cent 
of  your  pictures  you  have  no  emotion  about 
the  beautiful  creature  opposite  you,  other  than 
an  interest  in  her  acting  ability,  is  never  printed. 
Yet  that's  the  truth  more  often  than  not. 

As  for  any  possibility  of  Vivien  Leigh's  fall- 
ing in  love  with  me  I  knew  that  was  out  from 
our  first  glance.  For  never  have  I  seen  any  girl 
more  completely  in  love  than  that  one  is — with 
Laurence  Olivier.  It's  as  visible  as  a  Neon  sign 
that  she  can't  think  or  talk  of  or  dream  about 
anything  or  anyone  else  on  earth — except  when 
she's  on  the  set.  When  she's  on  the  set,  she's  what 
a  good  actress   should  be.    She's   all  business. 


As  for  my  falling  in  love  with  her,  I'm  sure 
that  could  have  been  plenty  pleasant  except 
that,  added  to  her  lack  of  interest  in  me,  I 
didn't  have  any  heart  to  give  away,  either.  Mine 
was  staked  out  to  that  Lombard  girl  who  is 
mighty  beautiful  and  brainy.  Carole  and  I 
weren't  married  when  Vivien  and  I  first  met, 
but  we  did  marry  while  I  was  working  on  the 
picture  and  there's  a  story  about  our  wedding 
that  has  never  been  told  and  which  I'll  get  to 
presently. 

I'll  be  truthful  about  it,  however;  I'll  confess 
that  the  first  time  I  saw  her  I  doubted  that 
Vivien  could  really  play  Scarlett.  That  reaction 
certainly  shows  I'm  no  casting  director.  But, 
accustomed  to  the  more  abandoned  and  superfi- 
cial personalities  of  Hollywood  girls,  Vivien 
seemed  too  demure  to  me,  at  that  first  meeting, 
for  the  vivid,  relentless  Scarlett. 

David  Selznick  introduced  us  to  each  other 
at  a  dinner  party  at  his  home.  Vivien  was 
wearing  a  very  plain,  tailored  dress.  She's 
much  tinier  in  real  life  than  she  appears  on  the 
screen,  and  since  she  uses  little  make-up  she  has 


a  very  young,  unsophisticated  air.  Besides,  she 
had  all  the  fires  banked  that  evening  and  that 
Olivier  guy  was  her  escort. 

Now  I  know  I  should  have  stopped  to  con- 
sider all  that.  But  having  seen  Vivien  only  in 
"A  Yank  at  Oxford,"  in  which  she  didn't  have  a 
lot  to  do,  I  just  looked  at  her  that  first  evening 
at  David's  and  wondered  if  that  keen-minded 
producer  had  gone  haywire  when  he  signed  her. 

I  knew  he  hadn't  the  first  day  Vivien  and  I 
got  on  a  set  together.  (David  doesn't  go  hay- 
wire, anyway,  which  is  another  thing  I  should 
have  thought  about — but  as  a  profound  thinker 
I'm  a  good  duck-hunter.)  The  best  alibi  I  can 
offer  for  my  thickheadedness  is  that  my  mind 
was  preoccupied  with  Rhett  Butler.  He  had  me 
plenty  worried,  so  worried  that  I  didn't  want 
to  play  him. 

Don't  think  that  was  because  I  didn't  re- 
alize what  a  fat  part  he  was.  Rhett  is  one  of 
the  greatest  male  characters  ever  created.  I 
knew  that.  I'd  read  the  entire  book  through  six 
times,  trying  to  get  his  moods.  I've  still  got  a 
copy  in  my  dressing  room  and  I  still  read  it 


by  CLARK  GABLE 


AS    TOLD     TO 


RUTH  WATERBURY 


Everyone  else  has  had  his  say  about  what  went  on  behind  the  scenes  of 
"Gone  with  the  Wind."  Now  the  hero  himself,  in  a  startlingly  frank 
story,   tells   the   truth   about   the   year*s   most   exciting   cinematic    event 


once  in  a  while,  because  I  know  I'll  probably 
never  get  such  a  terrific  role  again.  But  what 
was  worrying  me,  and  still  is,  was  that  from  the 
moment  I  was  cast  as  Rhett  Butler  I  started  out 
with  five  million  critics. 

About  all  the  handicap  an  actor  ordinarily  has 
is  two  or  three  professional  critics  to  a  city 
which  adds  up  for  the  whole  world  to  about  one 
large  theater's  matinee  business.  Those  birds 
may  rap  you  and  while  you'd  prefer  their  praise, 
still  you  can  take  those  raps,  if  need  be,  hoping 
that  the  public  which  makes  up  all  the  millions 
of  other  movie-goers  will  like  you  regardless. 
But  five  million  people  have  read  "Gone  with 
the  Wind"  and  each  must  have  his  or  her  own 
idea  of  how  Rhett  should  be  played. 

There  was  not  only  that,  but  I  had  an  accent 
to  think  of,  long  hair  to  wear,  and  twenty-six 
costume  changes — more  than  Carole  has  ever 
had  in  any  one  of  her  pictures  (which  brought 
me  in  for  lots  of  ribbing  from  that  one,  too). 

Photoplay,  in  publishing  some  two  years  ago, 
a  sketch  of  me  as  Rhett  had  given  me  a  guide 
on  the  make-up  which  was  an  enormous  help, 
and  I  followed  that.  The  hair  was  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  growth  and  getting  used  to  going  without 
a  haircut.  All  those  things  were  headaches 
enough,  but  I  talked  with  Alicia  Rhett,  a 
Southern  deb  (she's  from  Charleston,  where 
Rhett  was  supposed  to  have  been  born),  before 
every  scene  and  she  was  a  marvelous  accent 
coach.  (Watch  for  her  in  one  of  the  smaller 
roles.  The  girl's  good  and  that  "Rhett"  stuff  is 
her  own  name.)  But  Scarlett,  being  in  every 
foot  of  the  picture,  needed  plenty  of  watching. 

WE  started  the  picture  early  last  March.  I 
discovered  Rhett  had  been  pruned  of  most  of  his 
cuss  words  and  much  of  his  force,  but  appar- 
ently that  had  to  be  for  the  censors.  Still,  he 
had  every  scene  he  actually  had  in  the  book. 
I  was  signed  for  six  months  (and  be  it  said  here 
that  it  was  a  honey  of  a  contract.  Selznick 
had  offered  me  a  flat  rate  for  the  picture. 
M-G-M  played  very  fair  with  me  and  let  me 
make  my  own  deal.  I  put  it  on  a  week-to-week 
basis.  Six  months  at  that  rate  was  mighty  sweet 
sugar  and  I  ate  it  up,  for  I  know  I'll  never  get 
such  a  chance  again,  and  the  ranch  needed  a  lot 
of  landscape  gardening.) 

Actually  in  production,  however,  I  discovered 
that  Rhett  was  even  harder  to  play  than  I  had 
anticipated.  With  so  much  of  Scarlett  preced- 
ing his  entrance,  Rhett's  scenes  were  all  cli- 
maxes. There  was  a  chance  to  build  up  to 
Scarlett,  but  Rhett  represented  drama  and 
action  every  time  he  appeared.  He  didn't  figure 
in  any  of  the  battle  scenes,  being  a  guy  who 
hated  war,  and  he  wasn't  in  the  toughest  of  the 
siege  of  Atlanta  shots.  What  I  was  fighting  for 
was  to  hold  my  own  in  the  first  half  of  the  pic- 
ture — which  is  all  Vivien's — because  I  felt  that 
after  the  scene  with  the  baby,  Bonnie,  Rhett 
could  control  the  end  of  the  film.  That  scene 
where  Bonnie  dies,  and  the  scene  where  I  strike 
Scarlett  and  she  accidentally  tumbles  down 
stairs,  thus  losing  her  unborn  child,  were  the 
two  that  worried  me  most. 

The  problem  of  Rhett,  to  me,  was  that  al- 
though he  reads  like  a  tough  guy  and  by  his 
actions  is  frequently  not  admirable,  actually 
he  is  a  man  who  is  practically  broken  by  love. 
His  scenes  away  from  Scarlett  make  him  a 
heavy  and  his  scenes  with  her  make  him  almost 
a  weakling.  My  problem  was  to  make  him, 
despite  that,  a  man  people  would  respect.  In 
that  scene  where  Rhett  has  knocked  Scarlett 
down  stairs  and  learns  later  that  the  baby  is 
dead,  while  Scarlett  hovers  between  life  and 
death,  Rhett  has  to  show  remorse  and  suffering. 

The  scenario,  in  fact,  has  him  hanging  to 
Melanie's  skirts  and  crying.  So  there  was  Moose 
Gable,  clutching  the  skirt  of  that  dainty  de 
Havilland  and  trying  to  sob. 

I  thought  of  the  stuffed  doves  Carole  had  sent 
to  my  dressing  room  on  the  day  "Gone  with  the 


Our  prophecy  came  true!  For  here  is  the  Photoplay  portrait  Clark  men- 
tions which  we  ran  in  the  October,  1937,  issue  with  this  caption:  "Here- 
with we  enter  the  great  casting  battle  of  'Gone  with  the  Wind,'  be- 
cause to  our  mind  there  is  but  one  Rhett — Clark  Gable.  So  sure  were 
we  of  our  choice  that  we  had  Vincentini  paint  this  portrait  of  Clark  as 
we  see  him  in  the  role:  Cool,  impertinent,  utterly  charming.  We  like  all 
the  other  handsome  actors  mentioned  as  Rhett — only  we  don't  want  them 
as  Rhett.    We  want  Gable  and  we're  going  to  stick  to  that  regardless" 


Wind"  started.  They  are  an  omen  between  us. 
The  first  night  we  ever  really  talked  to  each 
other,  the  night  of  the  White  Mayfair  three 
years  ago,  we  quarreled.  Next  morning  when 
I  waked  up,  a  little  the  worse  for  wear,  I  heard 
the  weirdest  noise  in  my  room.  I  was  living 
in  the  Beverly-Wilshire  Hotel  at  the  time  but 
I  kept  thinking  I  heard  birds  in  the  room.  I 
got  up  and  right  I  was.  I  had  heard  birds  in 
the  room.  They  were  a  whole  hamper  of  doves 
of  peace  that  Carole  had  sent  over.    Ever  since 


then  whenever  we  have  an  argument  about 
anything  one  or  the  other  of  us  sends  a  dove. 
Result  is  that  we've  got  some  ten  original  doves 
on  the  ranch  today  and  about  fifty  of  their 
progeny.  Squab  from  squabbles  one  could  say, 
though  it  might  be  wiser  if  one  didn't. 

Anyhow,  I  thought  of  the  stuffed  doves  for 
luck  and  I  blessed  Vic  Fleming,  the  director, 
who  has  guided  me  through  some  tough  ones 
before  this,  and  as  for  the  rest,  I  honestly 
prayed  the  scene  would  be  good.    Vic  was  kind 


Leslie     (Ashley  Ona(BelleWat-  Thomas    (Gerald  Olivia    (Melanie    Ham- 

Wilkes)  Howard  ling)      Munson  O'Hara)     Mitchell  ilton)    de    Havilland 


t  JB^l. 


and  didn't  keep  the  camera  too  much  on  my 
face.  He  let  me  try  to  do  most  of  it  on  the 
sound  track,  act  it  with  my  voice,  rather  than 
with  my  expressions,  I  mean.  I  only  hope  you'll 
feel  I've  gotten  away  with  it. 

In  the  scenes  with  Bonnie,  I  tried  to  show  a 
mature  man's  transfer  of  love  away  from  a 
woman  he  knows  doesn't  love  him  to  their  child 
whom  he  adores.  I've  played  only  a  few  scenes 
with  kids  so  these  were  a  new  experience  to 
me,  too.  A  new  type  of  love  scene.  They  were 
exciting  but  the  scene  in  the  whole  picture  that 
I  enjoyed  playing  the  most  was  the  scene  where 
I  come  in  late  at  night,  drunk,  and  Scarlett 
comes  down  and  joins  me,  getting  a  little  drunk 
herself.  That's  the  scene  where  I  knew  what 
an  actress  Vivien  is  because  while  I  intended 
nothing  of  the  sort,  she  took  the  whole  shot 
neatly  away  from  me. 

I  HE  greatest  day  on  the  picture  to  me  was 
March  31,  1939.  That  was  two  days  after  my 
wedding  to  Carole. 

It  has  been  written  since  then  that  Carole 
and  I  had  that  wedding  day  planned  out  for 
months  in  advance,  but  that's  not  true.  It  hap- 
pened this  way.  On  the  afternoon  of  March 
28,  I  was  finished  with  my  scenes  about  three 
in  the  afternoon.  While  I  was  taking  off  my 
make-up,  the  assistant  director  came  over  and 
said  I  didn't  need  to  work  the  next  day.  I 
called  Carole  at  once  and  with  the  aid  of  a 
close  friend,  we  headed  out  that  night  to  King- 
man, Arizona.  We  took  Otto  along,  not  only 
to  untangle  any  difficulties  we  might  get  into, 
but  because  he  had  a  new  car  without  license 
plates  which  meant  we  wouldn't  be  spotted. 

We  were  married  at  three-thirty  that  after- 
noon and  left  at  five-thirty,  getting  home  the 
next  morning  at  three.  Carole's  mother  was 
there,  all  excited,  which  kept  us  up  till  five. 
Finally  we  got  to  sleep,  only  to  be  awakened 
at  nine  to  discover  forty  cameramen,  three 
newsreel  men  and  twenty  reporters  waiting 
out  in  the  front  yard  to  interview  us.  Un- 
der the  circumstances,  David  gave  me  another 
day  off. 

But  the  next  morning  when  I  reported  at  the 
studio,  ready  for  the  prison  sequence,  I  discov- 
ered Vic  had  switched  things  on  me  and  was 
prepared  to  do  the  wedding  scene,  only  this 
day  my  bride  was  Vivien.  David  had  engaged 
a  full  orchestra  which  was  gurgling  through 
the  wedding  march  and  while  I  knew  it  was 
all  a  rib  on  me,  I  blew  up  in  the  first  take. 
The  stage  hands  all  groaned,  Vivien  asked  so- 
licitously what  was  the  matter  with  me,  and 
Vic  said,  "It's  just  that  Clark  has  always  been 
shy  of  girls." 

Despite  the  kidding  I  got  that  day,  however, 
we  did  precious  little  fooling  on  "Gone  with 
the  Wind."  I,  for  one,  was  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  studio.  Somehow,  I'd  never  met  Olivia 
de  Havilland  or  Leslie  Howard  before.  The 
crew,  who  are  the  ones  who  put  over  the  gags 
in  any  studio,  were  all  new  to  me.  And  Tech- 
nicolor is  too  expensive  to  play  tricks  with. 
Besides  David,  having  three  million  dollars  in- 
vested, was  down  on  that  set  all  the  time  fix- 
ing us  with  his  eagle  eye.  So  we  worked,  day 
after  day  and  hour  after  hour,  for  those  six 
exciting  months.  It  took  all  the  stamina  I've 
got,  which  is  enough,  but  I  can't  imagine  what 
it  must  have  taken  out  of  Vivien,  who  worked 
twice  as  much  as  I  did.  I  only  know  that  never 
once  did  I  hear  her  complain. 

As  for  me,  when  I  finally  was  released,  and 
they  let  me  cut  my  hair  again,  the  M-G-M 
gang  sent  me  a  turkey.  They  named  it  Rhett 
Butler  and  it  was  a  male  bird.  The  card  said, 
"This  is  just  to  assure  you  that  even  if  a  tur- 
key, Rhett  can't  lay  an  egg." 

That  leaves  me  nothing  to  do  now  but  wait 
until  after  the  picture  is  released,  to  read  the 
critics  and  to  see  if  I  have  to  go  out  to  the 
chicken  house  and  tell  that  gobbler  to  move 
over. 


HOW  THE  MOVIES 
CAN  HELP  KEEP  US 
OUT  OF  WAR 


by  ELEANOR  ROOSEVELT 


Our  First  Lady  courageously  faces 
the  most  vital  problem  of  our  time 
— and  offers  a  provocative  solution 


OVER  and  over  again  the  question  is 
being  asked  of  me:  "What  can  we  do 
to  keep  this  nation  out  of  war?" 

Sometimes  I  think  the  question  has  behind  it 
the  purely  selfish,  but  purely  normal  dread 
which  comes  to  all  of  us  when  we  think  of  the 
consequences  of  war  in  our  own  particular  lives. 
Very  frequently,  however,  this  question  comes 
as  a  result  of  thought,  and  the  realization  that 
some  time  there  must  be  an  end  to  this  business 
of  war,  for  war  anywhere  is  a  menace  to  peace 
everywhere.  The  more  people  who  become  in- 
volved in  war,  the  fewer  people  there  are  left 
able  to  think  logically  and  objectively  about  the 
very  important  plans  for  peace. 

Why  do  nations  go  to  war?  Why  do  people 
let  themselves  be  led  into  war?  Are  there  some 
basic  reasons  which  drive  us  into  war,  and 
which  must  be  eliminated  before  we  can  hope 
for  peace?  People  tell  me  that  it  is  man's 
greed,  man's  desire  to  take  something  away 
from  his  fellow  man  which  is  usually  respon- 
sible for  war. 

Very  well  then,  if  men  were  satisfied  wher- 
ever they  found  themselves,  there  would  be  no 
need  for  war.  Someone  else  will  say:  "But  man 
is  never  satisfied!"  The  whole  history  of  civili- 
zation is  the  history  of  dissatisfied  man.  We 
would  never  go  forward  if  it  were  not  for  this 
trait    which    makes    one    man    envious    of   his 


brother  who  is  getting  a  little  ahead,  or  who  is 
making  a  new  discovery  which  adds  to  his  com- 
fort or  his  power.  When  this  happens  any- 
where, someone  is  sure  to  come  along  who  will 
want  to  take  away  the  advantage  gained  and 
profit  by  it  himself. 

What  is  the  answer  to  this  problem?  There 
seems  to  be  only  one,  namely,  a  change  in  the 
whole  make-up  of  man.  Instead  of  a  desire  to 
acquire  something  for  himself  or  his  particular 
group,  he  must  become  a  co-operative  animal, 
one  who  is  willing  to  share  what  he  knows,  or 
what  he  has,  with  other  human  beings  through- 
out the  world.  This  is  rather  a  tall  order  which 
means  a  long  period  of  education,  and  by  educa- 
tion we  do  not  mean  alone  what  children  will 
learn  out  of  history  books  in  school. 

We  have  acquired  in  the  course  of  the  past 
few  years,  tools  for  mass  education  which  we 
never  had  before.  Among  these  tools  are  the 
moving-pictures,  and  so  when  I  am  asked  by 
them  what  can  be  done  to  help  keep  us  out  of 
war,  I  can  only  answer  that  the  best  way  to  keep 
us  out  of  war  is  to  keep  all  nations  out  of  war, 
and  the  best  way  to  do  that  is  to  educate  human 
beings  to  live  together  with  good  will  in  the 
world.  I  can  hear  you  say,  "How  absurd!" 
Let's  think  about  it,  however. 

For  one  thing,  suppose  we  changed  the  way 
we  measure  success.  If  success  means  what 
we  have  been  able  to  do  for  the  benefit  of  all 
the  people  whom  we  could  reach,  and  not  what 
we  have  been  able  to  do  and  keep  for  ourselves 
or  a  small  circle  about  us,  would  our  world  be- 
gin to  change? 

A  long  while  ago  a  standard  was  established 
in  certain  professions,  notably  that  of  medicine, 
which  required  any  great,  new  discovery  to  be 
given  to  the  world  for  the  benefit  of  humanity 
and  not  to  be  held  back  for  the  use  of  a  few. 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


GARBO  would 

DIET  FOR 


When  you  find  a  man  who  can  tell  a  woman  what  to 
eat,  make  her  laugh  and  be  happy,  youVe  found  a 
promising  husband-to-be!    How  about  Dr.  Hauser? 

BY  HARMONY  HAYNES 


BENGAMIN  GAYLORD  HAUSER,  uncom- 
monly handsome  and  uncommonly  suc- 
cessful, well  over  six  feet  tall,  brown  hair, 
brown  eyes,  tanned  complexion  and  broad 
shoulders  has  personally  introduced  a  regime 
of  health  to  women  of  most  of  the  world's  civ- 
ilized nations  and  become  personally  ac- 
quainted with  the  most  glamorous  women  of 
those  countries,  from  the  Duchess  of  Windsor 
on  down. 

Now  Dr.  Gaylord  Hauser  has  prescribed  for 
Garbo  and  the  world  has  seen  his  patient's  re- 
sponse in  a  laugh  heard  by  a  million  theater- 
goers, in  new  gaiety  and  new  health.  His  pre- 
scription— of  romance  and  food — has  wrought 
a  Hollywood  miracle. 

Dr.  Hauser  is  the  man  Garbo  would  diet  for. 

Hollywood's  most  unpredictable  woman,  she 
who  has  confounded  the  press  and  her  public 
so  joyously  with  rapturous  friendships  with 
the  opposite  sex — from  Maurice  Stiller  right 
through  to  that  desert  rendezvous  with  Ma- 
moulian  and  the  summer  idyll  in  Italy  with 
Stokowski — has  found  a  man  who  makes  her 
drink  vegetable  juice  and  go  shopping  in  broad 
daylight,  braving  the  hue  and  cry  of  autograph 
hounds. 

A  man  worth  reporting — if  you  can.  He  is 
not  one  to  blossom  under  questioning.  He  is 
not,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  usually  to  be  ques- 
tioned at  all.  Even  to  meet  Dr.  Hauser  we 
must  follow  a  long,  winding,  seldom-traveled 
road  that  leads  back  away  from  the  flat  land 
of  Hollywood,  up  through  hills  and  canyons 
that  are  capped  by  a  cliff  on  which  rests  a 
beautiful  house,  surrounded  and  protected  by 
a  great  stone  wall  and  a  precipitous  gully. 

We  enter  and  find  a  friendly,  easy-to-meet, 
perfect  host,  whose  charm  is  partly  his  frank- 
ness. He  says,  point-blank,  "I'll  talk  on  any 
subject  except  Garbo!"  and  then  in  the  relaxed 
quiet  of  the  library,  offers  a  full  explanation 
of  the  glamorous  Swede  and  his  relationship 
to  her. 

The  solid  quiet  of  this  mansion  presses 
against  you.  The  staff  of  servants  move  about 
their  work  with  noiseless  precision.  There  are 
no  gaudy  colors  to  mar  the  atmosphere  of  rest, 
no  radios  to  blare  the  news  of  the  day  or  the 
latest  swing. 

"Music,"  Hauser  explains,  "was  intended  for 
the  soul — not  just  the  ears." 

(Continued  on  page  76) 


TEARS 

I  NTO 

LAUGHTER 


A  famous  writer  who  never  pulls  his  punches 
tells  of  Barbara  Stanwyck's  escape  from  a  fog 
of  heartbreak  into    the   sunshine   of  happiness 


BY    JIM    TULLY 


SHE  has  gone  through  the  dismal  valley  of 
private  woe  to  marry  the  King  in  the  Land 
of  Romance.  If  kind  thoughts  help  to  make 
a  marriage  happy,  Barbara  Stanwyck  will  con- 
tinue to  be  among  the  happiest  of  women. 

"It  was  long  ago  now,"  as  Barbara's  ancestors 
and  my  own  would  say,  but  Barbara's  first  in- 
terest in  the  man  who  is  now  her  husband  came 
about  through  a  kind  act.  Frank  Moran,  the 
great  pugilist  of  old  time,  told  me  the  incident. 
There  were  many  doing  extra  work  in  the  film 
— the  "location"  was  far  away.  Restaurants 
were  farther.  Each  day  a  full  warm  meal  came 
for  each  and  all.  No  one  knew  the  donor.  It 
went  on  for  ten  days. 

"Gee,  I  could  marry  a  man  with  a  heart  like 
that,"  Barbara  said  when  Frank  told  her  the 
tale. 

"Most  any  gal  could,"  returned  the  great 
bruiser.    "It  was  Robert  Taylor." 

Frank  Moran  continues,  "Now  she's  married 
to  the  heartbeat  of  the  nation,  and  no  girl  would 


be  jealous  if  she  knew  how  regular  Barbara  is." 
Cynics  will  dismiss  it  as  "just  another  Holly- 
wood marriage,"  wondering  "how  long  will  it 
last?"  Barbara  will  do  everything  possible  to 
keep  her  marriage  successful.  She  proved  it  in 
her  first  marriage.  She  humbled  herself  to  keep 
that  going.  With  nothing  left  but  her  adopted 
child,  Dion,  she  cringed  under  the  barrage  of 
publicity — no  sacrifice  was  too  great  to  keep  the 
child  in  a  wholesome  environment  and  not 
shunted  from  pillar  to  post.  She  lavished  her 
love  and  devotion  on  her  adopted  boy  to  dim  the 
unhappy  memory  of  her  own  life — a  broken 
home  due  to  the  death  of  her  mother,  and  the 
weakness  of  her  father  in  letting  his  brood  shift 
for  themselves. 

Unlike  many  of  the  glamour  girls  who  sprang 
from  such  humble  surroundings,  but  who  act  as 
if  they  were  born  and  rolled  in  purple,  she  is 
not  ashamed  of  her  background. 

She  came  to  Hollywood  in  the  reflected  glory 
of  a  topnotcher  in  the  theater.  She  had  only  a 
short  career  on  the  stage  and  was  unknown. 
Her  sun  actually  came  through  the  fogs  of  dis- 
appointment and  rebuffs.  Her  motion-picture 
(Continued  on  page  74) 


Today  the  star  of  "Remember  the 
Night"  lavishes  on  adopted  son  Dion 
(top)  and  husband  Bob  Taylor  (center) 
the  love  that  the  star  of  "Burlesque" 
(above)  missed  in  her  own  childhood 


From  studio  cellist  right  on  up 
to  feminine  lead  in  "Florian" 
is  the  saga  of  Helen  Gilbert 


Great  lady  of  the  stage  (roya 
command  performances  and 
all),  Judith  Anderson  does  a 
female  meanie  for  "Rebecca" 


BY  SARA  HAMILTON 


Not  that  Hollywood's  neglecting 
them!  But  we've  been  holding  out  to 
tell  you  all  about  them  now — just 
when  they're  in  the  spot -news -light 


HERE  they  come — that  parade  of  talent 
that  shines  through  the  motion  picture 
screens,  giving  us  endless  pleasure  and 
leaving  us  wondering  just  what  these  talented 
people  are  like,  what  they  think  and  why  and 
where  they  came  from.  So,  because  Photoplay 
anticipates  (we  do  it  with  mirrors)  your  ques- 
tions in  advance,  we  give  you  all  the  facts, 
fancies  and  foibles  of  Hollywood's  talent 
parade. 
First,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  we  present: 
An  angel  face  in  slacks.  Sad  eyes  and 
dimples.  A  signet  ring  bearing  the  insignia 
of  -peasantry.  Her  Hungarian  name — Hone 
Hajmassy.  Ilona  Massey  to  Hollywood.  Star  to 
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. 

Time  to  Ilona  Massey  is  a  funny  thing.  It 
passes  in  measured  sunrises  and  sunsets  and 
with  its  going  somehow  one  is  no  longer  a 
peasant  child  in  Budapest.  There  are  no  more 
bitter  cold  mornings  to  awaken  to  in  the  dark 


basement  one-room  apartment.  It's  California 
and  Christmas  time  in  the  M-G-M  commissary 
and  one  is  eating  turkey.  Here  it's  warm  and 
beautiful  and  comfortable  and  it's  really  Heaven 
for  a  little  peasant  girl  from  Hungary. 

She  says,  "I  was  not  only  poor  but  a  homely, 
ugly  child."  (Clark  Gable  pauses  in  the  act  of 
stowing  away  turkey  to  gaze  at  her  loveliness.) 
"There  was  nothing  attractive  about  me  I 
would  look  in  the  mirror  and  think  to  myself 
how  stupid  I  looked.  No  expression.  Nothing. 
So  I  decided  something  must  be  done  and  I 
would  do  it." 

"What?"  we  demanded,  thinking  to  ourselves, 
"I'll  do  it  too,  even  if  she  says  voodoo  dancing. 
Gable's  gotta'  look  that  way  at  me.  He's  gotta'." 

It  turned  out  that  Ilona's  older  sister,  who  oc- 
casionally saved  enough  from  her  small  salary 
as  a  stenographer,  took  her  to  the  movies. 
There  she  saw  faces  that  were  alive — that  spoke 
with  expression. 

So  she  practiced,  carrying  the  lesson  she'd 
learned  from  the  movies  to  her  job  in  a  tailor- 
ing establishment  where  she  sewed  for  long 
weary  hours.  And  then  home  to  the  dark  one- 
room  apartment  to  a  father  wrecked  from  a 
Siberian  banishment  during  the  World  War 
and  a  mother  who  made  straw  dolls  for  the 
Hungarian  festivals.  Ilona  never  got  to  keep 
one  of  the  dolls  for  her  own.  "But  once  or 
twice  I  heard  bits  of  music,"  she  says  as  if  that 
compensated. 


She  discovered  she  walked  pigeon-toed.  She 
stopped  it.  "But  I  was  gauche  and  stiff  in  my 
gestures.  My  hands  are  still  big  and  not 
pretty,"  she  says,  holding  them  forth.  "And  my 
bones  are  too  big." 

The  lessons  penetrated  to  the  peasant  soul  of 
her,  filling  her  with  new  hope,  lifting  her  up 
into  the  chorus  of  a  small  opera  company.  She 
earned  twelve  dollars  a  week  and  no  one  would 
listen  to  the  singing  voice  she  knew  she  had. 
Finally  she  went  to  Vienna  and  took  bit  parts 
in  one  of  Vienna's  smaller  opera  houses.  When 
the  leading  lady  suddenly  fell  ill,  Ilona  took  the 
role.  It  led  to  a  bigger  opera  house,  a  quick 
chance  to  sing  the  lead  in  a  German  opera.  She 
couldn't  sing  German.  She  couldn't  even  speak 
it.  She  could  cry,  though — beautiful  heart- 
breaking Hungarian  tears  that  melted  the  maes- 
tro's  heart  and  gave  Ilona  an  extra  week  in 
which  to  learn  German.  And  guess  who  sat  out 
front  that  Night  of  Nights?  Guess  who  sat  there 
and  watched  this  beautiful  girl  bow  to  her 
misty-eyed  peasant  parents  in  the  box?  Well, 
just  Benny  Thau  of  M-G-M,  Culver  City,  Cali- 
fornia. 

She  was  too  hefty  in  "Rosalie,"  her  first  movie 
role.  So  she  dieted  into  a  slim  loveliness  that  is 
beyond  words.  "I  spoke  so  brokenly,"  she  says, 
"that  when  I  saw  my  first  test  on  the  lot  I 
couldn't  understand  a  word  I  said."  So  for  five 
hours  a  day  she  studied  English  and  then  went 
from  movie  to  movie  to  study  and  observe. 

She  slayed  Hollywood  with  her  attempts  at 
English,  but  she  could  teach  glamour  girls  a  few 
things  about  clothes.  She's  a  dream  in  four 
dollar  turbans  and  a  seventeen-fifty  dress.  A 
dream,  that's  all.  Our  food  delights  her.  Only 
plum  pudding  turned  out  to  be  something  she 


^  *m 


s* 


The  heavenly  normalcy  of  Gale  Page 
— so  like  the  character  she  plays 
in  "Four  Wives" — accents  the  new 
noteina  changing  Hollywood  tempo 


His  life's  been  as  eventful  as  his 
film,  "The  Saint's  Double  Trouble" 
— George  Sanders  still  takes  them 
both  in  the  same  nonchalant  stride 


w 


-"l*. 


/ 


1 


Too  busy  to  turn  around  is  Ann 
Rutherford  of  "Gone  with  the 
Wind"and  the  "Hardy"  series 
— but  never  too  busy  to  talk! 


Thomas  Mitchell  is  busiest  of 
all,  with  "G.W.T.W.," 
"The  Hunchback  of  Notre 
Dame"  and  "Swiss  Family 
Robinson" — to  mentionafew! 


couldn't  bring  herself  to  eat  so  she  exchanged  it 
for  "yellow  pie."  That  meant  pumpkin,  of 
course.  She  eats  salad  with  a  spoon,  too.  And 
likes  our  raw  product  rather  than  Hungary's 
cooked  salads. 

Garbo  is  her  star  idol.  "But  I  didn't  met  her 
yet,  I  don't  think  I  ever  will  met  her,  either," 
she  laughs. 

To  Ilona  most  Hollywood  men  are  "flickle." 
"You're  the  Sickle  one,"  she'll  say.  But  Gary 
Cooper.  There's  the  tragedy  in  her  life.  She 
fell  in  love  with  him  on  the  screen  in  Vienna. 
But  she  got  here  too  late  to  claim  him.  He  was 
already  married. 

Her  eyes  reflect  the  sorrow  of  her  childhood. 
Her  face  reveals  the  broodiness  of  the  Slavs. 
It's  like  their  music.  Gay  at  times — hauntingly 
sad  at  times. 

She's  kind.  Loving.  Of  the  earth.  People 
stop  to  speak  to  her  with  genuine  affection. 

She  is  the  pet  of  the  M-G-M  lot  since  "Bala- 
laika" with  Nelson  Eddy.  She's  even  planning 
a  concert  tour  before  her  next  picture. 

"And  what  does  your  mother  think  of  all 
this?"  we  asked.  "What  does  she  say  to  your 
success?" 

"When  I  showed  her  my  contract  that  Mr. 
Benny  Thau  gave  me  in  Vienna  before  I  left, 
my  mother  looked  at  it  and  then  said,  'Ilona,  I 
always  knew  you  were  a  fake.  But  never  did  I 
dream  you  were  such  a  big  faker  as  this.'  " 

Artiste: 

When  one  so  distinguished  comes  to  our  little 
movie  village  to  do  a  piece  of  work — we  pay 
tribute,  every  last  single  native  of  us.  We  lay 
garlands,  then,  at  the  feet  of  Miss  Judith  Ander- 


son, star  of  the  New  York  and  London  stages. 

The  first  thing  one  notices  about  Miss  Ander- 
son who  left  off  playing  the  mother  of  Jesus,  in 
"Family  Portrait"  on  the  stage,  to  play  a  meanie 
in  "Rebecca"  on  the  screen,  is  that  there  is  so 
little  to  notice.  She's  plain.  So  plain  and  small 
and  slim  in  her  grey  slacks,  pink  sweater,  blue 
snood  and  sandals,  that  it's  startling  and  rather 
beautiful. 

She's  mad  for  California.  The  white  house 
she  lived  in  in  Santa  Monica  with  its  gardens 
almost  vibrates  to  that  love.  Her  regret  at  hav- 
ing to  leave  it  was  almost  a  tangible  thing.  She 
looked  at  the  roses  blooming  in  December. 
"And  the  stocks  I  put  in  last  week  are  simply 
shooting  up,"  she  said.  "It's  going  to  be  awful 
to  have  to  get  into  hats  and  gloves  and  dress-up 
dresses  again.  And  the  taxis  that  keep  me  late 
for  appointments.  I  do  wish  I  could  stay  here — 
just  like  this." 

But  the  rehearsals  for  a  revival  of  "Family 
Portrait,"  that  goes  on  tour,  awaited  her  in  New 
York,  and  she  had  to  go. 

She's  an  Australian  by  birth.  When  she  felt 
there  was  little  progress  to  be  made  on  the  stage 
there,  she  and  her  mother  came  to  America — 
Hollywood,  to  be  exact.  That  was  twenty-one 
years  ago,  and  Hollywood  was  different  then. 
D.  W.  Griffith  was  in  the  midst  of  a  "Master- 
piece" and  DeMille  was  frantic  over  some 
biblical  episode.  She  met  Lillian  Gish,  but  got 
nowhere  in  movies  because,  I  suspect,  Judith 
wasn't  a  golden-haired,  dimpled  and  slightly 
plump  beauty.  Actresses,  good  ones,  weren't 
too  popular  those  days,  so  Judith  and  her 
mother  traveled  on  to  New  York  and  stock. 
After  three  years  work  she  was  given  a  part 
with  William  Gillette  in  "Dear  Brutus"  and  later 


in  "Cobra,"  her  first  starring  vehicle.  She  was 
a  sensation. 

She's  the  only  actress,  as  far  as  I  can  discover, 
who  has  given  two  command  performances  be- 
fore Queen  Elizabeth  and  King  George.  The 
first  meeting  took  place  in  1926  in  Australia 
where  Judith  had  returned  with  a  repertoire  of 
her  New  York  successes.  The  King  and  Queen, 
then  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  York,  came  to  see 
her  play  and  afterwards  she  met  them. 

The  second  meeting  was  a  year  or  so  ago  in 
London.  Miss  Anderson  was  playing  "Macbeth" 
with  Laurence  Olivier  when  the  royal  command 
was  delivered.  "We  were  summoned  to  the 
Queen's  box  after  the  banquet  scene,"  the  ac- 
tress said,  "and  again  I  was  thrilled  at  her 
beauty  and  the  shining  goodness  that  radiates 
through  her.  Her  indescribably  clear  skin,  her 
eyes,  so  alive,  and  tender,  and  little  girl  mouth 
that  gives  forth  that  disarmingly  young  smile. 
And  all  about  her  that  sweet  simplicity  of  hers." 

Her  Majesty  inquired  of  Miss  Anderson  what 
she  had  been  muttering  during  one  scene. 

"I  was  trying  to  keep  the  candle  near  while  I 
washed  the  blood  from  my  hands,"  the  actress 
explained. 

"I  should  never  have  let  the  candle  out  of  my 
hands,"  the  Queen  smiled,  and  Miss  Anderson 
says  she  suddenly  had  a  vision  of  the  Queen  as  a 
little  girl,  scurrying  through  the  dark,  forbid- 
ding halls  of  Glamis  Castle. 

Three  dachshunds  that  sit  squarely  in  every 
visitor's  lap  and  refuse  to  budge,  are  Judith's 
prize  possessions.  She  calls  them  "Goony," 
"Miklos"  (from  a  Hungarian  play  she  did)  and 
"Tinkertoo."  The  last  is  named  for  a  cat  called 
"Tinker,"  that  Miss  Anderson  owned.  She  had 
(Continued  on  page  78) 


19 


"If"  is  such  a  harmless  word  until  it's 
used  in  Photoplay's  sly  way  of  describ- 
ing stars — originated  by  Howard  Sharpe 
(who'd  be  a  fox  "if"  he  were  an  animal) 


IF  you've  ever  played  the  game  of  categories  in  which 
each  player  is  asked  to  describe  the  others  by  com- 
paring them  to  such  familiar  objects  as  animals, 
trees  or  automobiles,  you'll  know  why  we've  had  such 
a  good  time  trying  to  picture  Bill  Powell  for  you  in 
this  new  type  of  interview.  Difficult,  yes;  but  it's  fun, 
too.    For  instance,  if  Bill  were  a  house: 

What  Kind  of  House? 

A  modern,  formal  town  house  on  San  Francisco's 
Nob  Hill.  I  don't  mean  a  modernistic  type  of  architec- 
ture, all  chromium  and  endless  glass — but  a  house  of 
basically  good  design,  remodeled  to  contemporary  taste. 
There  would  be  quiet  rooms  with  great  open  fireplaces, 
dedicated  to  hours  of  conversation,  and  other  rooms  set 
aside  just  for  the  purpose  of  having  fun  ...  Of  course, 
it's  pretty  tough  to  think  of  Bill  in  terms  of  any  house 
without  remembering  that  fabulous  place  he  built,  with 
its  electrically  controlled  doors  and  automatic  bath- 
room library,  and  the  Ping-pong  room  without  corners. 
You  may  recall  that  Bill's  garage  and  house  doors  were 
controlled  by  his  headlights;  but  since  other  motorists 
driving  past  kept  setting  off  the  system,  those  doors 
swung  open  and  shut  all  night  and  kept  Bill  awake. 

But  it  was  a  good  experiment.  I  think  the  Nob  Hill 
house  would  be  in  a  constant  state  of  flux,  with  play- 
rooms being  torn  down  to  make  way  for  workshops  and 
bedrooms  turning  into  swimming  pools,  with  the  owner 
never  quite  satisfied.  Kitchens  and  cellar  would  be 
well  stocked  with  divine  food  and  liquor,  of  course. 
Guests  would  have  a  swell  time,  unless  they  didn't  like 
talking.    Then  they'd  be  somewhat  bored. 

What  Street? 

If  you  could  have  taken  Fifth  Avenue  during  the 
1890's  and  kept  the  same  carriages,  strollers  and  cos- 
tumes, but  somehow  have  lined  it  with  the  new  build- 
(Continued  on  page  86) 


20 


BILL 

aiSun.  AMYRNA  LOY 


^pSt 


As  sparkling  and  original  as  the 
dialogue  from  "Another  Thin  Man" 
are  Myrna's  answers  to  the  ques- 
tions "If  Bill  were  a  bird—,"  "If 
he  were  an  animal — ."  Do  they 
stack  up  with  your  analysis  of  him? 


'*/> 


ILLUSTRATED     BY 
JOHN   J.    FLOHERTY,  JR. 


YOU  can't  fit  Myrna  Loy  into  a  category.  You 
can't  file  a  personality  or  a  beauty  such  as  hers 
away,  and  dust  off  your  hands,  and  say,  "There." 

Describing  her  in  terms  of  categories  is  another  thing. 

Myrna  Loy  if  she  were  a  street. 

Well,  she  is  an  upper-class  suburban  road,  lined  with 
pleasant  houses  and  elms.  The  purely  American  brand 
of  normal  life  would  go  on  in  that  district,  and  on,  and 
on.  A  little  of  Wall  Street  is  in  the  picture  because 
Myrna  is  not  to  be  caught  napping  or  even  in  a  pose 
of  simulated  napping.  And  of  course  somewhere  in  her 
past  is  the  scent  of  a  Chinatown  alley,  which  turned  out 
— upon  investigation — to  be  a  movie  set  all  full  of  card- 
board facades  and  pseudo-slinky  atmosphere. 

Music  .  .  .  Number  One  on  the  Hit  Parade,  any 
week;  a  Lombardo  arrangement  of  a  tune  such  as 
"Past,  Present  and  Future."  Remember  the  lyrics? 
"This  is  my  past,  dear — a  spark,  then  a  flame — the 
moon  was  to  blame;  the  world  was  all  in  tune  .  .  ." 
And  some  sort  of  Bavarian-cream  about  a  groom  and  a 
bride  and  you  by  my  side  and  whatnot.  But  more  than 
that— 

Myrna  is  a  symphonic  arrangement  of  the  better 
popular  melodies;  a  kind  of  song  which,  heard  once, 
lingers  by  way  of  a  bar  or  two  in  your  memory  and 
haunts  you  until  you  trace  down  the  rest  of  it. 

She  is  Stephen  Foster  music  played  by  Glenn  Miller, 
"Home  Sweet  Home"  in  swingtime. 

And  the  whole  arrangement  emerges  airily  from  a 
blonde-wood  cabinet,  electrically  controlled. 

Conjure  Myrna  into  an  automobile  and  I  think  you'd 
get  an  open  phaeton,  smart  and  sporty  but  with  plenty 
of  room  for  the  entire  family.  The  machine  would  be 
decorated  with  many  horns  and  gadgets.  It  would  have 
a  conservative  paint  job.  But  it  would  go  like  the 
dickens  when  pressed  on  the  accelerator,  the  while 
scrupulously  observant  of  all  and  any  traffic  regula- 
tions. One  would  notice  such  a  car  if  it  were  parked 
along  a  curb,  and  it  would  be  fun  to  own;  still  it  would 
be  comfortable  for  long  rides. 

Myrna  as  food  .  .  .  Crepes  Suzette  with  a  glass  of 
milk  on  the  side,  after  a  hearty  farm  dinner. 

As  a  drink  .  .  .  Vermouth  Cassis.  You  make  it  with 
a  dash  of  clear  dry  Vermouth  and  a  squirt  of  Cassis 
liqueur,  and  a  lot  of  charged  water  and  ice.  There's  a 
drink  that  cries  for  and  must  have  a  long  glass.  It's 
thoroughly  refreshing  but  you  can't  get  drunk  on  it. 
You  can't  even  get  tight.  But  you  like  the  world  more 
when  you  have  finished  one. 

I  suppose  so  far  as  magazines  are  concerned,  Myrna 
would  have  to  be  the  girl  on  the  cover  of  a  man's 
weekly  periodical.  That's  a  little  obvious.  Suppose 
we  say  she's  a  superior  woman's  magazine  with  sur- 
prises in  it,  so  that  the  gentleman  in  the  family  would 
pick  it  up  accidentally,  be  intrigued  by  the  contents, 
and  send  in  his  personal  subscription  at  once. 

Indicated  as  it  is,  I  must  add  that  Myrna  would  be 
Photoplay. 

She  is  a  willow  tree,  graceful  and  pretty.  This  must 
be  qualified  .  .  .  Under  the  branches  a  bunch  of  neigh- 
bor kids  would  have  built  some  sort  of  shack  and  would 
be  playing  "Mr.  and  Mrs.,"  without  fear  of  interruption. 
So  coy,  somehow,  trying  to  describe  Mrs.  Hornblow 
in  terms  of  domestic  flora.  If  I  say  "willow"  I  imply 
the  drooping",  whimsical  personality — which  has  no  re- 
lationship to  Loy  as  I  know  her.  If  I  say  an  oleander 
you  know  only  that  I  remember  an  oleander  is  lovely; 
and  my  imagination  must  be  very  tired.  Let  her  be 
any  healthy  tree  that  doesn't  demand  attention  all  the 
time,  that  possesses  trim  lines  and  nice  green  leaves 
and  an  all-year-round  stability  of  beauty. 

Myrna  Loy  is  characteristically  anomalous. 

She  is  a  cookbook  with  Peter  Arno  illustrations;  "In- 
dian Love  Lyrics"  translated  into  a  kind  of  vital,  force- 
ful slang;  L.  Alcott's  "Little  Women"  changed  so  that 
the  memorable  maidens  are  recognizable  1940  jitter- 
bugs come  to  Hollywood  for  various  purposes. 

If  you  think  of  her  in  the  manner  of  paintings  you 
face  the  difficulty  of  trying  to  imagine  a  portrait  of 
Myrna  herself  done  by  a  fine  artist.  That  isn't  fair.  I 
think,  essentially,  she  is  "Pinkie"  by  Gainsborough, 
hanging  on  the  South  Wall  in  the  Huntington  Gallery 
at  San  Marino,  with  countless  ladies  from  Iowa  paus- 
ing before,  murmuring  whilst  gaping,  "Lovely  .  . 
lovely!    And  real — " 

Or  she  is  a  petit  point  pattern,  with  a  modern  sub- 
(Contimted  on  page  81) 


' 


—     AND 


Y 


Stardust  and  the  glitter  of  Hollywood 
haven't  changed  Cary,  unless  you 
call   "The   Bed"   an    extravagance 

BY  ALMA  ROBERTS 


At  last  Cary  has  succumbed 
to  a  temptation  that's  been 
gnawing  at  him  for  years,  but 
if  beautiful  Phyllis  Brooks  (with 
h  i  m  at  the  T  r  o  c )  was  the 
incentive,    Cary   isn't   telling 


4fy 


u 


vu 


sf'<y 


22 


A 


WORRIED  glint  appeared  in  the  brown 
eyes  of  the  tall  young  man. 

'People  won't  think  I've  gone  Holly- 
wood?" he  asked. 

"Of  course  not.    Why  should  they?" 

"On  account  of  my  new  car,"  he  replied. 

The  friend  howled. 

"There's  as  much  show  to  that  safe-and-sane 
model  of  yours  as  there  is  to  a  Quaker's  bonnet. 
Where's  its  custom-made  body,  its  yellow  and 
green  paint  job?  Listen,  you  can  still  drive 
Sunset  Boulevard  without  making  one  tourist 
blink  an  eye." 

Cary  Grant  sighed  with  vast  relief.  When  he 
had  journeyed  out  to  Hollywood  with  years  of 
struggle  and  hardship  in  New  York  behind  him, 
he'd  traveled  in  a  touring  car  that  was  a  fugitive 
from  a  museum.  No  grand  entrance  into  the 
film  city  for  him.  Months  after  his  arrival,  he 
clung  stubbornly  to  the  old  jaloppy.  Even  when 
the  rainy  season  came  and  the  water  poured 
through  the  wide-open  spaces  of  the  roof,  he  re- 
fused to  part  with  it. 

Finally  came  the  day  when  it  literally  fell 
apart  like  the  one-horse  shay  and  Cary  was 
forced  to  buy  a  new  one.  And  now  that  he  had 
it — as  conservative  in  line  as  a  Republican's 
campaign  pledges — he  was  afraid  people  would 
accuse  him  of  going  Hollywood. 

Which  is  as  good,  if  not  better,  a  way  as  any 
to  begin  a  story  about  cash  and  carry  Grant,  the 
man  whose  single  extravagance  since  he  gained 
a  half  nelson  on  stardom  has  been  a  bed  that 
really  fit  him. 

To  underemphasize  it,  Cary  has  never  been  a 
money  flinger — on  his  own  needs.  When  it 
comes  to  the  needs  of  friends  down  on  their 
luck,  that's  something  else.  Even  in  those 
Broadway  days  when  Cary  was  appearing  in 
Arthur  Hammerstein  musical  comedies  and 
dragging  down  $75.00  per,  he  established  a  rec- 
ord actors  have  been  shooting  at  ever  since. 
Not  even  once  did  he  draw  his  salary  in  advance. 

The  glitter  of  Hollywood  just  didn't  touch  him. 
He  has  never  bought  a  yacht  or  a  string  of  polo 
ponies.  And  for  years  he  has  fought  off  the 
temptation  to  buy  himself  a  home  of  his  own. 
That  he  finally  succumbed  a  few  weeks  ago  can 
be  blamed  on  the  fact  that  he  added  up  the 
amount  of  rent  he'd  been  paying  out  for  years. 
(Continued  on  -page  72) 


R  L  S  t  N  N  G  A  WBarf  Urn  hatutt. 


A  touching  moment  from 
the  much  -  discussed  War- 
ner film  starring  Paul  Muni 
and  introducing  Jane 
Bryan  in  her  greatest 
role.  It  is  based  on  the 
novel  which  in  somewhat 
condensed  form  appears 
on  the  following   pages 


Two  full  hours  of  fascinating  reading — the  poignant  story  of  a  gentle,  unworldly  doctor's  forbidden  love  for  a  little  dancer 


PROLOGUE 


3N  a  small  cathedral  town  where  changes  are  few, 
there  are  always  people  who  remember  who 
used  to  live  in  a  particular  house,  what  hap- 
pened to  them  there  and  afterwards,  and  so  on. 
Thus,  when  a  chain-store  company  bought  a  site  at 
the  corner  of  Shawgate  and  sent  men  to  break  up 
the  old  Georgian  frontage,  there  were  reminders  all 
over  the  town — "That  was  where  the  little  doctor 
lived."  It  was  a  long  time  ago.  The  house  had  never 
been  occupied  since,  and  for  a  reason  that  made 
passers-by  stare  curiously  as  the  picks  swung 
through  the  dust  clouds.  In  due  course  the  job 
reached  a  stage  when  the  whole  of  an  inside  wall 
was  exposed,  and  on  it,  still  hanging,  a  smashed 
picture  which  a  workman  sold  for  half  a  crown  to  a 
bystander.  It  proved  on  examination  to  be  a  faded 
etching  of  angels  grouped  around  an  arch  of  flowers, 
but  when  viewed  at  more  than  arm's  length  the 
whole  design  took  on  the  likeness  of  a  human  skull. 
Some  forgotten  Victorian  artist  must  have  thought 
this  clever;  he  could  hardly  have  imagined  that  it 
would  ever  be  so  appropriate. 

For  the  little  doctor,  who  had  lived  in  that  house 
for  years,  was  finally  charged  with  the  murder  of  his 
wife.     A    young    woman    was    charged    with    him. 

The  case  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention  at  the 
time. 

It  was  generally  admitted  afterwards  that  Sir  Guy 
Lockhead  made  a  cardinal  mistake  in  putting  Dr. 
Newcome  in  the  witness  box  to  face  a  Crown  cross- 
examination.  My  own  plan,  had  I  been  defending 
Newcome,  would  have  been  to  stress  the  undoubted 
fact  that  all  the  evidence  was  circumstantial,  and  to 
urge  that  it  was  the  duty  of  the  prosecution  to  prove 
it  to  the  hilt  rather  than  expect  my  client  to  refute 
it. 

The  little  doctor,  as  I  saw  him  in  the  courtroom, 
was  very  quiet  and  still.  But  once,  during  some 
evidence  of  a  particularly  repetitive  kind,  there 
came  into  his  quietude  a  sudden  emptying  of  con- 
sciousness that  could  only  mean  one  thing,  and  that 
an  extremely  shocking  thing  in  a  man  on  trial  for 
his  life.  He  had  dozed  off!  His  head  nodded  for  a 
moment. 

"The  court  would  be  obliged  if  the  prisoner  would 
pay  attention."' 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  answered  the  little  doctor, 
almost  inaudibly. 

IF  you  were  born  in  Calderbury,  David  Newcome 
may  well  have  ushered  you  into  the  world.  He 
married  the  daughter  of  a  rural  dean;  they  had  one 
child,  a  boy.  Jessica  mixed  with  the  best  Cathedral 
society  and  was  always  on  the  committee  of  this, 
that,  and  the  other.  David  didn't  share  many  of  her 
interests;  sometimes  he  went  to  Sunday  service  with 
her,  but  more  often  not,  for  a  doctor  has  all  the  best 
excuses.  Some  of  the  Cathedral  people  called  him 
"our  doctor"  because  of  his  wife.  Perhaps  that  was 
really  why  they  also  called  him  "little,"  since  it  was 
not  he  who  was  less  than  average  in  height,  but 
Jessica  who  was  more.  She  was  five  feet  ten,  which 
is  tall  enough  in  any  woman. 

His  attitude  towards  Jessica  had  leveled  into  a 
passive  acceptance  of  her  status  as  his  wife;  no 
flicker  of  impulse  disturbed  something  which  was 
not  quite  serenity  and  not  quite  boredom  either. 
This  condition,  which  some  people  flatteringly  call 
happiness,  David  did  not  call  anything;  he  did  not 
even  think  about  it.  He  just  did  his  job,  year  by 
year,  and  would  have  been  tolerably  content  with 
the  wrong  sort  of  wife  if  only  he  could  have  had 
the  right  sort  of  child.  It  didn't  seem,  as  the  years 
went  by,  that  Gerald  was  going  to  be  that.  There 
was  a  nervousness  in  the  boy  that  was  almost  patho- 
logical, and  none  the  less  so  because  Jessica  re- 
garded it  as  mere  naughtiness.  Upon  this  point  of 
interpretation  David  and  Jessica  had  their  rare 
quarrels;  for  the  boy's  tantrums  stirred  David  to  a 
degree  of  patience  which  to  Jessica  was  an  added 
irritation. 

When  Gerald  developed  one  of  his  notorious  cry- 
ing fits  it  was  David  who  would  devote  hours  to 
pacifying  him,  fighting  the  enemy  with  fear-stilling 
hands;  for  David  knew  the  terror  a  child  can  have 
when  a  shadow  climbs  a  wall,  or  when  a  train 
screams  through  a  station,  or  when,  in  some  story 
book,  a  page  is  turned  shudderingly  upon  a  hated 
picture.  And  he  knew  how  terror  can  sometimes 
fascinate  till  the  dreaded  thing  is  loved  and  the 
mind  twists  into  lonely  corridors;  he  knew,  too,  that 
nothing  is  terrible  if  it  is  not  felt  to  be.  For  there 
was  that  picture  of  angels  looking  like  a  skull;  by 
some  chance  the  boy  liked  it,  and  was  overjoyed 
when  David  produced  a  real  skull — relic  of  student 


WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE 


the  original  novel  upon  which 
Warner  Brothers'  inspiring  film 
is  based.     Once  again  the  famous, 
author  of  "Lost  Horizon"  and 
"Good  bye,   Mr.   Chips"  pulls  \at 
your  heartstrings  in  the  enthrall- 
ing   story   of  a    kindly   doctor 
and    a    danseuse    who    are 
caught  in  a  maelstrom  of 
their  own  emotions 


days — to  give  meaning  to  what  had  hitherto  been  a 
merely  entertaining  mystery.  And  David  demon- 
strating thus,  was  inspired  to  do  so  by  a  desire  to 
establish  one  thing  at  least  of  which  the  boy  should 
never  be  afraid;  and  that  was  Death. 

He  was  well  liked  in  Calderbury.  He  did  not 
waste  much  time  in  spoken  sympathy,  or  even  seem 
to  worry  much  if  his  patients  died,  though  he  was 
sometimes  inclined  to  boast  if  they  didn't  die — as 
when,  for  instance,  in  an  epidemic  that  killed  scores 
of  other  doctors'  patients,  all  of  his  recovered. 


CHAPTER     I 


®: 


NE  cold  gusty  night  in  December  a  boy  rang 
the  bell  of  the  doctor's  house  in  Shawgate,  and 
when  Susan  came  to  the  door  left  word  that  there 
had  been  an  accident  to  a  dancer  at  the  local  theatre 
and  would  the  doctor  please  come  at  once.  David 
had  had  a  busy  day  and  was  tired,  but  when  she 
reported  the  message  he  nodded  vaguely  and  began 
putting  things  in  his  bag. 

"At  the  theatre,  Susan?     A  dancer?" 
"So  the  boy  said.     I  don't  know  why  they  should 
send    for    you,    anyway — Dr.    Cowell    lives    much 
nearer." 


"I'd  better  go." 

"It's  probably  nothing  much.  Shall  I  light  your 
bicycle  lamp  for  you?" 

"Oh,  I  think  I'll  walk.  It's  only  over  the  hill  past 
the  Cathedral." 

"But  it's  a  rough  night." 

"Do  me  good  to  get  some  fresh  air.  I  can  walk 
it  in  ten  minutes." 

He  put  on  his  overcoat,  wrapped  a  muffler  round 
his  neck,  pulled  the  brim  of  his  hat  well  down,  and 
set  out. 

A  rough  night,  indeed.  There  were  few  strollers 
in  such  weather,  and  because  he  was  tired  and  a 
little  breathless  from  climbing  against  the  gale,  he 
halted  a  moment  by  a  street  lamp;  and  again  be- 
cause there  was  a  playbill  of  the  local  theatre  in  a 
shop  window  near  by,  he  crossed  the  pavement  to 
give  it  a  second's  glance. 

It  advertised  a  show  called  Les  Nuit  [sic]  de  Paris, 
which  it  described  as  "A  Riot  of  Mirth-Provoking 
Naughtiness,  Direct  from  the  Gay  Capital,  with  a 
Galaxy  of  Continental  Stars." 

The  Theatre  Royal  in  Calderbury  dated  from  the 
fifties  and  had  been  modernized  at  various  times  to 
conform  with  fashions  that  afterwards  made  it  seem 
more  outmoded  than  ever.  Stucco  had  peeled  off 
the  outside  walls,  the  words  "Theatre  Royal"  were 
spelt  in  empty  sockets  for  which  nobody  could  afford 
lights,  moth  and  fleas  inhabited  the  plush-hung 
boxes  that  nobody  ever  entered.  The  very  boards 
of  the  theater  sagged  with  dry  rot. 

The  third  and  last  act  was  nearly  over  when 
David  arrived.  He  found  nobody  on  duty  to  admit 
or  question  him.  Entering  by  the  stage  door,  he 
made  his  way  along  a  dimly  lit  corridor  echoing 
with  the  sound  of  excessively  nasal  singing.  Then 
he  pushed  through  another  door  and  found  himself 
stumbling  against  a  heap  of  bright-colored  dresses. 
Here  a  stout  man  in  shirt  sleeves  seemed  to  be 
manipulating  scenery. 

"I'm  a  doctor.  Someone  sent  for  me  about  an 
accident  here." 

The  stout  man  turned  a  casual  eye.  "Accident?" 
Then,  into  space:  "Hey,  Jim!  Know  anything  about 
an  accident?" 

"To  one  of  your  dancers,"  David  added. 

A  voice  answered:  "We  ain't  got  only  one  dancer. 
She  slipped  as  she  came  off,  if  you  call  that  an 
accident:" 

The  stout  man  jerked  his  hand.  "Maybe  it's  her. 
You'll  find  her  along  there." 

"Thank  you." 

David  walked  between  cliffs  of  slowly  swaying 
canvas  till  he  came  to  a  group  of  girls  wiping  grease 
paint  from  their  faces.    They  took  no  notice  of  him. 

He  walked  farther  till  a  closed  door  stopped  him; 
he  tapped  on  the  panel,  but  there  was  no  answer; 
then  he  turned  the  handle  and  found  the  room 
empty.    He  went  back  to  the  girls. 


24 


"There's  nobody  in." 
"No?    Then  she  must  have  gone  home." 
"But — well,  I'm  a  doctor — I  was  sent  for  to  see 
this  girl — or  to  see  someone — about  an  accident." 
"An  accident?" 

"Hasn't  there  been  an  accident?  Didn't  she  slip 
and  hurt  herself?" 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  We  weren't  on  during  her 
turn." 

Had  they  been  less  casual,  had  they  been  able  to 
confirm  or  deny  or  explain  anything,  he  would 
probably  have  concluded  that  since  the  girl  had 
been  well  enough  to  go  home  she  could  not  have 
been  very  badly  hurt.  And  he  would  probably 
have  gone  home  then  himself,  assuming  his  sum- 
mons to  have  been  a  thing  done  hastily  and  after- 
wards regretted.  But  that  air  of  casualness,  so  for- 
eign to  the  routine  of  his  own  profession,  stiffened 
his  conscientiousness  to  the  point  of  obstinacy;  even 
if  the  whole  thing  were  a  hoax  or  a  false  alarm,  he 
could  not  now  be  satisfied  till  he  had  definitely 
established  it  so.  After  some  trouble  he  extracted 
the  girl's  temporary  address  from  the  stage  door- 
keeper: Number  24,  Harcourt  Row. 

At  Number  24  an  elderly  woman  answered  his 
continued  ringing;  she  had  to  unlock  the  door.  He 
knew  her  by  sight;  she  knew  him  in  the  same  way; 
and  only  this  prevented  the  voicing  of  her  resent- 
ment at  being  dragged  out  of  bed  at  such  an  hour. 
Even  as  it  was,  her  manner  was  far  from  cordial. 
When  David  had  stated  his  business  she  muttered 
truculently: 

"You'd  better  come  up  and  see  her.  I  can't  un- 
derstand a  word  she  says — she's  foreign.  She's  hurt 
her  arm,  by  the  look  of  it." 

"All  right." 

He  followed  upstairs,  till  the  woman  opened  the 
door  of  a  very  small  room,  crowded  with  shabby 
furniture  and  lit  by  a  single  unshaded  gas  light. 
A  bed  occupied  most  of  the  space,  and  on  this  sat 
a  girl.  David  saw  her  face  first  of  all  through  a 
wall  mirror  that  happened  to  be  in  line  with  it; 
stained  with  grease  paint,  it  struck  him  disturbingly, 
So  that  he  stared  for  a  moment,  hardly  realizing  that 
the  eyes  he  met  in  the  glass  could  really  be  seeing 
him  also. 

They  were  amber-brown,  curiously  matched  with 
reddish-tinted  hair;  matched,  too,  in  their  pained, 
difficult  eagerness,  with  the  set  of  lips  and  mouth. 
David  went  to  her.  He  saw  at  once  that  her  left 
wrist,  resting  over  her  knee  as  she  sat,  hung  limply. 
She  did  not  speak,  but  pointed  to  it,  and  when  he 
stooped  and  held  it,  feeling  what  was  amiss,  her 
lips  parted  and  blood  came  rushing  into  the  marks 
that  her  teeth  had  made. 

"It  is  brokken?"  she  said. 

"I'm  afraid  so,"  he  answered  simply,  kneeling  to 
open  his  bag  on  a  chair.  He  noticed  then  that  a 
piece  of  stocking  stuck  to  her  leg  in  a  smear  of 
blood  and  dirt;  nothing  much,  but  the  kind  of  tiling 
he  was  always  careful  about.  After  bandaging  the 
wrist  he  set  about  to  clean  this  cut  and  asked  Mrs. 
Patterson  for  warm  water. 

"You're  going  to  have  to  rest  for  a  while,"  he  said 
to  the  girl. 

She  nodded,  but  he  was  not  sure  that  she  knew 
what  he  meant. 

"You  dance,  don't  you?" 

Again  she  nodded. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  rest.  You  can't  dance  with 
an  arm  in  a  sling,  and  that's  what  you'll  have  to 
have."  He  spoke  plainly,  but  with  compassion  and 
increasing  doubt  as  to  whether  she  understood 
him.    "You  know  some  English?"  he  queried. 

"Ein  wenig  ...  a  little.  .  .  ." 

He  smiled  more  easily.  "That's  about  how  much 
I  speak  your  language,  too." 

He  was  prepared  then  for  the  torrent  of  words 
that  usually  outpours  if  one  confesses  even  a  slight 
knowledge  of  a  stranger's  tongue;  but  to  his  surprise 
she  was  silent. 

He  tried  to  make  conversation  but  soon  came  to 
the  end  of  his  scantily  recollected  German.  And 
her  own  meagre  English  did  nothing  to  help  him 
out.  But  he  did  manage  to  ask  why  she  hadn't 
waited  for  him  at  the  theatre,  since  she  had  sent  for 
him  there. 

"I  didn't  send  for  you,"  she  answered,  in  German. 
"It  was  the  boy  who  sells  chocolates.  He  sent  for 
you.    He  said  you  were  always  so  very  kind." 

David  was  just  as  embarrassed  as  most  men 
would  be  by  such  a  remark. 

She  went  on:  "He  called  you  'the  little  doctor' — 
is  that  right?  .  .  .  'Der  kleine  Doktor?'" 

Which  completed  his  embarrassment,  for  he  was 
one  of  those  people  who  can  live  a  whole  lifetime 
without  seeing  or  hearing  the  most  obvious  thing 


about  themselves.  He  had  not  really  known  that 
he  was  called  "the  little  doctor"  until  that  moment, 
and  he  did  not  quite  know  whether  he  liked  it  or 
not;  and,  anyhow,  the  disclosure  left  him  shyly  dis- 
concerted. And  beyond  all  that  he  was  troubled, 
perhaps  by  the  rescoring  of  ancient  mind  tracks  that 
the  translation  effort  had  entailed.  He  kept  smil- 
ing the  more  steadfastly  because  he  had  used  up  all 
his  German,  and  into  a  silence,  as  he  packed  his 
bag  to  go,  came  a  revelation  of  her  own  mute  soli- 
tariness in  suffering.  This  made  him  feel  towards 
her  as  to  all  such  sufferers — that  nothing  could  ever 
ease  the  embrace  of  pain  and  its  victim  except  a 
gentle  blessing  on  that  embrace;  and  such  a  bless- 
ing he  gave,  in  secret,  on  her  behalf. 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  adding  that  he  would  call 
and  see  her  again  on  Monday  morning. 

On  the  way  back  to  his  house  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  did  not  even  know  her  name.  He  stopped 
again  at  the  shop  window  and  glanced  down  at  the 
playbill  till  he  came  to  "Leni  Arkadrevna,  Whirl- 
wind Danseuse  from  St.  Petersburg."  Goodness,  he 
thought;  that  must  be  the  one! 

On  Monday,  when  he  called,  the  girl  had  left. 
"She  just  went  off  yesterday  morning,  same  as  the 
theatricals  always  do  of  a  Sunday." 

"But  she  had  a  broken  wrist!  She  couldn't  be  any 
use  like  that!" 

"Well,  maybe  she  had  to  go  with  the  rest  of  'em. 
Not  that  they  seemed  to  have  much  to  do  with  her, 
and  you  can't  hardly  blame  them,  with  her  not 
speaking  the  language." 


CHAPTER     II 


^ 


^    C*S 


/ 


David  Newcome Paul  Muni 

Leni        Jane  Bryan 

Jessica Flora  Robson 

Gerald Raymond  Severn 

Susan Una  O'Connor 

Dawson Henry  Daniell 

Major  Millman  ....  Montagu  Love 
Sir  William  Clintock  .  .  James  Stephenson 
Sir  Guy  Lockhead  ...  Stanley  Logan 
Police  Inspector    ....  Holn 

A  Warner  Bros.-First  National  Picture 
Directed  by  Edmund  Gouiding 


"But  weren't  there  other  foreigners  in  the  com- 
pany?   Wasn't  it  a  French  play?" 

"Bless  you,  they  was  all  English  except  her.  And 
the  show's  not  really  foreign — it's  just  what  they 
call  it.  She  acted  a  Russian  dancer,  so  I  suppose 
that's  why  they  gave  her  the  name." 

"It  wasn't  her  real  name,  then?" 

"Shouldn't  think  so.  They  never  have  real 
names." 

"Do  you  know  where  the  company's  moved  on  to?" 

"That  I  couldn't  say  for  sure,  but  I've  an  idea 
it  might  be  Addington  or  Polesby  or  one  of  them 
places.    They'd  tell  you  at  the  theatre,  I  daresay." 

But  David  didn't  bother  to  ask  at  the  theatre. 
His  curiosity  was  soon  exhausted,  for  the  theatrical 
world  had  seemed  so  unfamiliar  when  he  had  en- 
tered it  momentarily  that  he  could  now  accept  any 
strangeness  in  its  behavior.  Nor  did  he  often  think 
about  the  Russian-German-French  girl  (or  what- 
ever she  really  was)  during  the  weeks  that  followed. 
He  didn't  even  put  her  down  in  his  book,  because 
he  had  forgotten  her  stage  name,  and,  anyhow,  he 
wasn't  going  to  send  her  a  bill.  And  this  was  not 
wholly  generosity,  but  partly  mere  trouble  saving; 
for  he  had  no  secretary,  and  the  extraction  of  small 
sums  from  patients  who  left  the  town  was  rarely 
worth  the  time  and  effort  it  would  involve. 


HE  New  Year  came  in,  and  life  for  the  little 
doctor  continued  pretty  much  as  it  had  through- 
out a  number  of  old  years;  busily  partitioned, 
and  with  its  own  private  trouble  (about  Gerald) 
to  fill  the  gaps  between. 

He  did  not  have  many  free  moments.  Most  of  his 
day  was  occupied  with  hospital  work  or  visiting,  he 
took  his  meals  with  Jessica,  and  in  the  evening  there 
was  the  surgery;  after  which  he  was  often  tired 
enough  to  go  to  bed  and  very  promptly  to  sleep. 

Once  a  week,  varying  the  routine,  he  spent  a 
whole  day  in  Sandmouth.  He  had  several  patients 
in  that  rising  watering  place— Calderbury  folk  who, 
retired  and  rich,  lengthened  their  lives  by  means  of 
sea  air,  half-yearly  dividends,  and  (he  always 
hoped)  the  confidence  they  reposed  in  his  own  reg- 
ular visits.  He  was  inclined  to  smile  at  this  con- 
fidence (since  there  were  so  many  excellent  doctors 
in  Sandmouth);  nevertheless,  he  enjoyed  his  day 
trips  to  the  sea. 

One  summer  morning  he  caught,  as  usual,  the 
seven-five — an  absurdly  early  train,  but  there  was 
no  other  till  afternoon,  and  in  those  days  travelers 
were  at  the  mercy  of  the  railway  schedule. 

IN  Sandmouth  that  Friday  morning  the  June  sun 
blazed  in  a  manner  almost  justifying  the  railway 
posters,  and  Station  Avenue,  sloping  down  to  the 
Pierhead,  was  brilliant  with  the  litter  of  cafe  ad- 
vertisements and  stalls  piled  with  colored  buckets 
and  gift  pottery.  David  turned  the  corner  by  the 
Pierhead  and  threaded  his  way  along  the  Promenade. 
Here  the  main  army  of  holiday-makers  paraded. 
He  liked  to  walk  by  the  edge  of  the  waves,  noticing 
the  faces  of  deck-chair  loungers  and  stumbling  over 
sand  holes  dug  by  frantic  children. 

It  was  during  the  afternoon  that  he  made  his 
visits;  they  were  usually  finished  by  five,  so  that 
he  could  comfortably  catch  the  five-thirty.  But  the 
call  at  Mrs.  Drawbell's  lengthened  because  a  niece 
staying  with  her  had  taken  a  chill,  and  the  call  at 
Major  Sanderson's  lengthened  because  the  Major  in- 
sisted on  describing  a  new  kind  of  indigestion  he 
had  acquired — to  which  David  listened  with  sym- 
pathy combined  with  growing  apprehension  about 
the  time.  In  the  end  he  reconciled  himself  to  losing 
the  train,  though  actually,  had  he  hurried,  he  could 
have  caught  it.  He  was  like  that — he  would  rather 
decide  to  miss  something  than  have  the  uncertainty 
of  chasing  after  it.  There  was  no  other  train  till  the 
nine-seven,  so  he  had  three  hours  to  spare.  He 
strolled  down  Station  Avenue  to  the  Promenade 
where  grey  skies  were  breaking  into  one  of  those 
spectacular  sea-horizon  sunsets.  David  reached  the 
Pierhead  and,  on  sudden  impulse,  paid  his  two- 
pence and  clicked  on  to  the  wooden  planks. 

He  noticed  that  a  concert  party  advertised  them- 
selves as  "The  Cheerybles";  presently,  approaching 
a  placard  more  closely  than  before,  his  eye  caught 
a  programme  announcement.  One  of  its  items  en- 
gaged something  in  his  mind  that  made  him  pause. 
"Leni  Arkadrevna,"  he  reread,  "Whirlwind  Danseuse 
from  St.  Petersburg."  Then  he  remembered,  and  on 
a  second  sudden  impulse  that  evening  he  bought  a 
shilling  deck-chair  seat  facing  the  open-air  stage. 
The  show  was  just  beginning. 

He  did  not  find  it  very  entertaining,  but  a  certain 
innocent  curiosity  about  most  things  made  it  hard 
for  him  to  feel  bored;  indeed,  as  he  watched  and 
listened  to  the  rather  feeble  acting  and  singing,  a 
slow  dreamy  contentment  came  over  him,  focused 
slightly  by  the  anticipation  of  seeing  his  ex-patient. 

A  piquant  prelude  to  the  appearance  of  a  whirl- 
wind dancer  from  St.  Petersburg  who  spoke  Ger- 
man. But,  to  his  surprise,  she  didn't  appear,  and  her 
item  on  the  programme  was  omitted  without  ex- 
planation; till  suddenly,  from  the  unison  with  which 
a  particular  chorus  was  sung,  he  realized  that  the 
show  was  over  and  the  audience  beginning  to  get 
up  and  move  away.  After  a  pause  he  rose  with 
them  and  sauntered  towards  the  exit,  puzzled,  but 
hardly  troubling  much.  When,  however,  he  passed 
a  man  in  Pierrot  costume  who  was  about  to  enter 
the  pay  booth,  he  asked  what  had  happened  to  the 
girl  dancer.    The  question  ignited  something. 

"Happened  to  her?     You  can  well  ask  that!" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

Just  then  another  Pierrot  rushed  up  and  said 
something  in  the  ear  of  the  first  one,  whose  re- 
sponse was  to  throw  up  his  arms  with  a  gesture  of 
despair.  "My  God — she  would!  And  now  what  do 
we  do?  A  doctor — where  the  devil  can  we  find  a 
doctor?" 


25 


"I  am  a  doctor,"  said  David  quietly. 

"You?" 

"Yes." 

"No  kidding?" 

"My  name  is — " 

"Oh,  never  mind— for  heaven's  sake  go  round  and 
see  what's  up.   Take  him  along,  Jim." 

Jim  led  the  way  through  the  rows  of  empty  deck 
chairs,  now  awaiting  their  second  audience,  behind 
a  wooden  screen,  and  eventually  to  the  back  of  the 
stage.  It  was  part  of  David's  experience  to  be 
guided  by  devious  routes  to  strange  places,  there  to 
take  charge  of  emergencies  that  occasioned  him  no 
real  surprise.  Only  the  mildest  curiosity  inspired 
him  to  ask  his  question  again — what  had  happened 
to  the  girl?    Was  she  ill? 

"It's  only  luck  if  she  isn't  dead." 

"Oh?" 

"Shut  herself  in  and  turned  on  the  gas,  mister. 
What  d'  you  say  to  that?" 

But  all  David  could  say  to  that  was  a  rather  sur- 
prised:    "Gas  on  the  end  of  a  pier?" 

"Yes,  mister.  Gas  an'  electric  lights  and  water  and 
telephone — all  in  them  pipes." 

Soon  they  came  upon  an  excited  group  of  concert 
artists  and  Pier  officials.  Someone  was  fanning  a 
door  backwards  and  forwards,  and  there  was  much 
eagerness  to  describe,  rather  confusingly,  what  had 
taken  place.  The  girl,  it  seemed,  had  missed  her 
cue  for  the  whirlwind  dance  business,  and  nobody 
had  had  time  to  find  out  the  reason  for  her  absence 
until  after  the  last  curtain,  when  a  locked  door  and 
a  smell  of  gas  were  discovered  and  reported.  The 
door  was  easily  opened  with  the  key  of  another 
door;  then  the  girl  was  found,  sprawled  over  a 
couch,  unconscious  and  breathing  heavily  in  the 
tainted  atmosphere.  The  tap  of  the  radiator  had 
been  full  on. 

David  took  in  the  scene  professionally,  noting  the 
absence  of  skin  discoloration  and  the  comparative 


The  girl  sprawled  over  a  couch 

steadiness  of  the  pulse.  But  most  of  all  he  noticed 
that  her  injured  wrist,  the  one  he  had  attended  in 
Calderbury  six  months  before,  was  badly  swollen. 

There  came  over  him  at  these  times  a  sort  of 
natural  dignity,  so  that  when  he  asked  the  crowd  to 
disperse  and  leave  him  alone  in  the  room,  they  did 
so  without  much  demur. 

"Nothing  to  be  alarmed  about,"  he  said,  reassur- 
ingly. 

"You  mean  she'll  pull  through?"  queried  a  thin 
man  in  evening  clothes. 

"Why,  of  course."  And  he  added,  almost  as  if  he 
were  speaking  to  himself:  "These  walls  are  only 
matchboarding— they're  full  of  draughts.  I  don't 
think  anybody  could  do  such  a  thing  here  without 
stopping  up  the  cracks  .  .  .  it's  extraordinary,  the 
way  people  don't  think  of  these  details.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  there's  one  detail  you  can  think  of  to  save 
me  the  trouble,  doctor." 

"Yes?" 

"As  soon  as  she  comes  to  you  can  tell  her  she's 
got  the  sack." 

David  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"I'm  the  manager  and  I  don't  stand  for  this  sort 
of  thing.    So  you  can  tell  her — see?" 

David  was  still  looking  up. 

"And  tell  her  to  clear  out  before  we  fetch  the 
police!    She  could  be  locked  up  for  this!" 

"I  wouldn't  fetch  the  police  if  I  were  you,"  said 
David  quietly.    "It  wouldn't  do  your  show  any  good." 


The  manager  banged  the  door,  and  David  began 
— artificial  respiration,  a  hypodermic,  just  the  routine 
procedure.  He  went  to  work  with  his  usual  preci- 
sion. 

Presently  she  opened  her  eyes.  They  blinked  to 
consciousness  as  she  realized  where  she  was,  then 
focused  to  new  astonishment  at  the  sight  of  him; 
while  her  mouth,  trying  the  German  words  before 
she  spoke,  twisted  into  a  half-smile. 

"You?  I  must  be  dreaming!  How  can  it  be  you 
—here?" 

And  he  answered,  with  the  foolishness  of  sheer 
simplicity:     "I  come  here  every  Friday." 

"Der  kleine  Doktor  am  jeden  Freitag!" 

He  sat  beside  her,  rebandaging  the  wrist,  trying 
to  think  of  German  words. 

"You  must  take  care.  This  is  bad.  .  .  .  Am  I  hurt- 
ing you  now?" 

"Only  a  little." 

"You  should  have  rested — I  told  you  that.  .  .  ." 

"I  couldn't." 

"You  mean  you  danced  with  your  wrist  in  this 
condition?" 

"Yes — until  tonight." 

"But  it  must  have  been  terribly  painful — the  vi- 
bration— " 

"It  was  driving  me  mad." 

"But,  my  dear  girl — why  on.  earth — why — was 
that  why — you  tried  to — " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Then  why?" 

"Just — that  there  was  nothing  else." 

"iVicHts  anders?" 

"Nothing  except  night  after  night — like  this." 

"Couldn't  you  go  back  to  your  own  country?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"You  have  no  parents  there — no  relatives — no 
friends?" 

"No  one." 

"Is  that  why  you  are  unhappy?" 

All  at  once  tears  began  to  roll  down  her  cheeks, 
streaking  the  grease  paint;  she  did  not  made  a  sound, 
and  there  was  no  movement  but  that  of  the  tears. 
Neither  did  David  move,  but  his  stillness  and  si- 
lence had  compassion. 

After  a  pause  she  smiled.  He  asked  the  reason 
and  took  to  his  heart  a  schoolboy  translation  of  her 
answer:  "Because  I  am  so  glad  you  didn't  tell  me 
not  to  cry  .  .  .  and  I  knew  you  wouldn't.  .  .  ." 

A  doctor  is  so  familiar  with  most  of  the  things 
that  can  happen  to  minds  and  bodies  that  little  can 
startle  him.  He  can  leave  the  operating  table  or  the 
bedside,  switching  off  his  attention,  as  it  were, 
whenever  he  feels  he  has  done  all  he  can;  and  this 
judgment  he  can  reach  unfettered,  since  there  are 
others  to  humanize  it  after  he  has  gone. 

Little  of  which  applied  to  David's  position  in  a 
girl's  dressing  room  at  the  back  of  the  pavilion  on 
Sandmouth  Pier.  He  did  not  know  what  more  he 
could  do,  yet  he  did  not  feel  he  could  say  good- 
night and  leave  her.  There  was  much  he  could 
have  explained  but  for  the  language  obstacle,  at 
least  an  ease  he  could  have  given  to  the  leave-tak- 
ing. And  while  he  was  thus  hesitating  and  won- 
dering, a  man  arrived  with  an  envelope  which  the 
girl  opened;  it  contained  a  week's  wages  and  notice 
of  summary  dismissal.  She  showed  it,  smiling 
wryly  as  she  did  so;  then,  with  a  shrug,  she  began 
to  change  out  of  her  costume  into  ordinary  clothes. 
She  had  no  shyness. 

"You  see,  I  must  go  now.  They  will  not  have  me 
any  more." 

"But  where  will  you  go?" 

"Away  from  here.    Somewhere.    I  don't  know." 

He  could  see  she  was  anxious  to  leave  before  the 
second  show  ended,  and  he  thought  this  was  a  good 
thing  if  she  could  manage  to  do  it.  He  helped  her 
to  dress,  therefore,  and  when  she  was  ready  they 
left  together  through  a  back  door. 

"The  cold  air  will  help  you,"  David  said,  as  they 
began  to  walk  along  the  Pier.  He  had  to  take  her 
arm  because  she  staggered  a  little.  He  noted  that 
it  was  half -past  nine;  he  had  missed  the  last  train 
to  Calderbury.  That  meant  staying  overnight  and 
taking  the  first  train  in  the  morning. 


He  began  to  talk  in  a  mixture  of  English  and 
German.  "You're  not  really  tired  of  life.  You're 
tired  of  pain  and  loneliness  and  hopelessness.  You 
don't  really  want  to  die.  The  time  to  die  is  when 
you  have  something  to  die  for — the  time  to  be  tired 
of  life  is  when  life  is  tired  of  you.  .  .  ."  And  so  he 
talked,  stumbling  over  the  words,  yet  with  a 
deeper  sureness  that  was  like  the  breaking  in  of  a 
new  instrument  by  a  virtuoso.  She  clung  to  him 
then  with  far  more  than  her  uninjured  arm,  till  at 
last  a  physical  drowsiness  conquered  and  he  knew 
that  she  was  almost  asleep  as  she  walked. 

They  left  the  Pier  and  threaded  through  the 
crowds  on  the  still  frequented  Promenade.  He  led 
her  to  her  lodgings,  an  apartment  house  dingy  even 
for  a  back  street  in  a  seaside  town.  He  imagined 
that  would  be  the  end  of  their  meeting,  but  at  the 
house  there  was  a  surprise.  By  some  lightning 
spread  of  gossip,  the  landlady  had  learned  of  hap- 
penings at  the  Pier  Pavilion,  with  the  result  that 
she  stood  truculently  in  the  front  hall,  hips  firm  and 
lips  tightened.  "I'll  have  no  sooicides  in  my 
house!"  came  her  immediate  greeting,  as  David 
helped  the  girl  up  the  flight  of  steps  to  the  porch. 
"No  turning  the  gas  on  here  and  blowing  us  all  up 
while  we're  in  our  beds!  Here's  your  bag — you  can 
take  it  and  go!  And  if  that's  your  gentleman  friend 
I  hope  he  knows  all  about  you!" 

DAVID  didn't  know  what  to  do,  and  he  was  a 
little  upset,  as  he  always  was  by  scenes  outside  the 
realm  of  pathology.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but 
to  take  the  girl  away  immediately,  which  meant  to 
walk  to  the  cab  stand  at  the  corner  and  drive  some- 
where; but  of  course  the  cabman  wanted  an  ad- 
dress, and  the  only  one  that  occurred  to  him  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment  was  the  Victoria  Hotel,  where 
he  intended  to  stay  himself,  and  where  he  had  oc- 
casionally stayed  before.  So  they  drove  there,  the 
girl  by  this  time  so  desperately  tired  that  she  could 
hardly  stand  up  in  the  hotel  lobby.  The  clerk, 
recognizing  David  but  not  quite  sure  of  his  name, 
appraised  his  companion  curiously,  wondering  if  she 
had  drunk  too  much  and  if  she  were  his  wife.  It 
was  all  rather  odd,  but  none  of  his  business;  but  he 
thought  it  odder  still  when,  on  being  presented  with 
the  register  for  signature,  David  had  to  question 
the  girl  before  he  wrote  her  name.  Then  he  wrote 
"Leni  Krafft."  He  asked  for  two  single  rooms,  and 
the  clerk  allotted  them  on  the  same  floor.  Then  the 
doctor  asked  for  a  trunk  call  to  Calderbury  and  the 
clerk  overheard  him  explaining  why  he  couldn't  re- 
turn home  that  night.  But  (or  so  at  any  rate  he 
said  afterwards)  the  clerk  suspected  that  the  doc- 
tor might  not  be  giving  the  right  explanation. 

David  did  not  sleep  well.  He  was  puzzled  and  a 
little  perturbed.  He  knew  that  in  the  morning  he 
could  not  simply  pay  the  two  bills  together,  say 
good-bye,  and  never  see  the  girl  again.  He 
knew  she  had  hardly  any  money.  He  knew  she  had 
no  friends.  He  knew  she  had  no  job,  and  could  not 
get  one  till  her  wrist  had  mended,  and  that  she 
spoke  only  a  few  words  of  English.  It  was  hard 
to  know  what  to  do,  but  he  well  knew  that  to  do 
nothing  at  all  would  be  impossible  for  him. 

In  the  morning  they  breakfasted  together  in  a 
room  that  faced  blue  seas  and  a  sunny  sky.  She 
looked  much  better,  having  slept  off  most  of  the  ill- 
effects  of  the  night  before;  but  there  was  still  in  her 
face  the  set  of  some  profoundly  tragic  experience. 
He  talked  during  the  meal  as  if  no  problems  had  to 
be  encountered,  but  afterwards  he  told  her  that  he 
would  lend  her  money  which  she  could  repay  when 
she  got  another  theatre  job.  "Sandmouth's  a  good 
place  to  recuperate  for  a  few  weeks — by  that  time 
your  wrist  ought  to  be  better.  Find  some  quiet 
lodgings  where  you  can  take  things  easily,  then 
next  Friday  I'll  call  and  see  how  you're  getting  on. 
I  come  here,  as  I  told  you,  every  Friday." 

"You  are  so  kind.  ...  If  everyone  were  as  kind 
as  you  .  .  ." 

Something  in  the  little  crushed  smile  she  gave 
him  made  him  reply:  "I  believe  you're  still  worry- 
ing.   Tell  me  what  it  is.    Perhaps  I  can  help  you." 

"No  ...  no  more.  .  .  ." 


BV  JM11E5  Hiiro 


"All  right.    Til  see  you  again  next  Friday." 
"You   are   so    kind,"   she   repeated,   evading   the 
question  he  had  hinted.    But  he  was  not  really  very 
curious. 

After  breakfast  they  found  a  comfortable  board- 
ing house,  the  sort  that  announced  itself  as  a  pri- 
vate hotel,  in  a  street  leading  off  the  Promenade. 
She  left  her  bag  there  and  paid  a  week's  rent  in 
advance,  for  which  she  had  money  enough  of  her 
own.  Then  they  shook  hands,  and  she  gave  him  the 
little  crushed  smile  again,  and  he  went  off  to  the 
station  to  catch  the  morning  train. 


I4, 


CHAPTER     III 


HE  little  doctor  was  modest,  if  one  had  to  think 
of  a  single  adjective  for  him;  but  his  modesty 
was  more  accurately  a  lack  of  worldly  ambition 
combined  with  a  dislike  of  comparing  himself 
with  other  people.  He  cared  little  about  money  or 
position  and  had  long  ceased  to  regret  the  brilliant 
career  that  had  once  been  forecast  for  him  and  was 
now  out  of  reach.  Indeed  to  every  might-have-been 
he  offered  the  crowning  indignity  of  forgetfulness, 
save  when  some  specific  reminder  nudged  him. 

Such  a  reminder  was  the  German  primer  which 
he  took  down  from  a  dusty  shelf  on  the  Thursday 
after  meeting  Leni  in  Sandmouth.  Since  he  had  to 
see  her  the  next  day  he  thought  he  might  as  well 
look  over  a  few  words.  The  book  brought  memories 
of  student  days  in  London,  when  he  had  walked 
the  wards  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital  and  lodged  near 
by  in  Battersea.  He  had  studied  German  then  with 
some  idea  of  having  a  year's  specializing  in  Vienna, 
but  the  plan  was  abandoned  when  his  father  died 
and  left  far  less  money  than  had  been  expected. 
Feeling  that  he  must  begin  to  earn  something  to 
support  his  mother,  he  had  then  used  up  a  small 
inheritance  to  buy  a  general  practice  in  a  Man- 
chester suburb,  where  for  several  years  he  was  both 
overworked  and  under-rewarded.  He  fell  ill,  debts 
accumulated,  his  mother  died,  and  eventually  there 
was  nothing  left  but  to  sell  out  at  a  loss  and  take 
a  long  holiday.  After  this  he  bought  the  Calderbury 
practice,  then  an  inferior  one,  and  settled  down  in 
the  more  congenial  atmosphere  of  a  small  cathedral 
market  town.  But  he  still  could  not  convert  his 
skill  and  effort  into  anything  that  would  pay  rates 
and  bills.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who  have  no 
knack  of  extracting  financial  profit,  and  very  soon 
he  might  have  become  that  pathetic  thing,  a  bank- 
rupt doctor,  had  not  Jessica  taken  his  affairs  in 
hand. 

Jessica  was  a  year  or  two  older  than  he.  Even  in 
those  days  she  had  had  a  tough,  leathery  skin  (the 
result  of  much  gardening)  and  a  rigid  eye  (the  re- 
sult of  much  chairmanship  of  small  meetings) .  In- 
defatigable at  the  tea  urn,  both  in  drawing-rooms 
and  in  church  halls,  she  might  have  made  an  ad- 
mirable colonial  bishop's  wife — and,  indeed,  would 
have  if  a  certain  young  vicar,  since  raised  to  the 
episcopacy,  had  not  preferred  someone  far  less  suit- 
able. After  that  she  had  taken  pains  to  marry  the 
little  doctor. 

It  had  been,  by  outward  signs,  a  successful  mar- 
riage. Jessica  had  reorganized  all  of  David's  life 
that  was  reorganizable;  the  house  at  the  corner  of 
Shawgate  was  bought  with  her  money;  and  though 
David  jibbed  at  complete  supervision  of  his  busi- 
ness affairs,  her  secret  interferences  were  more  fre- 
quent and  more  considerable  than  he  ever  suspected. 
She  turned  a  loss  into  a  profit  and  David  gave  her 
all  the  credit  for  doing  it  without  any  profound 
conviction  that  it  was  worth  doing. 

Friday  morning  came — only  a  few  hours  after  he 
had  closed  the  German  primer  at  his  bedside.  The 
day  promised  to  be  fine,  and  as  the  train  left  Cal- 
derbury the  twin  towers  of  the  Cathedral  rose  above 
a  film  of  mist  that  covered  the  town.  Serene 
and  secure,  this  world,  poised  on  an  edge  it  could 
not  glimpse.  The  train  wheels  caught  a  rhythm 
which,  for  some  reason,  translated  into  German 
words,  words  that  he  must  have  read  in  the  textbook 


the  night  before: — 

Noch  erkannt  und  sehr  gering 
Vnser  Herr  auf  der  Erde  ging.  .  .  . 

At  Sandmouth  he  walked  immediately  to  the 
Promenade,  turning  into  the  side  street  where  the 
clifflike  boarding  houses  soared  from  area  basement 
to  attic,  bourgeois  castles,  flaunting  their  cruets  on 
bay-window  dining  tables  with  an  air  of  buxom 
integrity.  He  was  really  rather  nervous  about  this 
visit,  and  with  some  idea  of  getting  it  over  he  took 
it  first  on  his  list. 

The  landlady  showed  him  to  a  room  on  the  first 
floor  overlooking  the  street.  He  had  not,  a  week 
earlier,  disclosed  his  own  profession,  lest  admission 
might  be  refused  to  a  sick  person;  and  now  he 
thought  it  simpler  to  keep  up  the  assumption  of 
some  private  friendship  with  the  girl.  He  was 
startled  a  little,  though  he  made  no  comment,  when 
the  woman  said:  "I  don't  think  your  young  lady's 
very  well.  Maybe  it's  her  arm.  I'd  take  her  to  see 
a  doctor  if  I  were  you." 

A  moment  later  he  was  investigating.  The  girl 
seemed  less  agitated  in  mind — that  was  something; 
she  greeted  him  cheerfully.  But  her  wrist  was  still 
inflamed  and  obviously  painful — which  was  not  sur- 
prising, after  her  previous  neglect  of  it.  He  told 
her  frankly  that  it  was  her  own  fault  for  not  obeying 
the  instructions  he  had  given  her  at  Calderbury; 
how  could  she  possibly  have  danced  with  broken 
bones  chafing  each  other  at  every  sudden  move- 
ment? And  now,  as  a  result,  the  mending  would  be 
more  difficult;  there  might  even  be  complications; 
at  any  rate,  she  would  have  to  carry  her  arm  in  a 
sling  for  weeks. 

She  nodded  when  he  had  finished,  accepting  both 
the  situation  and  the  blame  for  it.  That  made  him 
smile  and  ask,  more  gently:     "Do  you  like  it  here?" 

She  nodded  and  smiled  back. 

Yes,  she  was  more  cheerful;  that  was  a  great  deal 
—more  important,  really,  than  her  wrist. 

"I  think  you'd  better  stay  another  week — since  it 
seems  to  be  doing  you  good.    You're  not  lonely?" 

"No." 

"Made  any  friends?" 

"The  landlady's  little  boy.  I  take  him  for  walks 
sometimes." 

"Good.    Can  you  understand  anything  he  says?" 

"He  doesn't  talk  a  great  deal.  And  I'm  learning 
English  from  a  book.    I  never  had  time  before." 

Up  to  then  he  had  talked  in  German;  now  he  said, 
in  English:  "I  shall  have  to  brush  up  my  German, 
too,  then  we'll  be  quits.    Do  you  like  children?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

He  had  a  sudden  idea. 

"I've  got  a  little  boy,  you  know.  He's  nine.  It 
would  be  a  change  for  him  to  come  to  Sandmouth, 
but  I've  never  known  quite  what  to  do  with  him 
while  I  make  my  round  of  visits.  I  wonder  if  .  .  . 
if  I  were  to  bring  him  next  week  ...  I  could  leave 
him  in  your  charge  for  a  few  hours?" 

"Yes,  please." 

"But  I'm  afraid  he's  not  quite  an  ordinary  little 
boy." 

"No?" 

"He's  rather  nervous  and  excitable — and  some- 
times difficult — do  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"I  don't  mind.    Please  bring  him." 

IT  was  just  an  idea,  and  one  which,  had  he  thought 
twice,  he  might  never  have  put  forward;  for  it  was 
always  possible  that  Jessica  would  object.  Jessica, 
however,  was  glad  enough  to  have  Gerald  out  of 
the  house  for  a  day,  and  quite  indifferent  when 
David  explained  that  he  had  a  patient  at  Sand- 
mouth, who  had  promised  to  act  as  nursemaid. 

The  arrangement,  therefore,  stood;  but  it  entailed 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  which  Jessica  herself  would 
scarcely  have  thought  worth  while.  David  did  not 
mind.  He  was  careful  to  wait  at  the  very  front  end 
of  the  stations  at  both  Calderbury  and  Marsland 
Junction,  so  that  the  train  did  not  rush  by  as  it  en- 
tered the  station;  that  always  terrified  Gerald,  and 
David  understood  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world;  which,  indeed,  he  knew  it  was, 
in  Gerald's  world.  And  then  there  were  the  actual 
hours  of  travel,  during  which  the  boy  was  apt  to  get 
tired  and  fidgety,  so  that  he  sometimes  made  him- 
self a  nuisance  to  others  in  the  compartment. 

Nevertheless,  they  reached  Sandmouth  without 
trouble  and  called  immediately  at  the  boarding 
house.  David  was  a  little  apprehensive,  because 
Gerald  was  apt  to  take  sudden  dislikes  to  strangers; 
but  the  first  encounter  seemed  to  him  to  pass  well 
enough,  and  he  left  on  a  tiptoe  of  hopefulness  that 
did  not  quite  amount  to  confidence.  When  he  called 
back  later  in  the  afternoon  he  found  the  two  of 
them   eating   pink   ice   cream   out  of  huge   cones. 


"Ice  cream  is  a  thing  you  should  never  have  unless 
you  know  where  it  comes  from!"  Jessica  would  have 
exclaimed,  indignantly;  but  David,  neither  know- 
ing nor  caring  where  it  came  from,  merely  smiled: 
for  the  boy  at  that  moment  looked  just  like  any 
other  boy.  It  had  been  a  dream  that  that  should 
begin  to  happen  some  day. 

"How  did  you  manage?"  he  asked  later. 

"All  right." 

"He's  really  been  good?" 

"Yes." 

"He  can't  help  it,  you  know,  even  when  he  isn't 
Wasn't  he  frightened  at  all— by  anything?" 

"He  didn't  like  the  big  waves  when  we  walked 
along  the  beach,  but  I  made  him  laugh." 

"You  did?" 

"I  said  things  in  German.  I  said,  'Hurtig  mit 
Donnergepolter  entrollte  der  tiickische  Marmor' — 
and  he  began  to  laugh  and  then  made  me  say  it  over 
and  over  again." 

David  smiled  eagerly.  "You  know,  that's  just  the 
way  I  do  it  too — anything  to  make  him  laugh,  any- 
thing I  can  think  of,  when  he  gets  into  one  of  those 
panics.  I  believe  that's  the  only  way  to  tackle  them 
until  he  can  tackle  them  himself." 

"Is  it  true  that  when  he  was  younger  he  was  run 
over  by  a  train?" 

"Good  God,  no!  Did  he  say  that?  Oh,  he's  an 
awful  little  story-teller — you  mustn't  believe  every- 
thing he  says.  He  just  imagines  things,  you  know, 
and  everything  he  imagines  is  more  the  truth  to 
him  than  what  really  happens.  That's  why  he  has 
these  panics — through  imagining  things.  He  doesn't 
really  tell  lies." 

"I  know." 

"If  you  do  know,  you  belong  to  a  very  small 
minority,  I  can  tell  you.  And  I  think  he  must  feel 
you  do — that's  why  you  get  on  so  well  with  him." 

XHE  following  Friday  he  took  Gerald  to  Sand- 
mouth again.  The  repeated  experiment  was  almost 
too  successful,  for  the  boy  enjoyed  himself  so  much 
that  when  the  time  came  to  return  to  Calderbury 
he  burst  into  tears  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 
That,  clearly,  was  as  big  a  danger  as  anything  else; 
and  David,  promising  that  he  should  see  Leni  again, 
was  privately  aware  that  it  had  better  not  hap- 
pen. It  would  be  disastrous  if  Gerald  should  de- 
velop some  deep  attachment  that  could  not  con- 
tinue; and  how  could  it,  since  the  girl  would  soon 
recover  and  be  at  work  again?  At  least  he  as- 
sumed so,  and  she  assumed  so  too;  for  her  money 
was  coming  to  an  end,  and  even  if  she  could  not 
dance  again  for  some  time,  there  might  be  some 
other  temporary  job  to  tide  over  the  interval;  they 
had  talked  over  that  possibility  together,  and  he  had 
been  quite  optimistic  about  her  getting  a  commer- 
cial post  requiring  knowledge  of  German. 

They  walked  to  the  railway  station,  the  three  of 
them,  with  these  thoughts  and  possibilities  somewhat 
strangled  by  the  need  for  pacifying  Gerald.  He 
made  a  scene  on  the  platform,  clinging  to  Leni's 
hand  and  refusing  to  budge.  "Good-bye,"  said 
David,  harassed  by  all  this,  as  he  leaned  out  of  the 
window  when  the  struggle  was  over.  "Good-bye — 
and  good  luck  about  the  job.  .  .  ."  Something  in 
her  eyes  made  him  add,  as  the  guard  began  whis- 
tling: "By  the  way,  if  it  doesn't  come  off — the  job, 
I  mean  .  .  ."  Then  the  train  began  to  move.  "Well, 
write  and  let  me  know,"  he  added,  lamely. 

She  didn't  have  to  write  and  let  him  know.  Jessica 
wrote.  Jessica,  in  fact,  handled  the  situation  as  she  al- 
ways handled  situations — masterfully,  with  a  fine  eye 
for  essentials  and  a  bold  seizure  of  opportunities.  She 
was  a  shrewd  woman,  and  after  Gerald's  successive 
Fridays  at  Sandmouth  and  his  delighted  chatter 
about  them,  it  did  not  take  her  long  to  realize  that 
whatever  had  happened  there  had  been  fortunate. 
In  her  remarkably  efficient  way  she  wished  well  to 
the  boy,  though  the  well-wishing  hardly  lessened 
her  impatience  of  his  tantrums.  If  someone  else 
had  both  the  knack  and  the  inclination  to  deal  with 
them,  then  by  all  means  let  it  happen.  "Who  is  this 
woman  who  looks  after  Gerald  when  you're  in 
Sandmouth?"  she  asked  David. 

David  had  acquired  a  habit  of  reticence  about  his 
patients'  private  affairs,  added  to  which  there  was 
the  vagueness  that  existed  in  his  own  mind  when 
he  asked  himself  who  Leni  was.  Come  to  think 
about  it,  he  simply  didn't  know. 

"She's  just  a  patient  of  mine — she  broke  her  wrist." 

"Is  she  a  lady?" 

David  wondered,  not  so  much  whether  she  was  or 
not,  as  whether  Jessica  would  think  her  one  or  not. 
At  length  he  said:  "Oh  yes,  I  should  say  she  is." 

"Living  by  herself?" 

"Yes." 


2? 


"What  sort  of  family?" 

"She  hasn't  any." 

"Of  course  not,  silly,  if  she  lives  by  herself.  I 
meant  what  kind  of  family  does  she  come  from?" 

"I  don't  know — I  really  don't  know  much  about 
her  affairs." 

"Is  she  well  off?" 

"Oh  no,  on  the  contrary— in  fact—" 

"In  fact,  you've  already  decided  not  to  send  her 
a  bill— I  thought  as  much!" 

"No,  no — I  was  going  to  say  that  she's  quite  poorly 
off — at  the  moment  she's  trying  to  find  work." 

"She  wants  a  job,  then?  I  suppose  she's  present- 
able in  appearance?" 

"Presentable?" 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  notice,  would  you?  You 
never  do  notice  the  most  obvious  things  about  peo- 
ple. What  I'm  really  wondering  is  if  she'd  come 
here  to  help  with  Gerald." 

"You  mean  to  live  here?" 

"Why  not,  if  she  wants  something  to  do?" 

"Well  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  think  she'd  come?" 

"I   don't   know.  ...  I   hadn't   thought   about   it." 

"My  dear  David,  you  never  think  of  anything. 
Give  me  her  address  and  I'll  write  to  her." 

'The  address  ...  ah,  let  me  see  now — I  think 
I  can  remember  it— it's  the  Salway  Private  Hotel, 
Beach  Street. 

"Her  name  first,  stupid — I  can't  write  without 
knowing  that,  can  I?" 

"Krafft— Leni  Krafft." 

"Goodness— it  sounds  foreign." 

"She's  German." 

"Well,  that's  all  right.  At  any  rate  it  might  have 
been  worse.  The  Murdochs  always  had  German 
governesses.     What  made  her   leave   Germany?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  I  shall  write  to  her.  I  suppose  she  can 
understand   a    letter   written   in   plain   English?" 

"Oh  yes." 

So  Leni  got  a  letter  written  in  plain  English.  It 
offered  her  the  job  of  looking  after  Gerald  at  a 
salary  of  sixty  pounds  a  year  if  she  proved  satis- 
factory after  a  trial. 

Leni  came  to  Calderbury  to  live.  "You'd  bet- 
ter meet  the  train,"  said  Jessica,  "since  you're  the 
one  who  knows  her";  and  David  said  all  right,  he 
would  if  he  got  through  his  visits  in  time.  But  it 
happened  that  he  did  finish  in  time,  though  it  was 
dusk  when  he  reached  the  station.  And  as  he 
walked  he  began  to  think,  really  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  about  Leni.  She  was  coming  to  Calderbury. 
She  was  coming  to  live  in  his  house.  It  was  odd 
the  way  these  things  happened. 

The  train  was  in. 

Leni  was  already  stepping  out  of  the  train,  carry- 
ing a  suitcase  and  a  wicker  basket. 

"Leni!" 

"Oh,  du  kleine  doktor!" 

They  didn't  know  what  else  to  say  to  each  other 
at  first.  There  was  the  business  of  handing  over 
the  luggage,  surrendering  her  ticket,  passing  the 
barrier  with  the  small  crowd  from  the  train.  Peo- 
ple who  knew  David  kept  up  a  chorus  of  good- 
evenings.  On  the  way  down  the  steps  to  the  street 
level  he  said:  "Gerald's  looking  forward  to  your 
arrival." 

Leni  exclaimed  in  German:  "I  couldn't  believe  I 
was  really  coming!" 

"It  was  Jessie's  idea — I  don't  know  why  I  never 
thought  of  it  myself." 

The  porter,  walking  ahead,  pricked  up  his  ears. 
Afterwards  he  reported:  "They  didn't  talk  much, 
but  when  the  doctor  said  something  she  answered 
in  some  foreign  lingo  and  'e  seemed  to  understand 
it  all  right  from  the  way  he  smiled  at  'er.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER     IV 


JL, 


ENI  settled  down  at  the  house  in  Shawgate 
and  Gerald  was  happy.  It  was  miraculous,  the 
success  she  had  in  calming  the  boy's  nervousness 
and  brightening  his  moods  whenever  they  darkened; 
she  could  do  it  as  well  as  David,  and,  of  course,  the 
trouble  had  always  been  that  David  had  so  little 
time  for  doing  it.  Now,  instead  of  Jessica's  rigid 
discipline  of  scoldings  and  repetitions,  Leni  im- 
posed her  more  elastic  sway;  and  Jessica,  freed 
from  an  irksome  duty,  seemed  satisfied.  David  was 
satisfied  too.  After  the  first  surprise  of  Leni's 
presence  he  regarded  it  with  sudden  simplicity. 
He  wasn't  bothered,  for  instance,  by  any  mystery 
there  might  be  about  her  name  and  past;  it  did  not 


seem  to  matter  to  him  since  he  called  her  Leni  and 
liked  her.    He  called  everyone  by  their  first  names. 

Gradually  her  wrist  became  stronger  and  one 
afternoon,  when  Jessica  was  out,  David  heard  her 
playing  the  piano.  It  was  more  from  the  surgical 
than  the  musical  angle  that  he  viewed  this  ex- 
periment; he  wished  to  see  how  far  the  fracture  had 
impaired  her  finger  movements.  To  his  consider- 
able surprise  she  began  to  play  rather  well,  and 
things  he  had  never  heard  before;  they  weren't  his 
kind  of  music,  anyway.  Then  he  put  in  front  of 
her  a  Mozart  Sonata,  thinking  he  might  give  him- 
self the  pleasure  of  hearing  it;  but  she  shook  her 
head.     "I  can't  read  it,"  she  told  him. 

"What?     You  can't  read  music?" 

"Only  very  slowly." 

"Then  how  do  you  learn  all  these  things?" 

"Mostly  from  ear." 

"You  mean  you've  never  been  taught  music?" 

She  shook  her  head  a  third  time. 

"Well,  it's  very  remarkable.  You  certainly  ought 
to  have  training." 

"May  I  practise  while  I  am  here?" 

"Why,  certainly.  You'll  find  a  lot  of  classical  stuff 
in  the  cabinet — my  own  tastes." 

"You  play  the  piano?" 

"The  violin — but  not  much.  What  time  does  a 
doctor  have?" 

And  he  went  away  to  his  daily  duties,  vaguely 
wondering  whether  he  should  introduce  her  to 
Jaggers,  the  Cathedral  organist,  or  to  Yule,  the 
choirmaster,  and  let  them  share  his  discovery. 

After  that,  and  mostly  during  the  afternoons  when 
Jessica  was  out,  Leni  played  the  piano  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. He  didn't  realize  what  she  was  doing 
until  one  day,  by  accident,  he  came  in  and  heard 
her  playing  the  piano  part  of  the  Kreutzer  Sonata. 
He  stood  outside  the  drawing-room  door  and  listened 
till  she  had  finished.    Then  he  entered. 

"But  you  learned  that  from  music?" 

"It  was  very  slow  and  difficult  for  me  to  pick  out 
the  notes,  but  when  I  had  done  that,  then  I  knew 
it  from  memory.    I've  been  practising  a  lot  lately." 

"Fine.  But  I  still  think  you  ought  to  have  some 
proper  training." 

Smilingly  he  walked  away,  again  registering  an 
intention  of  talking  to  Jaggers  or  Yule  about  her. 
But  at  the  back  of  his  mind  in  such  a  matter  there 
was  always  the  thought  of  Jessica;  she  might  not 
approve — one    could   never   prophesy   her   attitude. 

So  he  did  not  actually  mention  Leni  to  Jaggers 
or  Yule  or,  indeed,  to  anyone;  but  he  went  on  think- 
ing he  ought  to  do,  and  must  do,  and  perhaps  would 
do  so,  one  of  those  days. 

But  one  of  those  days,  a  July  day,  David  re- 
turned to  Calderbury  after  his  weekly  visit  to  Sand- 
mouth. 

Suddenly,  walking  on  towards  Shawgate,  he  met 
Leni.  "Why — "  he  began,  as  if  he  had  not  seen 
her  for  years.  She  stopped,  smiling  but  silent. 
"Taking  a  walk?"  he  said. 

"Just  for  a  while." 

"Do  you  often  take  a  turn  round  here,  then?" 

"Take  a  turn?    What  is  that?" 

He  put  it  into  German  for  her,  and  then  a  curious 
line  of  her  mouth,  lit  by  the  merging  of  twilight  and 
lamplight,  gave  him  an  impression  of  mishap  that 
made  him  add:   "Is  anything  the  matter?" 

She  answered,  in  German  also:  "Mrs.  Newcome 
has  told  me  I  must  go." 

"What?" 

"Yes." 

"Must  go?     But  where?" 

"Away." 

"But  why — why  on  earth — should  she  say  that?" 

"She  said  she  can't  afford  to  have  me." 

"But  that's  absurd.    We  can  afford  it." 

"She  said  not." 

A  silence  fell  on  them  both,  and  into  it,  making 
an  interruption,  came  the  voice  of  a  passer-by: 
"G'night,  doctor." 

"Good  night,"  answered  David,  not  knowing,  never 
knowing  indeed,  who  the  other  was.  Then  he 
turned  to  Leni.  "I  really  don't  understand  it.  I 
must  see  what  Jessica  has  to  say." 


He  must  talk  to  Jessica  as  soon  as  he  had  the 
chance,  though  he  realized,  even  in  making  that  de- 
cision, how  little  he  cared  to  ask  Jessica  anything. 
It  wasn't  that  he  was  really  afraid  of  her,  or  that 
there  was  truth  in  Calderbury's  popular  notion  that 
she  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  He  wasn't;  she 
couldn't.  It  was  rather  that  his  own  will  to  do  what 
he  liked  in  his  own  house  had  been  worn  into  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  that  yielded,  by  nonchalance, 
all  that  could  never  have  been  claimed  by  force. 
Furthermore,  Jessica  was  so  efficient  that  it  was  easy 
to  let  her  encroach  to  the  very  rampart  of  self- 
preservation;  and  that  rampart,  for  David,  was  the 
door  of  the  surgery. 

Jessica  was  writing  invitations  when  he  found 
her  later  in  the  drawing-room.  The  engraved  cards, 
filled  in  with  handwritten  names,  lay  spread  out  on 
the  writing  desk  beside  her — "Dr.  and  Mrs.  New- 
come  request  the  pleasure  of  .  .  ." 

"Jessie,"  he  began,  breathlessly  and  without  pre- 
amble.   "What's  all  this  about  getting  rid  of  Leni?" 

Jessica  faced  him  with  her  thin,  well-chiseled 
face,  faced  him  also  with  her  no-nonsense  per- 
sonality at  full  strength. 

"Yes,  it's  true.     I  told  her  she  couldn't  stay." 

"But  why?" 

"I  had  my  reasons,  I  assure  you." 

"But  it's  absurd  to  say  we  can't  afford  her  wage! 
She's  well  worth  it — Gerald  likes  her  enormously — " 

"That  was  only  the  reason  I  gave  her.  It  wasn't 
the  real  reason." 

"What  was  that?" 

"Do  you  really  need  me  to  tell  you?"  Her  voice 
sharpened  to  the  pitch  in  which,  at  meetings  of 
this  or  that,  she  usually  called  some  errant  speaker 
to  order.  "Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that  people 
aren't  always  what  they  seem?  I  was  far  too  trust- 
ing to  take  that  girl  without  the  usual  inquiries, 
but  I  was  relying — foolishly,  no  doubt — on  your  own 
assurance.  I  might  have  guessed  how  little  you 
really  knew  of  her.  And  I  must  say,  too,  that  I 
didn't  take  to  her,  even  from  the  first." 

JESSICA  was  like  that.  She  had  a  way  of  find- 
ing that  she  didn't  like  people  and  then  of  saying 
that  she  never  had  liked  them — thus  imputing  clair- 
voyance to  herself  and  vaguely  sinister  attributes  to 
her  victims. 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you're  driving  at." 

"Oh,  you  don't?  I'm  glad  you  admit  it.  You 
don't  know,  I  suppose,  that  this  girl  was  on  the 
stage  a  few  months  back,  doing  a  dance  turn  in  fifth- 
rate  shows?  And  you  don't  know  that  she  was  dis- 
missed because  she  tried  to  commit  suicide!" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  David,  simply,  "I  knew  all  that." 

Quite  unconscious  of  having  spoiled  Jessica's  mo- 
ment, his  only  thought  was  a  reassuring  one — that 
if  that  was  all  the  trouble,  what  could  the  fuss  be 
about? 

Jessica's  voice  keyed  up  another  half-tone.  "So 
you  knew?     And  you  never  told  me?" 

"I  never  like  to  gossip  about  a  patient's  private 
affairs." 

"How  very  considerate  to  your  patients!  But 
hardly  to  your  family!  Did  you  really  think  a 
suicidal  stage  dancer — and  a  foreigner,  at  that — was 
the  kind  of  person  to  have  in  a  respectable  house- 
hold and  look  after  a  nervous  child?" 

David  blinked  a  little,  thinking  of  Leni  and  of 
how  silly  it  was  to  try  to  pin  down  the  truth  about 
people  in  words,  because  the  words  could  all  be  true 
and  yet  have  no  truth  in  them.  "She's  all  right,  my 
dear,"  he  said  quietly. 

"You  call  her  all  right?  .  .  .  I've  no  patience  with 
you,  David.  Apart  from  the  risk  of  heaven  knows 
what,  don't  you  think  there's  enough  scandal  all 
over  the  town  now  that  this  story's  got  about?  Do 
you  know  she  once  appeared  on  the  stage  at  the 
theatre  here?" 

"Yes,  that  was  where  she  broke  her  wrist  last 
December.     I  attended  her." 

"Well,  really!  You  knew  all  that  and  didn't  say 
a  thing!" 

David  was  silent,  and  Jessica  too.  After  a  long 
pause   she   commented:    "A   queer  business.     Right 


^X^vM?^'^*^5««SJ«ia 


from  the  first  moment  I  was  certain  there  was  some- 
thing queer  about  it." 

"But  there  isn't." 

"There  must  be,  if  she's  the  sort  that  tries  to 
commit  suicide." 

"Oh,  no,  Jessie.  It  isn't  queer  people  who  do  that 
— it's  people  just  like  everyone  else — like  you  or 
me — if  ever  we  were  driven  to  it." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  argue.  She's  got  to  go, 
that's  all." 

"But  Gerald—" 

"He  must  learn  to  manage  without  her.  I'm  sure 
she's  doing  him  no  real  good." 

Then  David,  planting  himself  firmly  on  a  small 
fragment  of  endangered  territory,  took  a  stand 
which  was  all  the  more  obstinate  for  being  minute. 
He  was  not  really  a  good  fighter.  He  hated  squab- 
bles and  it  was  never  easy  for  him  to  grasp  such 
issues  as  could  be  involved  in  them.  "She  can't 
go  before  the  end  of  the  month,"  he  said,  as  if 
pronouncing  a  moral  dictum  or  an  immutable  law. 

"She  can  if  I  pay  her." 

"It  isn't  a  matter  of  paying.  You  can't  act  sud- 
denly like  this  and  make  her  find  new  work  and 
new  lodgings  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"I  don't  see  that  her  future  plans  have  anything 
to  do  with  us." 

"Maybe  not,  but  I  think  we  ought  to  treat  her  as 
a  human  being.  We  can't  just  give  her  a  few  shil- 
lings and  put  her  out  in  the  street." 

"You  say  we  can't?" 

"I  say  we  mustn't." 

"Very  well,  if  that's  your  attitude  she  shall  stay 
till  her  month  is  finished — which  means  another  fort- 
night of  her  company.  But  don't  expect  me  to  leave 
Gerald  with  her.  You  can  look  after  the  girl's  in- 
terest; I  prefer  to  look  after  my  own  child's.  .  .  . 
And  now  tell  me  about  these  invitations  to  the 
musical  party — do  you  want  the  Cowens  to  come 
this  year  or  not?" 

David  shook  his  head  bewilderedly  and  walked 
to  the  door.  When  he  got  there  he  said  "Ask  them 
if  you  like,"  and  passed  into  the  corridor.  He  moved 
absently  for  a  few  paces,  then  his  feet  led  him 
down  the  three  familiar  steps  and  through  the  green- 
baize-covered  double  doors  into  the  surgery.  There, 
entrenched  in  his  own  domain,  he  felt  a  little  but 
not  greatly  eased.  Of  course  it  was  quite  true  that 
in  a  cathedral  town  there  was  a  lot  of  gossip,  and 
Jessica  was  probably  surer  in  reckoning  its  impor- 
tance. And  also,  of  course,  so  long  as  Leni  could 
get  another  job  as  good  or  better,  it  didn't  really 
matter  to  her.  He  would  write  her  a  testimonial 
if  she  wasn't  fit  for  a  theatre  job,  and  perhaps,  with 
her  knowledge  of  German,  she  might  find  work  as 
a  teacher  or  in  some  firm.  And  though  he  would 
personally  miss  her,  and  he  knew  Gerald  would  too, 
her  absence  could  only  put  back  everything  as  it 
had  been  before,  even  for  the  boy. 

TV  HEN  he  saw  Leni  in  the  morning  as  he  left  for 
his  round  of  visits  he  behaved  as  if  nothing  par- 
ticular had  happened.  He  was  aware  of  a  directly 
personal  relationship  between  them,  aware  of  it  as 
never  before;  it  touched  something  in  him  which 
was  as  solitary  as  itself.  When  he  returned  about 
noon  Leni  told  him  that  Jessica  had  taken  Gerald 
away  and  that  the  boy  had  made  a  scene. 

"When  he  said  good-bye  to  you?" 

"He  wasn't  allowed  to  say  good-bye  to  me." 

"Do  you  know  where  Jessie  took  him?" 

"To  Mr.  Simpson." 

"Oh  yes,  my  wife's  brother.  He's  Vicar  of  St. 
Peter's.    He's  looked  after  Gerald  before." 

"Do  you  think  he'll  be  happy?" 

"Gerald?  I  don't  know."  He  leaned  against  the 
edge  of  the  desk  and  began  tapping  it  with  his 
fingernail.  "I'm  sorry  it's  all  happened  like  this. 
I  really  am.  But  what  can  I  do  about  it?  I'm  not 
one  of  those  people  who  like  to  make  trouble.  Some- 
times— sometimes  I  wish  I  were." 

"Don't  worry,"  she  said.  He  knew  her  sympathy, 
yet  felt  it  as  a  spell  he  must  break  at  all  costs. 

"Has  Jessie  come  back?"  he  asked. 

"No,  not  yet.    She  said  she'd  be  out  for  lunch." 


"Then  ...  I  won't  have  any  lunch.  Just  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  sandwich  here.    Will  you  tell  Susan?" 

"I  told  Susan.  I  knew  you  always  had  that  when 
Mrs.  Newcome's  away." 

"See  that  you  get  something  yourself." 

"I'm  not  hungry  either." 

Over  the  murmur  of  Calderbury  activities  there 
came  the  twang  of  the  street  piano  that  always 
moved  along  Shawgate  on  Thursday  market  days, 
pushed  by  an  old  wooden-legged  character  named 
Joe  Moore.  Presently  Susan  entered  with  a  plate 
of  sandwiches  and  coffee.  "You  must  have  some," 
David  said  to  Leni,  thinking  she  might  as  well  eat 
and  drink  in  the  surgery  as  anywhere  else.  He 
smiled  and  then  had  to  add:  "I  talked  to  Jessie, 
by  the  way,  last  night — and  I'm  sorry — personally 
I'm  very  sorry  indeed — " 

"You  mean  I  have  to  go?" 

"Not  for  a  fortnight." 

"But  now  that  Gerald's  gone — " 

"I  know,  but  I  made  Jessie  agree  to  the  fort- 
night." 

The  fortnight  was  offered  between  them  as  a 
symbol  of  the  extent  to  which  he  had  argued  with 
Jessica  and  opposed  her;  as  a  gesture  indicating 
action  which,  had  he  been  inclined  for  any,  he 
would  have  taken;  as,  finally,  a  gift  which  could 
not  be  refused. 

"Because,  you  see,  during  that  fortnight  we'll 
have  time  to  find  you  another  job." 

She  nodded. 

"Or  else,  if  we  can't,  then  I'll  pay  your  fare  back 
to  Germany." 

Something  in  her  change  of  expression  served  then 
as  a  reminder,  so  that  he  went  on,  hastily:  "Oh,  but 
I  forgot — you  said  you  didn't  want  to  go  back." 

"I  can't  go  back." 

He  accepted  the  statement  as  if  it  were  only  just 
beginning  to  occur  to  him  how  little  he  knew  about 
her,  as  well  as  how  remarkably  little  he  had  ever 
bothered  to  know. 

".  .  .  Because  I  ran  away,"  she  added  suddenly. 

"From  home?" 

"No — from  school.  ...  It  was  very  strict  and  I 
hated  it.  The  Russian  frontier  was  quite  close,  so 
I  ran  away  one  night  and  went  to  St.  Petersburg, 
to  the  dance  school  there,  but  the  police  found  out 
about  me,  so  I  had  to  run  away  again.  I  hid  myself 
on  a  ship  in  the  docks  and  came  to  London.  So 
you  see  I  must  stay  in  England  now — I  cannot  go 
back  to  Germany.  They  would  arrest  me  there — be- 
cause of  the  forgery." 

"Forgery?     Why,  what  was  that?" 

"On  the  passport  when  I  went  to  Russia.  You 
have  to  have  a  passport.  I  altered  all  the  writing  on 
the  certificate — about  my  name  and  age.  I  just 
made  up  a  name." 

He  began  to  smile.  "But  it  wasn't  done  with  any 
criminal  intent.  I  don't  suppose  you'd  find  the 
authorities  very  hard  on  you.  They  wouldn't  send 
you  to  prison." 

"Not  to  the  prison,  maybe,  but  back  to  the  school." 

He  laughed.  "Oh  really,  no — they  couldn't  do 
that.     At  your  age  you've  a  perfect  right — " 

"No,  no,  that's  just  it — because  on  the  passport  I 
said  I  was  twenty-five." 

"And  aren't  you?" 

"I'm  nineteen." 

David  looked  at  her.  He  had  never  really  won- 
dered about  her  age,  but  now  he  realized  that  he 
was  astonished.  Nineteen!  It  didn't,  of  course, 
make  any  difference  to  the  way  he  would  treat  her. 
He  never  condescended  to  youth.  There  was  a 
sense  in  which  he  treated  grown-ups  as  if  they  were 
children;  but  in  the  same  sense  he  also  treated  chil- 
dren as  if  they  were  grown-ups.  And  there  was  this 
same  childlike  gravity  in  the  readiness  with  which 
he  believed  people,  because  he  knew  he  knew  so 
little  about  the  nature  of  truth,  except  that  it  could 
be  very  strange  indeed. 

"You  won't  tell  anyone,  will  you?  Not  even  the 
police — if  they  come  to  ask  about  me?" 

He  touched  her  reddish  hair,  thinking  it  now  a 
child's.     "I  wouldn't  worry  at  all  if  I  were  you." 

"No,  I  do  not  worry  now.  Because  you  do  not 
worry,  either.  You  never  ask  me  about  anything 
and  that  was  why  I  have  told  you  everything." 

In  the  lives  of  most  Calderbury  citizens  there 
was  little  that  one  might  count  the  days  to,  either 
in  fear  or  in  anticipation.  Only  the  schoolboy  cross- 
ing off  dates  to  the  end  of  term,  or  the  old-age  pen- 
sioner in  fear  of  next  winter's  chills,  could  taste 
the  cruel  beauty  that  time  offers  to  those  who  are 
bound  to  count  its  fragments. 

Something  of  that  cruel  beauty  entered  the  doc- 
tor's house  in  Shawgate,  touching  him  every  morn- 
ing as  he  rose  and  every  evening  when  he  had  said 


good-night  to  his  last  surgery  caller  and  there  was 
nothing  left  but  to  smoke  and  go  to  bed.  He 
preferred  those  final  moments  of  the  day  alone,  for 
he  was,  beyond  outward  fellowship  and  impersonal 
altruism,  a  solitary,  aware  of  communion  with  life 
itself  rather  than  with  individual  lives. 

But  now,  meeting  Leni  from  time  to  time  dur- 
ing the  diminishing  fortnight,  a  little  of  that  calm- 
ness was  dislodged.  He  saw  her  sometimes  during 
the  afternoons,  when  she  played  the  piano  in  the 
drawing-room;  once  he  got  out  his  violin  and  be- 
gan a  sonata  with  her,  but  in  the  middle  of  it  he 
heard  Jessica  entering  the  house  and  talking  to 
Susan,  so  he  made  an  excuse  to  discontinue  the 
performance.  He  knew  Jessica  disliked  music,  and 
he  had  never  found  it  possible  to  enjoy  playing 
when  she  was  at  home.  He  said,  putting  his  violin 
back  in  the  case:  "We  must  finish  that  sometime. 
And  I  must  see  about  lessons  for  you — you  really 
ought  to  have  them,  you  know."  He  kept  saying 
that,  but  he  never  did  anything  about  it. 

He  knew,  though  she  did  not  tell  him,  how  little 
she  wished  to  leave,  yet  how  hard  it  was  to  stay, 
even  those  few  more  days.  For  Jessica,  by  pricks 
of  word  and  action,  was  always  indicating  the  ob- 
vious— that  there  was  nothing  to  stay  for,  no  work 
to  do,  no  reason  why  she  should  not  take  her  money 
and  quit.  The  days  passed  slowly,  braked  by  a 
curious   brooding   uncomfortableness;   David,   busy 


David  called  to  see  Gerald  every  day 


with  his  work,  saw  neither  Jessica  nor  Leni  for  any 
length  of  time;  yet  whenever  he  entered  the  house 
he  felt  their  presence  in  distant  separate  rooms.  Per- 
haps it  had  been  a  mistake  to  insist  on  that  fort- 
night; he  thought  so  when,  taking  meals  with  Jes- 
sica, he  measured  her  cold,  controlled  civility  against 
the  thoughts  that  might  lie  behind  it.  But  when, 
at  other  times  he  met  Leni  in  the  hall,  or  in  the 
corridor  outside  the  surgery,  her  smile  made  him 
feel  that  the  fortnight  was  beautiful,  with  a  beauty 
sharpened  by  all  that  made  it  unwise. 

He  fretted,  too,  about  Gerald  and  how  he  was 
faring,  and  once,  after  his  day's  work,  the  news  in 
the  evening  paper  gave  him  a  vision  of  human  mis- 
chief larger,  but  no  more  wanton,  than  that  which 
had  invaded  his  own  affairs.  Seeking  escape  from 
an  intolerable  perception,  he  went  out,  took  the 
path  by  the  river,  and  climbed  the  Knoll. 

He  walked  on,  as  far  as  the  little  wooden  hut  on 
the  hill,  and  during  a  pause  to  light  his  pipe  some- 
one (he  could  not  see  who  at  first)  came  up  to  him 
and  said  something. 

"Leni!"  he  exclaimed,  and  then  found  himself 
speechless  with  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  often  come  here  in  the  evenings.  Have 
you  any  news  of  Gerald?" 

David  flinched  at  the  question.  "Yes,  I  call  and 
see  him  every  day." 

"How  is  he?" 

"Not  very  happy,  I'm  afraid." 

"It  is  so  silly  that  I  cannot  still  look  after  him." 

They  walked  on  silently,  and  in  a  little  gap  of 
moonlight  between  the  trees  he  began  to  study  the 
outline  of  her  face,  the  long  slender  nose,  the  fore- 
head straight  and  ample.  All  at  once  he  knew  that 
he  had  her  in  memory  forever,  could  trace  that 
profile  with  closed  eyes,  every  curve  and  line  in 


29 


precious  ease  to  his  imagination. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?" 

"You  and  what  is  to  happen  to  you." 

"I  shall  get  a  job." 

"Yes,  and  next  time  you  oughtn't  to  go  in  for 
these  second-rate  things — Pierrots  at  the  seaside 
and  the  kind  of  show  you  were  in  when  you  first 
came  here.  I  think  you  ought  to  try  some  really 
good  theatre — in  London." 

She  smiled,  knowing  the  absurdity  of  it  all.  Their 
worlds  were  different,  their  ages  were  different, 
their  lives  and  languages  were  different;  yet  all 
those  differences  became  themselves  absurd  when 
measured  against  the  flash  of  recognition  that  sprang 
between  them  at  every  nearness.  She  said,  touch- 
ing his  arm  as  she  walked:  "Ah  .  .  .  du  kleiner 
Doktor  ...  I  am  not  so  good  as  that.  .  .  .  You 
have  never  seen  me  dance,  have  you?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "What  sort  of  dancing  do 
you  do?" 

"Some  day  I  would  like  to  show  you.  But  I 
am  not  very  good.  Maybe  if  I  could  have  stayed 
in  Petersburg  and  worked  hard  for  years  at  the 
school  there — " 

He  said,  quite  seriously:  "Yes,  I'm  afraid  we 
haven't  any  good  dancing  school  in  Calderbury. 
It's  a  pity  your  career  had  to  be  interrupted." 

"But  I  have  been  so  happy  here,"  she  answered. 


a, 


CHAPTER     V 


T  had  been  David's  habit  for  many  years  to 
give  a  party  during  the  latter  half  of  July,  a  sort 
of  garden  party  with  music,  to  which  all  the  nota- 
bles of  Calderbury  society  were  invited. 

David  had,  indeed,  a  quiet  liking  for  music  that 
led  him  to  join  the  Calderbury  Philharmonic  Society 
and  play  the  violin  in  string  quartets. 

It  was  during  the  second  week  of  Leni's  last  fort- 
night that  the  party  was  to  take  place. 

About  fifty  people  gathered  in  the  drawing-room 
and  garden — the  Dean  and  the  Archdeacon,  the  Pre- 
centor, Jaggers  the  organist,  Yule  the  choirmaster, 
various  vicars  of  parishes,  doctors,  a  solicitor,  a  re- 
tired admiral,  the  headmaster  of  the  local  gram- 
mar school,  the  editor  of  the  Calderbury  Gazette. 

Greetings,  gossip,  a  piano  solo  by  the  choirmaster, 
who  did  not  play  very  well,  and  for  whom  the  doc- 
tor's piano  would  not  have  been  good  enough  if  he 
had;  then  a  Grieg  violin  solo  by  the  wife  of  the 
grammar-school  head.  In  the  midst  of  this,  Susan 
entered  with  a  message  which  made  David  tiptoe 
from  the  room,  followed  by  glances  of  vague  com- 
miseration. "It's  always  like  that  for  a  doctor,  isn't 
it?"  people  said  to  Jessica  afterwards,  and  she  ad- 
mitted that  it  was.  Actually  she  didn't  feel  that 
David's  absence  mattered  very  much,  since  he  was 
no  help  in  running  any  but  a  children's  party. 

He  cycled  to  a  cottage  in  Colohan  Street,  off 
Briargate;  a  workman,  his  wife,  and  six  children 
lived  there  in  four  small  rooms.  One  of  the  six 
lay  gasping  and  coughing  in  bed.  "Bronchial,  doc- 
tor," the  father  kept  saying,  with  the  pathetic  trust- 
fulness of  the  man  who  knows  a  word.  David  soon 
found  that  it  was  double  pneumonia.  There  was 
little  chance  for  the  boy;  it  was  a  case  that  should 
have  been  under  skilled  treatment  days  before. 
David  did  what  he  could,  and  promised  to  call  again 
about  midnight. 

By  the  time  he  returned  to  the  house  the  party 
had  had  the  refreshment  interval  and  were  on  with 
music  again.  He  let  himself  in  by  the  surgery  en- 
trance. Passing  through  the  waiting  room,  he 
caught  the  sound  of  strings;  then,  as  he  opened  the 
surgery  door,  the  sound  swelled  into  sudden 
harmony,  and  also,  at  the  same  moment,  he  saw 
Leni  in  the  leather  armchair. 

She  looked  so  still  and  calm,  so  much  a  part  of 
all  that  he  sought  beyond  the  fret  of  existence,  that 
he  caught  his  breath  at  both  the  sight  and  the  sound; 
and  all  at  once  he  realized  something  that  he  had 
long  been  experiencing  without  notice — an  un- 
clenching of  every  nerve  whenever  he  came  into  her 
presence,  a  secret  renewal  of  strength. 

"Was  it  anything  serious,  David?" 

"Not  only  serious  but  hopeless,  I'm  sorry  to  say." 

(A  way  they  often  had,  and  a  way  that  no  one 
else  had  ever  had  with  him,  to  begin  talking  with- 
out preliminaries,  as  if  speech  were  suddenly 
switched  on  to  a  conversation  that  had  been  taking 
place  for  a  long  time,  but  silently.) 

"I  am  sorry  too." 

He  put  down  his  hat  and  bag  and  sat  in  the 
swivel  desk  chair  and  was  soon  absorbed.     Some- 


thing in  music  rarely  failed  to  lure  him  with  a 
promise.  The  patience  and  patterning  of  a  string 
quartet  offered  him  the  strongest  hint  of  destiny  in 
man.  He  was  really  happier  by  himself  in  the  sur- 
gery, and  "by  himself"  did  not  conflict  with  the 
presence  of  Leni.    So  why  join  the  crowd  just  yet? 

"I  ought  to  have  been  playing  in  that  quartet," 
he  said,  when  it  was  over.  "But  listen — "  Fred 
Garton  was  beginning  to  sing.  He  had  a  good  voice 
and  a  musicianly  intelligence.  "I  don't  think  I 
ever  heard  that  song  before." 

"It  is  a  song  by  Schubert  called  'Die  Krahe.'  From 
the  Winterreise." 

"Krahe?   What's  that?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  call  it.  A  bird — black — 
disastrous — I  can't  think  of  the  word." 

"Never  mind.  .  .  .    Leni,  I'm  sorry  you're  going." 

"Six  .  .  .  more  .  .  .  days.  .  .  ." 

"And  four  of  them  I'm  away  at  a  conference.  It's 
too  bad.    I  shall  miss  you." 

"I  shall  miss  you  too.  .  .  .  Oh,  that  word — 
'Die  Krahe' — I  can  remember  now — it  means  a  bird 
that  Poe  wrote  a  poem  about." 

"The  raven?" 

They  looked  up  and  saw  Jessica  standing  outside 
the  door,  opening  it  slowly. 

Fred  Garton's  song  drew  an  encore,  and  it  was 
during  this  that  Jessica  returned  to  the  drawing- 
room  with  David.  It  was  noticed  that  he  looked  pale 
and  weary,  from  which  observers  were  ready  to 
deduce  an  arduous  errand. 

But  Jessica  gave  him  no  peace.  It  was  not  that 
she  was  deliberately  uncivil,  or  that  any  actual 
thing  she  said  could  have  been  objected  to,  but 
rather  that  she  put  him  in  positions  where  he  was 
constantly  at  a  disadvantage. 

Presently  the  guests  departed;  all  grew  quiet 
in  the  doctor's  house.  At  midnight  he  bicycled 
to  the  cottage  where  the  boy  lay  dying  of  pneu- 
monia but  still  alive.  David  stayed  till  four;  then, 
with  eyes  hardly  open,  bicycled  back  through  the 
dawn-lit  streets.  He  did  not  go  to  bed,  but  slumped 
into  the  surgery  chair  and  awakened  at  half-past 
seven,  made  himself  a  cup  of  tea,  and  cycled  to  the 
local  infirmary.  It  was  a  small  institution  on  the 
edge  of  the  town,  fairly  well  equipped,  and  efficiently 
managed.  David  as  a  rule  looked  forward  to  his 
visits  there,  preferring  the  orderliness  of  the  wards 
to  the  cramped  sickrooms  of  private  houses;  but 
that  morning  as  he  half  dozed  along  the  roads  he 
could  only  think  of  the  extraordinary  fret  and  mud- 
dle that  had  encompassed  him — he  did  not  see  what 
he  could  do  about  it,  it  all  seemed  so  preposterous. 
He  left  the  bicycle  in  the  shed  and  walked  in  through 
the  main  doors  of  the  hospital  so  slowly  that  a  couple 
of  nurses,  watching  from  a  window,  commented 
upon  his  air  of  preoccupation.  In  the  anteroom 
where  he  put  on  his  surgeon's  uniform  he  was  still 
oppressed  with  the  revelation  of  a  wantonly  misbe- 
having world.  Trevor,  his  young  assistant,  and 
Jones,  the  anaesthetist,  had  already  arrived. 

THE  patient  lay  outstretched,  with  pain-sharpened 
eyes  swerving  restlessly  amidst  his  new  environ- 
ment. He  was  an  old  man,  grey-haired  and  thin- 
featured,  the  thinness  accentuated  by  disease. 

"Nothing  to  worry  about,  Charlie,"  David  said, 
smiling  as  he  touched  the  pulse  for  a  moment.  He 
always  called  his  patients  by  their  names  when  they 
were  on  the  table,  because  he  believed  it  primed  a 
man  with  some  personal  dignity  when  he  lay  pin- 
ioned and  anxious  under  the  glare. 

David  nodded  to  Jones  and  the  stream  of  stupe- 
fying gas  began  to  pour  into  nostrils  and  lungs.  The 
little  doctor  stood  by,  like  an  actor  waiting  for  his 
cue. 

Jones  signaled  and  David  began,  calmly  con- 
fident, at  home  with  the  familiar  feel  of  the  knife 
ploughing  through  skin  and  flesh,  so  swiftly  that 
the  first  reddening  crept  into  the  slope  of  the  cavity 
almost  like  a  blush.  Deeper  .  .  .  then  the  click  of  the 
clamps  as  the  nurses  handed  them.  .  .  .  "There 
.  .  .  another  one  .  .  .  lay  them  outside  the  gauze 
.  .  .  now  a  retractor.  .  .  ."  Precision  hypnotized 
the  room;  the  minutes  passed  as  in  a  dream  which 


only  the  hands  of  the  clock  could  certify. 

David  had  begun  the  operation  on  Charlie  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning;  the  final  stage  was  not 
complete  until  after  ten.  It  had  been  an  awkward 
case,  largely  inoperable,  and  complicated  by  a  weak 
heart.  Twice  the  man  had  almost  died  on  the  table. 
But  at  last,  still  breathing  faintly,  and  with  band- 
ages like  a  great  white  bundle  tied  in  front  of  him, 
he  was  wheeled  away  to  hours  of  lingering  uncon- 
sciousness, days  of  pain,  a  few  months  of  half-life, 
pain  again,  and  death. 

David  pulled  off  the  stained  gloves  and  washed 
his  hands  and  face  in  the  lavatory  adjoining  the 
theatre.  He  had  given  himself,  and  was  now  utterly 
spent.  Rallying  himself  a  little,  he  visited  a  few  of 
his  patients  in  the  wards;  then  he  rode  away  for  his 
usual  round  of  house  calls.  One  of  them  was 
the  pneumonia  he  had  been  called  to  the  night  be- 
fore; to  his  gratification  the  boy  was  better. 

He  was  late  home  for  lunch  and  was  neither 
startled  nor  disconcerted  when  Susan  greeted  him 
with:    "Mrs.  Newcome  wouldn't  wait,  sir." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind — all  I  want  is  some  coffee." 

"She  asked  if  you  would  go  in  and  see  her." 

"Eh?   Where?   Why?   What  does  she  want?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir.    She's  in  the  dining  room." 

"Oh,  all  right,  I'll  go." 

Because  he  was  used  to  obeying  in  these  small 
outward  things,  he  went.  Jessica  had  finished  lunch 
and  was  toying  with  biscuits  and  cheese. 

"Really,  David,  I  couldn't  wait  for  you — I  really 
do  think  you  might  try  to  be  punctual  for  at  least 
one  occasion  of  the  day — " 

"It's  all  right.   I'm  glad  you  didn't  wait." 

"I  suppose  you've  got  the  usual  excuse  of  having 
had  an  exceptionally  busy  morning." 

"Well  yes,  I  have  been  rather  busy." 

"I'm  sorry  you  preferred  to  stay  in  the  surgery 
rather  than  join  your  guests  last  night." 

He  said  nothing. 

"Did  you  invite  that  girl  into  the  surgery?" 

He  said  nothing. 

"What  business  had  she  in  there?" 

He  said  nothing. 

"A  good  job  she's  leaving  in  a  few  days." 

He  said  nothing. 

"Are  you  too  tired  to  answer  me?" 

Suddenly  his  nerves  chafed  to  a  raw  edge  he 
could  barely  endure.  He  said:  "Yes,  I'm  rather 
tired.    I'm  sorry  for  the  boy's  sake,  that's  all." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"I  just  don't  see  any  point  in  sending  her  away 
or  in  sending  him  away." 

"I  don't  understand  you." 

"I'm  talking  about  Leni." 

"Oh,  you  are?  I  understand  that,  of  course.  It's 
quite  obvious  why  you  want  her  to  stay  here." 

"What  on  earth  are  you  driving  at?" 

Then,  with  even  his  indignation  tired,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  walked  out  of  the  room.  It  was 
true;  they  did  not  know  what  either  of  them  meant; 
they  had  no  points  of  contact,  not  even  enough  for 
an  intelligible  quarrel. 

He  drank  his  coffee  in  the  surgery,  and  after- 
wards, as  he  went  out  for  a  few  afternoon  visits, 
the  cloud  of  doubt  and  desperation  suddenly  lifted 
when  he  passed  Leni  in  the  hall.  In  her  smile  he 
saw  something  that  made  him  exclaim,  eagerly: 
"Leni,  the  boy  I  told  you  about  last  night — that 
case  I  said  was  hopeless— do  you  remember?" 

"Yes?" 

"Well,  it  isn't — quite." 

"Nothing's  hopeless,  is  it?" 

He  thought  seriously  for  a  moment:  was  it  really 
true  that  nothing  was  hopeless?  Then  he  offered 
the  result  of  his  self-questioning.  "A  few  things, 
probably,  but  we  don't  know  what  they  are." 

David  had  earned  the  reputation  of  being  ab- 
sent-minded— something  in  his  glance,  perhaps,  in 
the  casual  way  he  would  begin  and  end  a  chance 
conversation  in  the  street,  in  the  way  he  walked  and 
dressed.  This  business  of  helping  Leni  to  find  a  job 
was  in  just  such  territory.  His  promises  had  been 
sincere  enough,  but  he  had  had  no  idea  of  the 
practical  difficulties.    The  uncomfortable  thing  (to 


bv  jnmEs 


him)  was  that  she  had  to  leave  at  all;  not  till  the 
second  week  of  the  fortnight  did  he  suddenly  realize 
that  within  a  few  days  she  might  find  herself  with 
nowhere  else  to  go.  Her  arm  was  still  unfit  for  the 
strain  of  regular  stage  dancing;  and  he  had  inno- 
cently imagined  that  in  the  last  resort  a  knowledge 
of  German  would  easily  secure  her  a  post  in  some 
school.  He  was  surprised  to  find  that  so  many  other 
qualifications  were  required. 

When,  however,  he  returned  to  the  house  at 
midday  on  the  morning  after  the  musical  party, 
Leni  had  news.  A  private  school  near  Man- 
chester was  actually  advertising  for  a  part-time 
teacher  of  German — "no  diplomas  necessary,  only 
a  guaranteed  ability  to  speak  and  teach  the  lan- 
guage." David,  perceiving  no  freakishness  in  this, 
but  simply  common  sense,  was  delighted.  He  even 
exclaimed:  "Why,  I  go  to  Manchester  now  and 
again — I  shall  be  able  to  look  you  up!" 

All  afternoon  a  warm  feeling  enveloped  him 
which  was  really  a  childish  dream  that  this  busi- 
ness of  Leni,  himself,  and  Jessica  might  be  settled 
with  good  will  all  round  and  to  everyone's  satis- 
faction. 

Leni  wrote  an  application  for  the  job,  and  David 
composed  a  testimonial  for  her  to  enclose  with  it. 
Then  he  went  out  to  visit  two  or  three  cases.  It 
was  a  hot  day,  glooming  over  with  an  approaching 
storm,  and  when  he  returned  about  four  o'clock 
he  went  into  the  drawing-room  because  he  saw  it 
was  cool  with  drawn  blinds  and  also  empty.  Jes- 
sica's recent  presence  showed  in  a  pile  of  letters  on 
the  bureau,  addressed  in  her  writing  and  waiting 
for  the  post.  He  might  not  have  noticed  them 
had  not  his  sleeve,  in  passing,  swept  them  over. 
Picking  them  up,  he  saw  that  one  was  addressed 
to  the  school  near  Manchester.  Then  Jessica  en- 
tered, followed  by  Susan  with  the  tea  things,  and 
he  had  the  swift  feeling  that  Jessica  knew  all 
about  his  having  seen  the  address  on  that  letter.  He 
felt  uneasy — partly,  no  doubt,  his  usual  physical 
reaction  to  a  storm.  All  day  the  heat  wave  had  been 
lifting  to  a  climax;  the  sky  had  grown  opaque,  like 
soiled  muslin  through  which  sunlight  could  barely 
strain.  Then  blackness  began  in  a  little  patch  and 
spread  over  half  the  sky.  The  storm  broke  while 
Jessica  was  pouring  tea,  and  she  said  immediately: 
"David,  please  put  the  window  up — we  shall  have 
all  the  curtains  drenched." 

He  knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  that  she  had 
asked  him  to  do  this  because  he  disliked  going 
near  the  window.  It  was  not  that  he  had  any 
bodily  fear;  it  was  from  the  look  of  doom  in  the 
sky  and  from  the  sound  of  doom  in  the  thunder- 
claps that  he  shrank  as  from  the  symbols  of  dis- 
cord. He  braced  himself  for  an  eruption  that  seemed 
due  at  any  moment.  It  did  not  come  but  the  ten- 
sion held  him  miserably. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know,  David,  I've  just 
been  writing  a  letter  .  .  ." 

He  swung  around.   "You  have?   To  that  school?" 

"You  evidently  have  it  on  your  mind.  .  .  .  More 
tea?" 

"N — no.  .  .  .  But  why  on  earth  should  you  have 
written?" 

"Well,  you  wrote,  didn't  you?" 

"Only  a  testimonial." 

"Don't  you  realize  what  that  means?" 

"Well,  surely — " 

"Do  you  realize  that  if  Leni's  put  in  a  position 
of  trust  and  betrays  it  you  might  be  held  responsible 
for  concealing  the  truth?" 

"What  truth?  I  only  vouched  for  her  char- 
acter and  knowledge  of  German." 

"Character?  Did  you  state  that  you  met  her 
first  a  few  months  ago,  and  that  you  didn't  know 
a  thing  about  her  past  life  except  that  she'd  been 
on  the  stage  and  had  tried  to  kill  herself?" 

"But — why — surely — " 

"Well,  I  put  it  all  in  my  letter  in  case  you'd 
forgotten." 

"But — she  may  not  get  the  job  if  you've  said 
all  that." 

"Isn't  that  her  business?     Why  not  try  minding 


ours  for  a  change?" 

"Yes!  Why  not?  That's  just  it!  Can't  you 
leave  the  girl  alone?" 

"Can't  you?" 

Suddenly  he  realized  that  the  letter  was  still 
there,  unposted  on  the  bureau.  Striding  over,  he 
sought  it  hastily  amidst  the  pile  and  tore  it  across. 
He  was  aware  that  the  act  was  melodramatic,  but 
all  his  nerves  were  craving  for  action. 

"That  just  gives  me  the  trouble  of  writing  another. 
Really,  David,  you  do  the  most  childish  things." 

The  room  lit  up  with  the  tremendous  flashing 
and  roaring  outburst  that  he  had  been  expecting, 
yet  was  not  and  never  could  be  prepared  for.  He 
saw  Jessica's  eyes  gleaming  at  him. 

"And  one  more  thing,  David.  I  believe  she 
sometimes  comes  in  here  to  play  the  piano?" 

"Yes,  I  said  she  could.  After  all,  what  harm 
does  it  do?  She's  really  quite  good  at  it — she 
ought  to  take  it  up  seriously — " 

"I  don't  wish  her  to  play  in  the  future." 

"But  there  isn't  any  future!  Good  God,  don't 
you  realize  that?     In  five  days — " 

"David,  I  think  you'd  better  calm  yourself." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know — it's  the  storm,  I  think — " 

He  rushed  from  the  room  and  down  the  three 
steps,  through  the  double  doors  into  the  surgery. 
All  he  craved  was  the  personal  citadel  where  he 
could  rest  and  be  alone;  and  to  be  alone  with  Leni 
was  still,  in  this  deep  sense,  to  be  alone.  There  she 
was,  arranging  his  papers,  her  upward  glance  a 
warm  and  welcoming  thing. 

"Please  ...  is  anything  the  matter?" 

"I  hate  storms,  Leni,  that's  all." 

"It  is  nearly  over  now." 

"Yes,  I  hope  so.  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  to  have  to  tell 
you  .  .  .about  that  job  .  .  ." 

He  told  her  all  that  had  happened,  ending  with: 
"I  tore  it  up,  but  I  daresay  she's  written  it  again 
and  posted  it  by  now." 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  they  were  act- 
ing like  children,  with  the  same  terrible  intent- 
ness  upon  the  hostile  behavior  of  a  grown-up. 

"It  means  I  won't  get  the  job?" 

"Probably  not.  But  don't  worry.  I'll  look  in 
at  the  Burrowsford  Library  to-morrow — there  may 
be  some  advertisements  in  scholastic  papers." 

An  idea  came  to  him,  an  offshoot  of  an  already 
favorite  idea.  "There's  one  thing  you  really  ought 
to  do,  especially  if  you  can't  get  a  job." 

"What's  that?" 

"Take  up  the  piano  seriously.  There  must  be 
a  school  somewhere  you  could  join.  Yes,  I'll  look 
it  up  to-morrow  in  Burrowsford.  There's  a  con- 
ference there— I've  got  to  attend.  Of  course  I 
could  lend  you  the  money  for  the  fees  and  you 
could  pay  me  back  when  you  get  a  job  again.  .  .  . 
Yes,  that  certainly  is  an  idea.  I'll  find  out  all  the 
details  for  you  to-morrow." 

"But  I'm  not  really  a  pianist,  you  know.  I'm  a 
dancer." 

"Ah  yes,  of  course.  I  was  forgetting.  Well, 
perhaps  you  could  do  that  as  well." 

"Would  you  like  me  to  dance  for  you?" 

He  answered,  with  a  touch  of  shyness:  "Well, 
that  would  be  very  nice.  I  should  certainly  like 
it.    But  I  don't  quite  see  how — " 

"Yet  sometime,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  of  course.  Meanwhile  I'll  look  up  those 
advertisements  for  you.  I  still  feel  that  it  would 
be  worth  your  while  to  take  up  the  piano  seri- 
ously— "  And  his  mind  ran  easily  on,  as  pleasantly 
unimpeded  by  practical  knowledge  as  it  usually 
was  outside  his  own  immediate  world.  And  the 
following  morning  he  went  to  the  Burrowsford 
conference.  During  his  first  day  he  found  time  to 
visit  the  library  and  spend  an  hour  searching  in  a 
desultory  way  through  year  books  and  almanacs. 
He  was  one  of  those  people  who  dislike  asking  ex- 
pert advice,  and,  of  course,  as  a  professional  dis- 
penser of  such  advice,  he  was  wholly  inconsistent  in 
this.  After  much  random  searching  he  was  for- 
tunate enough  to  hit  on  the  information  he  wanted; 
then  he  sat  at  one  of  the  library  desks  and  wrote 
as  follows:  — 

Dear  Leni:  I  have  looked  into  the  matter  we 
talked  about.  Of  course  I  will  give  you  full  in- 
formation when  I  return,  but  this  is  just  to  say 
that  the  idea  of  your  taking  up  music  at  a  college 
seems  quite  possible,  and  you  can  count  on  me 
for  any  help  that  is  needed.  Not  a  word  to  Jessie, 
though,  or  she  might  try  to  interfere — we  must 
be  careful  not  to  make  the  same  mistake  as  last 
time.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  written  as  far  as  that,  it  occurred 


to  him,  in  one  of  those  spasms  of  caution  that 
sometimes  come  to  people  who  are  not  naturally 
cautious,  that  Jessica  might  even  intercept  the 
letter  and  read  it;  and  to  such  a  peril  the  only 
safeguard  seemed  to  be  transcription  into  delib- 
erately vague  terms.     So  he  rewrote  as  follows: 

Dear  Leni:  I  have  looked  into  the  matter  we 
were  discussing  yesterday,  and  I  think  the  solution 
we  thought  of  is  the  best,  in  the  circumstances.  Of 
course  I  will  help  you  in  it.  All  information  and 
details  when  I  return.  Not  a  word  to  J. — we  must 
be  careful  not  to  make  the  same  mistake  as  last 
time — you  know  what  I  mean?  So  destroy  this  as 
soon  as  you  have  read  it.  .  .  . 

When  he  had  sealed  and  posted  the  letter  he 
felt  a  sort  of  childish  glee  in  having  done  some- 
thing clever — he  almost  hoped  that  Jessica  would 
intercept  his  message,  since  precious  little  she 
would  learn  from  it,  and  that,  in  a  way,  would 
serve  her  right. 

Leni  did  not  destroy  the  letter.  It  was  the  first 
she  had  ever  received  from  him — the  first  time  she 
had  ever  seen  the  words  "Dear  Leni"  in  his  hand- 
writing; and  she  kept  it. 

Three  days  later  David  reached  Calderbury  dur- 
ing the  afternoon  and  walked  from  the  station. 
And  suddenly,  as  he  walked  past  the  Cathe- 
dral, the  thought  invaded  him,  as  never  be- 
fore, of  Leni.  She  would  be  there  when  he  reached 
the  house  in  Shawgate,  but  after  that  day  and  the 
next  she  would  never  be  there  again.  He  did  not, 
because  he  could  not  somehow,  think  of  the  future 
without  her,  but  all  the  sad  urgency  of  the  moment 
flowed  back  into  the  past,  forcing  him  to  remember 
the  times  they  had  met  and  talked,  and  how  many 
more  there  could  have  been.  "I  have  grown 
fond  of  that  girl,"  he  admitted  to  himself;  and 
then,  with  a  flash  of  self-blame,  "Good  heavens, 
four  days  at  that  confounded  conference  and  now 
there's  only  one  other  day  before  she  goes.  .  .  ." 

VV  HEN  he  reached  the  house  the  interior  seemed 
dark  after  the  bright  sunshine.  It  was  Susan's  half 
day  off;  Leni  met  him  and  said  that  Jessica  was  out 
also.   "Would  you  like  some  tea?" 

"That's  just  what  I  should  like  more  than  any- 
thing, Leni." 

"Will  you  have  it  in  the  surgery?" 

"That  would  be  nice,  too." 

"All  right.  You  look  pale.  Have  you  been  very 
busy?" 

"No,  not  busy — just  bored.  What  have  you  been 
up  to?" 

"Up  to?    What  does  that  mean?" 

"What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"Packing." 

"Oh  yes,  of  course." 

And  there,  facing  him  again,  was  the  immi- 
nence of  her  departure.  He  pondered  on  it  as  he 
listened  to  the  clatter  of  cups  in  the  kitchen.  Pres- 
ently she  reentered,  carrying  a  loaded  tray. 

"Seen  the  papers  these  last  few  days?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"Looks  bad,  but  I  don't  think  it'll  come  to  any- 
thing over  here." 

"Come  to  anything?" 

"Anything  bad,  I  mean.  But  it's  bad  enough  for 
those  who  are  in  it.  Good  thing  you're  not  in 
your  own  country,  perhaps.  By  the  way,  did  you 
get  my  letter?" 

"Yes,  it  was  so  good  of  you  to  write." 

"Well,  I  thought  you'd  be  relieved  to  know. 
About  the  music,  I  mean.  It's  a  good  idea  .  .  . 
which  reminds  me,  we  can  try  over  something  this 
afternoon  if  you  like — there's  no  one  in — " 

"But  Mrs.   Newcome  said — " 

"She'll  never  know." 

"The  people  in  the  street  will  hear." 

"Then  we'll  close  all  the  windows!"  He  added, 
boyishly:    "Are  you  afraid?" 

"Only  for  you,  David." 

"For  me?  Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  what  harm 
can  come  to  me?" 

She  answered,  in  German:  "You  have  to  stay 
here  after  I  have  gone." 

"I  know.  I'm  trying  to  realize  it.  It's  curious — 
I  can't  quite  grasp  the  fact  that  you  really  are 
going  and  that  this  is  your  last  day  here.  .  .  ." 

So  after  the  tea  they  went  in  the  drawing-room 
and  David  stood  on  the  window  seat  to  close  the 
windows.  But  one  of  them  was  stiff  and  as  he 
reached  upwards  to  push,  he  lost  balance  and  had 
to  clutch  a  picture  to  save  himself  from  falling. 
The  picture  came  down  on  his  head,  showering 
him  with  dust;  and  of  course  he  began  to  laugh, 


because  he  had  a  very  simple  and  artless  sense 
of  humor.  Then  she  went  to  the  piano  and  he 
took  out  his  violin  and  they  began  to  play  Mozart. 
The  music  streamed  into  the  room,  enclosing  a 
world  in  which  they  were  free  as  air,  shutting 
out  hatreds  and  jealousies  and  despondencies,  giv- 
ing their  eyes  a  look  of  union  with  something  rare 
and  distant.  David  did  not  play  very  well — indeed, 
a  good  deal  of  the  Mozart  was  much  too  difficult 
for  him;  but  there  was  a  simplicity  that  gave  calm- 
ness to  his  effort,  absorbing  rather  than  interpreting 
the  music.  And  he  thought,  as  he  played,  that  it 
was  a  strange  thing,  at  forty-six,  to  know  the 
sweetness  and  terror  of  existence  as  if  one  had 
never  known  them  before,  to  look  back  mystically 
on  the  incredible  chance  of  human  contact,  to  feel 
some  finger  of  destiny  marking  the  streets  of  Cal- 
derbury  where  he  had  walked  and  talked  with  a  girl. 

When  the  last  chord  had  been  struck  he  began 
mumbling  something  about  her  playing  being  full 
of  promise,  and  that  she  really  ought  to  join  some 
academy  or  conservatoire. 

"You  are  so  kind,"  she  said. 

"Kind?    Why  do  you  always  say  that?" 

"Because  you  always  say  things  like  that,  and 
you  just  say  them  because  you  are  kind,  that  is  all." 

"But  I  mean  them." 

"I  know.  But  you  don't  mean  them  to  mean 
anything." 

"Now  you've  puzzled  me!"    He  smiled. 

"Dear,  I  know  why  it  is.  You  can't  help  it.  And 
I  love  you — I  can't  help  that." 

But  he  was  already  bustling  about  saying,  "Now 
I  must  put  up  that  picture  before  anybody  comes." 

"You  didn't  hear  me?" 

"I'm  sorry  .  .  .  what  was  it?" 

She  said,  smiling:  "I  know.  There  is  just  one 
thing  more.     I  will  dance  for  you." 

"Dance  for  me?     Here?     Now?" 

"Yes.  You  know  the  prelude  of  Chopin  that 
goes  like  this — "  she  hummed  a  few  bars  of  it. 
'You  play  that  on  your  violin — I  will  dance  to  it." 

"But—" 

"Yes?  You  are  afraid  if  anybody  comes?  You 
are  afraid  if  anyone  sees  through  the  window?  Pull 
over  the  curtains.    Take  up  the  rugs.  .  .  ." 

She  ran  out  of  the  room  and  was  away  a  few 
minutes.  During  this  interval  David  waited  inde- 
cisively at  first,  then,  with  a  sudden  clinching  of 
intention,  did  as  she  had  asked.  First  the  curtains, 
then  the  rugs.  The  room  filled  with  a  warm  twi- 
light; he  did  not  switch  on  any  lights  because  the 
sunshine  out  of  doors  came  through  the  fabric  of 
the  curtains  in  a  luminous  glow.  Then  he  took 
his  violin  and  tried  over,  very  softly,  the  prelude 
she  had  mentioned. 

Presently  she  came  into  the  room,  dressed  in  a 
ballet  costume  that  bore,  if  he  had  noticed  it,  the 
creases  of  repeated  packings  and  unpackings.  But 
in  the  twilight  he  saw  nothing  but  a  strange  vision 
of  the  mind,  something  he  had  never  expected  to 
see  in  this  life,  an  embodiment  of  light  and  air,  on 
tiptoe  with  a  dream.  He  took  up  his  violin  and  be- 
gan to  play.  She  was  magic  to  him.  There  was 
something  between  them  pouring  always  in  in- 
visible streams,  the  awareness  of  beauty  in  peril. 

•50  on  an  August  afternoon,  behind  drawn  curtains 
in  a  Calderbury  drawing-room,  a  girl  danced  for 
the  little  doctor.  The  room  filled  with  the  emptiness 
of  all  the  world  except  themselves,  and  this  empti- 
ness soared  in  their  hearts  until,  just  on  the  edge 
of  flight,  the  spell  was  broken  by  the  telephone. 

David  put  down  his  violin.  Leni  stopped  still. 
"A  call  for  me  probably,"  he  said,  beginning  to 
walk  away.  Leni  more  slowly  followed.  A  mo- 
ment later  he  was  finding  his  bag  and  hat  in 
the  surgery. 

"That  boy,  you  know — the  pneumonia  case — I 
have  to  go  at  once." 

"And  I  must  change  and  finish  packing.  I'll  tidy 
the  room  up  too." 

"Thanks.  .  .  .  Maybe  I'll  be  back  soon."  And 
he  added,  gently:   "It  was  very  beautiful." 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  in  the  familiar  strange- 
ness of  rooms  and  stairs.  There  could  be  no  doubt 
about  the  case  this  time. 

He  sat  by  the  bedside,  taking  a  small  hand  in  his 
own,  and  the  boy,  half  conscious  as  he  fought  for 
breath,  looked  up  and  smiled.  Suddenly — almost 
immediately— death  came.  Weeks  afterwards  the 
boy's  father,  in  the  fourale  bar  of  the  "Greyhound," 
described  the  incident.  "He  killed  our  Johnny,  too. 
Pewmonia,  Johnny  had,  double  pewmonia,  and 
Newcome  had  bin  to  see  him  several  times  but 
never  done  the  boy  no  good.  And  it  was  that 
night — that  night,  mind  you.    Maybe  he  was  thinkin' 


about  it  all  the  time  he  was  with  our  Johnny.  Be- 
cause what  d'  you  think  he  did  when  he  got  to 
the  boy?  Why,  nothing.  Just  sat  there  and  let 
the  poor  kid  die  without  so  much  as  raising  a 
finger!     The  dirty  swine!" 

We  do  not  know  what  to-night,  much  less  to- 
night's newspaper,  will  bring.  Some  secret  inter- 
section of  seconds  and  inches  may  mean  an  end 
to  us,  our  age,  the  world.  In  Calderbury  on  that 
evening  of  August  fourth,  the  train  brought  in 
later  editions  from  Marsland,  catching  the  sunset 
on  its  windows  so  that  a  flash  of  crimson  streaked 
the  water  meadows.  In  the  streets  of  the  town  the 
newspapers  were  scrambled  for,  and  one  of  them 
by  the  little  doctor,  who  stood  reading  it  as  he 
held  his  bicycle  at  the  curb. 

"Looks  bad,  doctor,"  someone  said. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Good  God,  I  never  thought  they'd 
actually    come   to   it!" 

"Soon  over,  you  bet.     Wait  till  the  Navy — " 

Half  listening,  he  read  paragraphs  about  mo- 
bilizations, troops  rushed  to  frontiers,  bombardments 
opened  on  fortifications,  refugees  streaming  from 
ravaged  lands,  the  plight  of  travelers  and  aliens. 
Abruptly  then  he  moved  off  along  Briargate,  pedal- 
ing faster  than  usual,  till  he  was  hot  and  breath- 
less. He  entered  the  house  through  the  surgery, 
leaving  the  bicycle  against  the  wall  in  the  outside 
alley.  Mechanically  he  unlocked  a  cupboard  to 
replace  some  drugs  he  had  carried  with  him  in 
his  bag.  He  could  feel  his  heart  pounding  with 
excitement  as  he  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  attic 
room  where  he  guessed  Leni  would  be  waiting.  He 
was  that  strange  creature,  a  quiet  man  resolved 
upon  an  act.  The  trouble  was  that  life  with  Jessica 
had  given  him  this  curious  reluctance,  outside  his 
own  world,  to  make  decisions;  she  had  made  so 
many  for  him,  and  her  intolerance  of  most  that 
he  dared  to  contemplate  himself  had  blanketed  him 
with  at  least  a  vagueness  and  at  most  an  obstinacy. 

He  was  in  a  tremendous  hurry.  He  must  act.  He 
must  even  oppose  Jessica,  if  need  be — must  use 
decision,  cunning,  a  host  of  qualities  strange  to  him. 
"Leni,  my  dear — you  can't  wait  till  to-morrow — 
you've  got  to  get  away  now — to-night!" 

She  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the  attic  room, 
packing  clothes  into  a  bag. 

"But— why?" 

"It's  in  the  paper.  England  and  Germany  may 
be  at  war  by  midnight.  That  means  you  must  get 
away.  You  must  go  back — to  Germany — at  once 
— before  anything  can  happen — " 

"But  I  can't— I—" 

"I  tell  you  you  must  get  out  of  England — some- 
where— anywhere.  Don't  you  realize  what  it'll  be 
like  if  you  stay?  Already  they're  arresting  and 
imprisoning  people.  Hurry  now  and  finish  packing 
— we  have  to  leave  at  once." 

"We?" 

"Of  course.  I'm  going  to  help  you.  We've  missed 
the  last  train,  but  there's  one  from  Marsland  that 
goes  at  ten  to  twelve — we  can  get  there  somehow — " 

"We?" 

"Yes,  yes — I'm  going  to  take  you  to  a  seaport 
and  arrange  for  you  to  get  away  in  time — so  hurry, 
please  hurry.  .  .  ."  And  so  he  talked  on.  She  didn't 
want  to  go  and  finally  she  was  hysterical.  He 
calmed  her  and  after  about  an  hour  they  went 
downstairs  and  through  the  surgery  into  the  nar- 
row path  flanked  by  the  white  sea  shells.  There 
the  sight  of  his  bicycle  leaning  against  the  wall 
gave  him  confidence  and  a  new  caution.  "You 
mustn't  be  seen  leaving  the  town,  especially  with 
me,  so  this  is  what  we  must  do.  .  .  .  Now  let  me 
think — it's  almost  dusk — you  take  the  path  to  the 
Knoll  and  wait  for  me  by  the  wooden  hut — you 
remember  it?  We'll  meet  there  and  go  on — I'll  take 
the  long  way  round  by  the  lane — " 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  nodded.  As  soon 
as  she  had  gone,  the  path  between  the  high  walls 
seemed  an  empty  canyon,  and  in  his  own  heart  an 
equal  emptiness  gave  answer.  He  must  help  her 
out  of  the  country.    He  must  act. 

Through  the  quiet  streets  off  Briargate  and  into 
Lissington  Lane  the  little  doctor  hastened,  full  of 


the  strange  sensation  of  having  decided  to  do  some- 
thing at  last.  He  thought  he  was  clever  to  have 
arranged  to  meet  Leni  at  the  wooden  hut,  because 
it  was  dark  there,  and  no  one  would  see  their 
faces.  And  it  was  clever  of  him  also,  he  thought,  to 
have  arranged  separate  journeys  to  the  rendezvous, 
for  while  no  one  would  think  much  of  seeing  either 
of  them  alone,  the  pair  of  them  might  be  (indeed, 
in  the  past,  had  been)  gossiped  about. 

Even  in  Calderbury  streets  he  hoped  that  no  one 
would  notice  him,  and  he  pulled  his  hat  well  down 
over  his  eyes  with  some  vague  idea  of  disguising 
himself.  But  after  almost  colliding  with  another 
cyclist  he  gave  this  up  as  impracticable;  besides,  a 
few  people  saw  him,  anyway,  calling  to  him  out 
of  windows  and  doorways  as  he  went  by:  "Good 
night,   doctor.  .  .  .     Heard   the   news,   I   suppose?" 

Soon,  through  the  trees,  he  saw  the  shape  of  the 
wooden  hut,  and  beside  it,  waiting  for  him,  Leni. 
He  could  not  see  her  clearly,  but  as  he  approached 
she  came  to  him,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment, 
searching  each  other's  eyes. 

"Have  you  been  waiting  long?" 

"About  ten  minutes.     I  didn't  mind." 

"We  must  move  on.    Did  anyone  see  you?" 

"I  don't  think  so." 

"It  doesn't  really  matter,  I  suppose,  once  we've 
got  away." 

They  descended  the  Knoll  by  a  path  that  led  them 
to  the  other  side  of  it,  whence,  at  the  foot,  the 
water  meadows  stretched  to  the  Marsland  Road. 
There  was  no  sound  but  secret  voices  under  the  mist 
and  the  hum  of  the  bicycle  as  David  pushed  it.  He 
was  hoisting  it  over  the  last  stile  when  the  Cathedral 
chimed  the  three  quarters.  "Now  we're  all  right,"  he 
said,  stooping  to  light  the  lamp  when  they  reached 
the  highway.  "Have  you  ever  ridden  on  the 
back  of  a  bicycle?  You'll  find  it  quite  easy.  Put 
your  left  foot  on  the  axle  step  and  your  right 
knee  on  the  mudguard — you'll  manage." 

IjO  they  began  the  journey  from  Calderbury,  with 
the  lamplight  flickering  and  swerving  as  David 
pedaled  along.  The  road  lay  slightly  uphill,  and 
it  was  hard  work;  but  there  was  no  traffic — only  an 
old  man  plodding  home,  who  called  "Good  night" 
without  knowing,  without  even  trying  to  see,  who 
passed  him.  And  presently  the  moon  rose  and  the 
twin  towers  of  the  Cathedral  stiffened  against  the 
blue-black  sky,  calling  eleven  as  David  topped  the 
hill  and  prepared  to  freewheel  down.  The  hill 
heaped  behind,  with  the  dark  shape  of  the  Knoll 
farther  still  behind,  the  gradient  spinning  them  into 
shadows  of  cold  air  under  trees,  and  then  into  the 
bright  glassy  moonlight  of  the  level.  And  after  miles 
of  this,  keeping  a  good  rate,  David  began  to  whistle 
in  pure  enjoyment.  He  went  on  whistling  till  the 
beginning  of  Croombury  Hill  made  him  save  his 
breath,  and  a  few  yards  higher  forced  him  off  his 
machine  altogether. 

"This  is  a  steep  one,"  he  said,  affectionately,  to 
the  earth  and  sky,  and  then  paused  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  feeling  in  his  pocket  for  pipe  and  to- 
bacco and  matches.  "But  we're  doing  fine — we'll 
easily  catch  the  ten  to  twelve.     Are  you  tired?" 

"No,  but  it  hurts  my  knee  a  little." 

"It's  not  far  now — just  through  Lissington  village 
and  over  the  next  hill.  I  know  all  the  country 
round  here.  Every  village  and  lane.  I've 
been  round  about  here  for  fifteen  years.  You  must 
have  been  a  baby  when  I  first  put  up  my  plate. 
Hundreds  of  miles  away  in  some  German  village 
I've  never  heard  of,  and  you  grew  up — all  unknown 
to  me,  all  those  years — to  fall  over  one  night  and 
break  your  wrist  in  Calderbury.  If  you  hadn't 
come  here  and  done  that  I'd  never  have  known 
you  at  all.  That's  a  funny  thing.  And  it's  funnier 
still  to  think  that  I  shouldn't  have  missed  knowing 
you.  .  .  .  Some   German   village,   wasn't   it?" 

"It  was  a  city,  really — Konigsberg.  My  parents 
both  died  when  I  was  young  and  I  was  sent  to  a 
school — the  school  I  ran  away  from." 

"We're  at  the  top  of  the  hill  now.  Better  jump 
on  again.     We  can  go  on  talking." 

He  kept  his  cherry-wood  pipe  in  his  mouth  and 


MflKLV*/ATV"  \S*»VB»«<L 


the  smoke  and  sometimes  the  flakes  of  hot  tobacco 
flew  back  in  her  face  as  they  gathered  speed. 
"Plenty  of  time,"  he  muttered,  wobbling  danger- 
ously as  he  pointed  to  the  horizon.  "There  are  the 
Junction  lights — see  them?" 

But  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  there  was  a  bad  patch 
in  the  road  and  with  the  added  weight  the  back 
tire  suddenly  deflated.  "Oh  dear,  that's  really  a 
nuisance,"  he  said,  contemplatively,  coming  to  a 
standstill  and  viewing  the  rear  wheel.  "We'll  just 
have  to  push  on  and  walk.  Plenty  of  time  if  we 
hurry  a  bit."  He  wheeled  the  machine  for  a  little 
way,  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  they  would  gain 
time  by  leaving  it.  He  took  it  through  a  gate  into 
a  field  and  partly  hid  it  in  a  hedgerow. 

They  went  on  again,  but  Leni  was  limping  from 
her  right  knee;  she  could  not  walk  very  fast,  and 
the  Junction  lights  seemed  far  away.  He  put  his 
arm  round  her  so  that  she  might  lean  some  of 
her  weight  on  him.  A  little  wood  came  slowly 
towards  them  on  the  left,  snuffing  out  the  roadway 
and  changing  the  sound  of  their  footsteps.  From 
the  distance  came  the  clank  of  wagons  in  the 
shunting  yard,  and  an  owl  mournfully  replied  from 
the  little  wood  near  by.  They  both  laughed  at  that. 
But  when  they  entered  the  moonlight  again  the 
horizon  glow  looked  no  nearer.  "Just  a  matter 
of  stepping  out,"  he  said,  but  they  could  not  easily 
increase  their  pace.  And  when,  still  a  long  way 
off,  they  heard  the  train  they  had  aimed  for  puffing 
out  of  the  station,  it  was  almost  a  relief  to  slacken, 
to  sit  on  a  stile  while  David  smoked  a  pipe,  to  talk 
intermittently  and  catch  the  tiny  friendly  sounds 
of  a  twig  snapping  or  a  dog  barking  distinctly. 

An  early  morning  train  left  Marsland  at  six-five, 
and  David  thought  it  would  probably  connect  with 
other  trains  so  that  they  could  reach  the  coast  by 
afternoon.  They  had  six  hours  to  wait — no  big 
hardship  on  a  summer  night.  Half  a  mile  farther 
on  he  knew  that  the  side  of  the  road  heaped  into 
a  dry  bed  of  bracken;  sometimes,  cycling  around,  he 
had  paused  there  for  a  few  minutes'  rest.  It  was 
a  place  called  Potts  Corner,  though  why  and  who 
Potts  was  nobody  knew. 

So  when  they  were  tired  of  talking  they  walked 
to  the  Corner  and  lay  down  on  the  turf  and  bracken. 
There  are  some  moments  that  are  hung  in  memory 
like  a  lamp;  they  shine  and  swing  gently  and  one 
can  look  back  on  them  when  all  else  has  faded  into 
distance  and  darkness.  Often  afterwards  David  re- 
membered that  roadside  corner  and  the  hours  he 
spent  there;  and  sometimes  he  thought  of  things 
he  would  like  to  have  said  and  done  while  there 
was  yet  a  chance;  but  actually  he  said  and  did 
very  little,  because  he  was  tired,  and  with  tiredness 
had  come  an  old  familiar  inability  to  make  up  his 
mind.  Presently,  with  his  arms  round  her,  she  fell 
asleep.  The  air  grew  chilly  as  the  night  advanced. 
He  began  to  wish  he  had  brought  an  overcoat.  For 
that  matter  he  wished  he  had  brought  food,  and 
far  more  money  than  was  in  his  pockets;  and  then 
he  reflected  how  bad  he  really  was  at  planning 
these  things,  and  how  much  more  efficient  Jessica 
would  have  been.  And  also  he  remembered  Leni's 
own  carelessness  of  detail  when  she  had  tried  to 
take  her  life  at  Sandmouth;  strange  that  he  should 
be  showing  such  similar  lack  of  forethought  in  his 
efforts  to  save  it.  And  then  he  began  to  feel 
sleepy  himself. 

Dawn  came — the  dawn  of  that  first  day  of  war. 
He  got  up,  leaving  her  still  sleeping,  and  walked 
a  few  yards  to  a  signpost.  "Stamford  Magna,  2 
miles."  To  peace,  how  many  days,  months,  years? 
He  lit  a  pipe  and  watched  the  dawn  turn  to  sun- 
rise. The  spire  of  Lissington  Church  pricked  over 
the  lightening  horizon;  day  came  rolling  over  the 
little  hills,  filling  the  sunken  roadways,  glistening 
on  the  wheat  fields,  wakening  the  birds.  A  harness 
jingled  in  some  far  stable.  In  a  little  while  it  would 
be  time  to  walk  to  the  Junction,  where  he  had 
remembered  there  were  chocolate  slot  machines. 
Then  later,  when  they  reached  some  bigger  place, 
they  could  have  a  real  breakfast. 

He  aroused  her  and  they  passed  on  together, 
facing  the  early  morning  sunlight.     Soon  the  road 


entered  the  long  level  stretch  at  the  end  of  which 
could  be  seen  the  station  buildings.  It  was  ten  to 
six  when  they  approached  the  entrance  to  the  ticket 
office  and  David  had  another  of  those  precautionary 
ideas  that  only  occur  to  people  who  are  not  really 
good  at  precautions — it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  at  the  station  everybody  knew  him  well  and 
that  it  would  be  safer  to  slip  on  to  the  platform 
through  the  shunting  yard  and  board  the  train  with- 
out taking  tickets.  This  he  did,  easily  enough,  for 
the  train  was  already  drawn  up  at  the  platform  and 
there  was  ample  choice  of  unoccupied  compart- 
ments. 

Feeling  rather  pleased  with  this  excellent  strategy, 
he  smoked  contentedly  while  Leni  settled  into  the 
cushions  and  went  to  sleep  again.  He  was  still 
thinking  how  cleverly  he  had  escaped  being  recog- 
nized when  the  door  of  the  compartment  opened  and 
a  man,  middle-aged,  and  breathless,  jumped  in  and 
flung  himself  down  in  the  corner  seat  opposite  David. 
"Why,"  he  began,  "if  it  isn't  Dr.  Newcome — well- 
well?  .  .  .  Remember  the  last  time  we  traveled  on 
this  line,  doc?  Too  warm  for  gloves  this  weather, 
eh?"  He  began  to  laugh  and  chuckle,  and  David 
smiled  ruefully  and  couldn't  help  saying,  as  he 
might  have  done  in  the  surgery:  "You  shouldn't 
run  for  trains,  Barney,  at  your  age.  It's  the  worst 
heart  strain  you  can  think  of,  because  it's  excite- 
ment as  well  as  physical  effort — " 

Later,  some  time  later,  months  later  in  fact, 
Barney  Tinsley  confessed  that  he  had  not  at  first 
realized  that  the  girl  in  the  other  corner  was 
traveling  with  the  doctor.  She  had  been  asleep, 
and  he  was  surprised  when  she  suddenly  woke  up 
and  said  something  in  a  foreign  language. 


A  man  sprang  forward  and  gripped  them 

The  gloves  allusion  was  explained  to  a  different 
audience  as  follows.  "Did  I  ever  tell  you,  gents, 
about  that  time  I  was  in  the  train  with  him  going 
to  Sandmouth?  Y'know,  it's  funny,  the  way  you 
remember  things.  .  .  .  Well,  I  was  sort  of  dozing 
off,  when  suddenly  the  doc  stumbles  over  my  feet, 
waking  me  up  sudden,  and  I  see  him  deliberately 
throw  one  of  his  gloves  out  of  the  window.  'Good- 
ness, is  the  fellow  crazy?'  I  sez  to  myself,  for  it 
was  a  good  glove,  by  the  look  of  it,  real  kid. 
Course  I  asked  him  what  the  idea  was,  and  I'll  take 
a  bet  none  of  you  fellers  can't  guess  the  answer. 
.  .  .  'Barney,'  he  sez,  —  he  always  called  me 
Barney, — 'I  just  dropped  a  glove  accidental 
on  the  line  as  I  was  opening  the  window, 
and  I  thought  I  might  as  well  throw  the  other 
one  after  it,  so  as  maybe  the  same  person  would 
find  'em  both.  After  all,  an  odd  glove's  not  much 
use  to  anybody,  is  it?'  Must  'ave  had  a  queer 
mind  to  think  of  things  as  quick  as  that.  .  .  ." 

"Queer  is  the  word,"  somebody  responded. 

They  arrived  at  Charlham  at  nine-thirty  and  had 
breakfast  in  the  Railway  Arms.  The  morning  pa- 
pers had  just  come,  and  everyone  in  the  coffee 
room  was  talking  and  prophesying.  The  bacon  was 
cold  and  the  toast  burnt.  David  found  an  express 
to  London  at  eleven;  the  station  was  just  across  the 
road,  so  there  was  plenty  of  time. 

Most  of  the  way  to  London  Leni  slept  again,  but 
this  time  the  train  was  crowded  and  she  leaned 
her  head  against  his  shoulder  while  he  talked  with 
the  other  people  in  the  compartment.  That  always 
happened  wherever  he  went;  people  always  began 
talking  to  him,  because  he  had  a  way  of  listen- 


ing gently.  But  this  time,  as  he  talked  and  listened, 
he  sometimes  stole  a  glance  at  the  head  so  limp 
against  his  arm;  it  had  been  a  long  way  to  the 
Junction  for  her — poor  child,  let  her  sleep.  But 
once  she  half-wakened,  roused  by  the  crash  of  the 
train  into  a  tunnel,  and  in  the  sudden  soft  glow  of 
the  electric  light  her  eyes  melted  to  his  glance. 
"Du  kleiner  Doktor  .  .  ."  she  murmured,  dreamily. 
"Where  are  we  going  to?  Where  are  you  taking 
me?"  Then  she  remembered  something  he  had 
told  her — that  she  must  not  speak  during  the  jour- 
ney in  case  anyone  should  hear  her  foreign  accent. 
They  reached  London  in  the  middle  of  the  after- 
noon, and  as  they  walked  with  the  crowd  on  the 
platform  by  the  side  of  the  train  a  man  sprang  for- 
ward and  gripped  them. 


CHAPTER     VI 


ft 


HE  little  doctor  watched  the  sunlight  move 
over  the  floor,  and  when  the  last  yellow  bar 
disappeared  he  knew  it  was  late  afternoon  and 
that  another  day  was  nearly  over.  Presently  he 
heard  the  Cathedral  chiming  five,  and  a  warder  en- 
tered with  tea  and  bread  and  butter  for  himself  and 
for  the  other  two  warders  who  had  to  stay  all  the 
time.  According  to  prison  rules  he  was  never  left 
alone,  day  or  night;  but  the  warders  were  kindly 
fellows  and  tried  to  efface  themselves  as  much  as 
possible.  They  would  not  let  him  wear  bootlaces, 
or  braces,  or  anything  he  might  possibly  hang  him- 
self with;  because  they  intended  to  hang  him 
themselves. 

But  in  other  ways  he  was  treated  with  consid- 
eration; indeed,  as  he  told  the  Governor  whenever 
the  latter  visited  him,  "I'm  quite  comfortable,  thank 
you."  He  could  smoke,  read  books  and  newspapers, 
and  have  any  kind  of  food  he  fancied.  And  as 
Calderbury  Prison  was  mostly  disused,  the  part 
he  occupied  was  not  in  the  original  cell  block  at 
all,  but  consisted  of  a  couple  of  ordinary  rooms 
with  nothing  unusual  about  them  except  steel  locks 
on  the  doors  and  bars  to  the  windows.  Everyone  in 
Calderbury  Prison  was  sorry  for  the  little  doctor 
and  rather  embarrassed  because  in  three  weeks' 
time  he  was  to  die.  After  the  dismissal  of  the  ap- 
peal the  Governor  was  almost  apologetic  when  he 
brought  the  news.  "  'Fraid  I've  nothing  good  to 
tell  you,  Newcome — still,  I  know  you  hadn't  been 
counting  on  it.  .  .  .  And  remember,  anything  I 
can    do    now  .  .  .  you    mustn't    mind    telling   me." 

"There's  only  one  thing — you  remember  I  asked 
you  before." 

"Oh,  that?  Well  ...  I  can  only  say  again  I 
wish  I  could,  but  it's  against  all  regulations.  Just 
the  one  thing  I  can't  do  for  you.    I'm  sorry." 

The  request  that  David  had  made,  more  than 
once,  was  to  see  Leni.  She  was  lodged  in  the 
jail  at  Midchester,  twenty  miles  away,  where  there 
was  more  up-to-date  provision  for  women  prisoners. 
He  had  not  seen  her  since  the  trial  a  month  before, 
and  when  he  tried  to  remember  that  last  glance 
he  had  he  could  only  see  the  courtroom,  dark  at 
the  close  of  an  autumn  afternoon,  grey  figures 
moving  restlessly  and  meaninglessly  as  reeds  in  a 
stream,  and  somewhere,  lost  amongst  them,  her 
strange  eager  face  seeking  his  in  a  bewildered 
stare.  What  had  it  all  been  about?  And  he  didn't 
know — the  whole  proceedings  of  arrest,  police  ques- 
tioning, grand  jury,  prison,  trial  ...  all  were  shad- 
ows of  a  shapeless  fate.  They  let  him  read  news- 
paper reports  of  the  trial,  and  to  these  he  now 
gave  a  half-incredulous  scrutiny.  He  could  not 
really  understand.  Then  he  turned  to  the  current 
papers  and  read  news  that  was  dark  with  huger 
fantasy — Mons,  the   Marne,   the   Aisne.  .  .  . 

He  found  it  tolerable  at  first  to  watch  the  days 
crawl  by.  He  was  not  afraid  of  death.  Even  to  look 
ahead  and  know  that  a  month  hence  he  would  lie  in 
a  prison  grave  was  no  worse  than  to  diagnose,  as 
many  a  doctor  must,  the  first  budding  in  his  own 
flesh  that  will  bring  death  as  its  flower.  And  the 
routine  of  prison  helped  to  a  certain  tranquillity; 
in  the  mornings  when  he  took  exercise  in  the 
graveled  yard  he  smiled  at  the  sky  and  let  the 
wind  blow  lovingly  through  his  hair.  It  had  gone 
grey  during  recent  months,  but  they  had  not  made 
him  clip  it  short. 

In  the  afternoons  he  read  or  rested  or  played  a 
game  of  cards  with  the  two  men  on  guard  over 
him,  and  soon  after  tea,  because  there  was  nothing 
else  to  do,  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  nighttime  that 
was  the  worst.  He  could  not  sleep  well  between 
midnight  and  dawn;  and  then,  in  those  guardless 


hours  (for  the  warders,  against  rules,  usually  dozed 
off  themselves),  he  thought  of  Leni.  Love  is  a 
strange  thing;  we  may  not  notice  the  moment  it 
comes,  yet  there  is  a  moment  when  we  know  it 
is  there — sudden  wakefulness,  as  to  pleasure  or 
pain  after  sleep,  a  sudden  color,  as  of  a  painting 
after  an  etching.  So  it  had  been  for  the  little 
doctor;  he  remembered  a  moment  in  the  court- 
room, during  the  judge's  summing  up;  he  had 
been  tired  after  a  long  day  in  that  stuffy  atmos- 
phere, and  the  judge's  words  had  droned  on  more 
and  more  slowly,  as  if  they  were  being  pushed  into 
sound  by  means  of  an  ever  greater  effort.  A 
little  way  off  in  the  prisoner's  dock  Leni  was 
sitting,  and  she  too  looked  tired,  had  lapsed  into 
a  remoteness  that  seemed,  by  its  very  detachment 
from  environment,  an  almost  physical  absence.  The 
judge  was  going  over  the  points  of  the  case,  one 
by  one;  and  presently  he  said:  — 

"...  With  evidence  of  motive,  gentlemen,  we 
are  not  primarily  concerned  when  there  is  so  much 
suggestive  evidence  as  to  fact  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  you 
will  probably  conjecture  the  purpose  for  which  he 
brought  her  from  Sandmouth  to  Calderbury,  and 
you  will  form  your  own  opinion  as  to  the  validity 
of  the  pretext  of  engaging  her  as  his  young  son's 
governess. 

"It  may  well  be  that  you  will  feel  that  no  more 
unsuitable  person  could  have  been  chosen  to  look 
after  a  nine-year-old  child — and  a  very  nervous 
and  highly  strung  child,  we  have  been  told — than 
a  young  woman  whose  temperament  was  such  that 
she  had  only  recently  attempted  suicide,  who  had 
had  no  kind  of  previous  experience  as  a  child's 
governess,  and  who,  in  addition,  could  barely  make 
herself  understood  in  the  child's  language.  .  .  .  You 
will  have  to  ask  yourselves,  plainly  and  straight- 
forwardly, what  lay  behind  this  extraordinary  in- 
cident— doubtless  it  can  be  made  to  look  attrac- 
tive if  you  think  of  it  in  terms  of  rescue  and 
benevolence,  but  if  you  will  bear  in  mind  the  cul- 
mination to  which  it  led,  and  which  is  the  sole 
cause  of  our  being  here  to-day  to  pass  judgment, 
then  you  will  form  your  own  opinion  why  the 
prisoner  chose  to  install  this  young  woman  in  the 
very  centre  of  his  household,  where  he  could  see 
her  every  day  and  as  often  and  for  as  long  periods 
as  he  liked,  and  where,  under  the  same  roof  as 
his  wife  and  son  .  .  .  Gentlemen,  it  is,  of  course, 
for  you  to  decide  and  interpret  these  matters  so 
far  as  you  feel  justified  in  doing  so — I  only  desire 
to  caution  you  against  the  pseudo  or  false  roman- 
ticism of  which  plays  and  novels  are  such  frequent 
exponents — the  kind,  I  mean,  that  deal  with  what 
I  believe  is  called  the  'eternal  triangle.'  Such  fair 
words  are,  in  a  measure,  hypocritical;  they  may 
lull  us  for  an  evening's  entertainment,  but  in  a 
court  of  law  it  is  our  duty  to  remember — and  it  is 
my  duty  to  point  out—  the  plainer  and  less  agree- 
able facts  .  .  .  lust  .  .  .  infatuation  ...  the  lowest 
and  basest  physicality,  uncontrolled,  dominating 
...  all  of  which,  gentlemen,  is  apt,  in  our  modern 
world,  as  you  know,  to  be  loosely  summed  up 
under  the  word  'love.'  You  may  call  it  'love'  if 
you  like,  provided  you  realize  .  .  ." 

And  at  that  the  whole  mumbling  greyness  seemed 
to  be  lit  by  a  stabbing  trumpeting  light;  and  the 
little  doctor  said  in  his  heart,  almost  as  if  he  were 
taking  advantage  of  permission  just  given  him: 
"Yes,  I  call  it  love."  ...  It  was  so  wrong,  ab- 
surd, preposterous,  all  that  the  judge  had  said;  and 
yet,  just  round  the  corner  from  the  nonsense,  there 
was  this  imperishable  pearl  of  truth.  "I  call  it 
love.    Oh,  God,  yes.    I  call  it  love." 

Chimes  of  the  Cathedral  marked  the  quarters, 
marked  the  slow  tragedy  of  that  lateness,  while 
the  little  doctor  dreamed,  remembering  the  mil- 
lions crouched  in  their  trenches  .  .  .  hate,  murder, 
agony  .  .  .  the  lowest  and  basest,  uncontrolled, 
dominating  ...  all  of  which,  gentlemen,  is  apt,  in 
our  modern  world,  to  be  loosely  summed  up  under 
the  word  "love." 

You  may  call  it  love  if  you  like,  provided  you 
realize  .  .  .  and  then  he  fell  asleep  for  a  few  trou- 
bled moments,  waking  again,  and  half-sleeping 
again,  until  the  dawn  outlined  the  bars  across  the 
window.  They  call  it  love,  I  call  it  love,  but  we  do 
not  mean  the  same  thing. 

To  his  dying  day  (which  was,  in  fact,  the  day 
after)  the  little  doctor  never  knew  why  it  was  that 
the  prison  authorities  allowed  him  to  see  Leni. 
The  reason  is  disclosed  in  a  book  published  only  a 
few  years  ago  by  Major  Sir  George  Millman  under 
the  somewhat  catchpenny  title  My  Forty  Years  in 
Jail.  There  is  a  paragraph  of  interesting  reminis- 
cence about  the  Calderbury  case:  — 


WWflS^ 


E  HUE  1101  « 


Newcome  was  under  my  charge  both  before 
and  after  sentence;  he  was  a  quiet  fellow  on  the 
whole,  and  gave  very  little  trouble.  The  only 
request  he  persistently  made  was  to  see  his  co- 
prisoner,  Fraulein  Leni  Krafft,  who  had 
shared  his  conviction  and  sentence  and  was  im- 
prisoned a  few  miles  away.  Of  course,  as  I  told 
him,  this  was  altogether  contrary  to  regula- 
tions, but  I  happened  to  mention  his  request 
to  Sir  William  Clintock,  who  was  in  charge  of 
the  wartime  secret  service,  and  he  took  it  up 
from  another  angle.  It  seemed  that  very  little 
was  known  about  the  German  girl,  apart  from 
the  Calderbury  case;  but  a  forged  passport  was 
discovered  amongst  her  possessions  after  her 
arrest,  and  the  espionage  department  suspected 
that  she  was  a  German  spy.  Of  course  all  this 
was  kept  out  of  the  court  evidence,  and  it  did 
not  affect  the  question  of  her  guilt  in  the  Cal- 
derbury charge.  Sir  William,  however,  be- 
lieved that  a  last-minute  interview  with  New- 
come  might  reveal  some  hint  as  to  her  real 
identity.  So  after  consultation  with  the  Home 
Office  permission  was  duly  given  and  the  two 
condemned  prisoners  talked  for  half  an  hour 
in  a  room  in  Calderbury  Jail  which  they  had 
been  encouraged  to  think  was  private.  Actually 
several  persons,  including  one  who  knew  Ger- 
man perfectly,  were  taking  notes  all  the  time, 
through  holes  that  had  been  made  secretly  in 
the  paneling  of  the  room.  The  idea  was  un- 
doubtedly worth  trying  out,  but  in  point  of  fact 
the  two  prisoners  exchanged  no  remarks  that 
were  of  any  help  to  the  department. 

When  David  heard  on  Thursday  morning  that 
his  one  request  had  been  granted  and  that  Leni 
was  to  be  brought  to  see  him  that  same  afternoon, 
his  heart  overflowed  with  anticipation  and  he 
pressed  the  Governor's  hand  with  more  emotion 
than  he  had  yet  shown  since  his  arrival  at  the  jail. 

"How  long  can  we  talk  for?" 

"Oh  well  ...  no  exact  time  limit,  y'know  .  .  . 
pretty  well  as  long  as  you  like  within  reason.  Say 
half  an  hour.  Plenty  of  time  for  anything  you 
want  to  say  to  each  other.    We  shan't  bother  you." 

"You  mean  there'll  be  nobody  listening?" 

"Maybe  we'll  stretch  a  point  and  call  the  warders 
off.  .  .  .  I  daresay  you'd  like  it  better  in  private. 
Oh,  and  by  the  way  .  .  ." 

"Yes?" 

"You  remember  at  the  trial— right  at  the  end— 
you  told  the  judge  that  the  girl  was  really  only 
nineteen — " 

"Yes.    But  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me." 

"I  know.  I'm  interested,  all  the  same,  in  what 
you  said.  Did  you  only  just  say  it  to  try  to  get 
her   off?" 

"No,  it  was  true." 

"But  how  did  you  know  it  was  true?  What 
reason  had  you  for  thinking  her  so  young?" 

"She  told  me." 

"Oh,  I  see.  .  .  .  You  hadn't  any  evidence  except 
just  that?" 

"I  believed  her." 

"Yes,  of  course.  .  .  .  Ah  well,  you'll  see  her." 

And  a  few  minutes  later,  recovering  from  his 
embarrassment,  Millman  telephoned  to  the  Gov- 
ernor of  Midchester  Prison.  "Yes,  I  told  him  it 
would  be  private.  Did  you  tell  her  the  same? 
Good  .  .  .  rather  an  awkward  business,  really. 
.  .  .  Oh  Lord,  no,  he  was  so  damn  pleased  about 
it — thought  I'd  fixed  it  as  a  special  favor,  y'know. 
Rather  pathetic,  in  a  way  .  .  .  made  me  feel  a  bit 
of  a  ...  oh  yes,  I  asked  him  about  the  girl's  age, 
but  he  knew  nothing  definite — only  that  she'd  told 
him  she  was  only  nineteen.  Seems  to  have  believed 
everything  she  told  him.  .  .  .  Yes — three  o'clock. 
We've  fixed  the  room  and  the  men  will  be 
ready.  .  .  ." 

At  five  to  three  the  little  doctor  was  taken  to  a 
room  he  had  never  seen  before,  a  small  match- 
boarded  room  in  which  were  a  table  and  two  chairs. 
He  sat  down  on  one  of  the  chairs  and  a  warder 
took  the  other.     Then  at  a  few  minutes  after  the 


hour  another  warder  made  some  signal  from  the 
door,  at  which  the  first  warder  got  up  and  left.  For 
a  few  seconds  David  was  alone;  then  the  door 
opened,  and  Leni,  also  alone,  entered. 

They  had  let  her  come  in  ordinary  clothes,  the 
same  that  she  had  worn  whilst  balancing  on  the 
back  of  David's  bicycle  along  the  Marsland  Road. 
But  her  face  was  different  from  then;  she  had  the 
little  crushed  smile  that  he  had  seen  first  of  all 
when  he  had  bandaged  her  wrist  after  the  acci- 
dent at  the  Theatre  Royal.  She  came  forward, 
stumbling  a  little,  leaning  at  last  into  his  arms  as 
he  stood.  "Du  kleiner  Doktor  .  .  .  Oh,  du  kleiner 
Doktor.  .  .  ."  She  began  to  cry,  and  all  at  once 
it  seemed  to  him  that  the  whole  world  was  crying. 

Her  first  words  were:  "David,  whatever  you  did, 
I  love  you,  David.  I  told  you  that  once  before,  but 
you  took  no  notice." 

"When  did  you  tell  me?" 

"That  day  I  danced  for  you." 

"Yes,  I  remember  that.  I  try  to  remember  every- 
thing— I  try  and  I  try — but  I  can't  think  what 
really  happened.  Perhaps  nobody  knows  what  hap- 
pened." And  then  suddenly  he  said:  "Leni — did 
you — you  didn't — do   anything — did  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  gravely  for  a  moment  and 
then  answered:   "No.    Did  you?" 

"I  didn't  either.    Did  you  think  I  did?" 

"I  wondered." 

"I  wondered  too."  Then  he  smiled.  "Forgive 
me.    How  could  such  a  suspicion — " 

"But  if  it's  really  true  that  neither  of  us — " 

"Yes?" 

"Then  who?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  trouble.  That's  why  they  won't 
believe  us.  They  have  to  find  some  answer.  They 
have  to  blame  somebody." 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  touched  his  face  as 
a  blind  person  memorizes.  "They  are  going  to  kill 
us,  David,  though  we  haven't  done  any  wrong  at  all." 

"I  know."  And  he  added,  seeing  beyond  her, 
hundreds  of  miles  beyond  her:  "We  are  not  alone." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"These  things  are  always  happening.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  death.  It  isn't  the  worst  we  have  to  face — 
only  the  last." 

"But  that  is  why  it  is  the  worst." 

"No,  no,  we  should  fear  birth  far  more  if  we 
could  look  ahead  to  it."  And  then,  half-impishly,  he 
began  to  improvise  on  the  theme,  to  play  with  the 
idea  for  her  comfort  and  his  own.  "Oh,  much 
more,  I  assure  you.  I've  often  thought  that.  Sup- 
pose, just  for  argument,  that  everything  did  happen 
the  other  way  round.  Suppose  people  gathered  in 
a  churchyard  and  hauled  you  from  a  hole  in  the 
ground  in  a  wooden  box  and  took  you  back  to  a 
house,  and  after  a  day  or  so  the  box  was  opened 
and  you  were  laid  on  a  bed,  and  a  few  days  later 
people  gathered  at  the  bedside  and  all  at  once  the 
breath  of  life  came  into  you,  bringing  agony  first, 
then  less  and  less  till  you  could  actually  creep  about, 
walking  with  a  stick  perhaps  and  being  for  a  time 
a  bit  deaf  and  blind  and  crazy  .  .  ." 

"Horrible!" 

"But  not  nearly  as  horrible  as  when  you  come  to 
the  other  end.  For  think  of  the  day  you'd  leave 
school  and  begin  to  stay  at  home  in  the  nursery. 
Think  of  people  patting  you  on  the  head  as  you  grew 
younger  every  day.  That  last  stumbling  walk  across 
the  hearthrug  before  you  settled  down  to  pram  life! 
How  unutterably  tragic — far  more  so  than  growing 
old  and  dying!" 

"But — never — never — to  see  you  again!" 

"Maybe  you  will.  If  there's  a  next  world  I'll 
try  to  find  you  in  it  as  I  found  you  in  this.  There 
will  be  other  worlds,  surely  .  .  .  worlds  in  which 
the  things  we  have  won't  be  wasted  like  this.  .  .  .  I'll 
find  you  ...  do  you  remember  that  first  night  I  did 
find  you?  Very  windy — later  on  it  rained.  First  of 
all  I  went  to  the  theatre,  and  you'd  gone.  But  I 
found  you  in  the  end." 

" — I  saw  you  through  the  mirror  as  you  came 
into  the  room,  and  I  knew  you  must  be  the  little 
doctor  because  you  looked  so  .  .  .  Oh,  David — 
David.'  .  .  .  Why  does  it  have  to  happen  like  this?" 


'MR 


Afterwards,  the  listeners  in  the  next  room  com- 
pared notes.  It  was  generally  admitted  that  the  in- 
terview had  been  a  failure. 

"Of  course  it  was  pretty  obvious  he  smelt  a 
rat.  Didn't  you  hear  him  whisper  'We're  not  alone'? 
That  was  a  hint  to  her  to  be  careful  what  she 
said.  .  .  .  It's  my  belief  Millman  gave  the  game 
away  talking  to  him  beforehand." 

TWILIGHT  ushered  in  the  evening,  and  David 
watched  the  slow  glooming  of  the  sky  with  full 
awareness  that  it  was  for  the  last  time.  He  was  not 
unhappy.  He  was  not  afraid.  He  was  quite  calm 
when  the  Governor  and  the  Chaplain  paid  the 
formal  visits  that  were  part  of  enjoined  routine. 

The  Chaplain  came  first,  a  jolly-looking  red- 
faced  parson  chosen  for  the  job  of  ministering  to 
the  spiritual  needs  of  prisoners  because  it  was 
supposed  that  he  knew  how  to  deal  with  men,  could 
meet  them  on  their  own  level,  and  so  on.  His 
sermons  were  always  full  of  pat-you-on-the-back 
optimism,  and  he  said  "damn"  just  to  prove  his 
good  fellowship.  He  had  known  Jessica,  through 
her  connection  with  the  Cathedral  clergy,  and  she 
had  always  regarded  him  as  "just  the  kind  of  parson 
the  modern  world  needs."  All  of  which  might  have 
made  him  embarrassed  to  meet  David,  had  he  not 
been  the  kind  of  man  who  is  rarely  embarrassed. 
He  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  beamed  with 
man-to-mannishness.  "Comfortable,  eh,  Newcome? 
Having  all  you  want?" 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  said  David,  who  always  filled 
in  gaps  of  emotional  response  by  being  polite. 

"Thought  you  might  care  for  a  little  chat,  y'know. 
How're  you  feeling?  All  right?  Pretty  cheerful? 
Read  the  papers,  I  suppose?  Damned  awful  thing 
if  the  boys  aren't  home  by  Christmas,  eh?" 

Suddenly  David  realized  who  this  man  was.  "Why, 
you  knew  Jessie,  didn't  you?"  he  interrupted. 

Even  the  Chaplain's  nerve  was  somewhat  unpre- 
pared for  the  shock  of  such  a  reference.  "You 
mean — you  mean — Mrs. — the  late  Mrs.  Newcome? 
Why,  yes,  I  did  know  her — yes,  of  course  I  did."  (As 
he  said  to  Millman  afterwards:  "You  could  have 
knocked  me  down  with  a  feather  when  he  men- 
tioned her — so  damn  casual.  .  .  .") 

Then  David  began  to  talk  quite  normally — that 
is  to  say,  from  the  Chaplain's  point  of  view,  quite 
abnormally.  "I'm  glad  to  speak  to  someone  who 
knew  her  because  you'll  understand  about  Gerald 
— that's  my  boy.  Jessie  had  sent  him  away  to  her 
brother-in-law — Simpson,  you  know,  he's  the  Vicar 
of  St.  Peter's.  I'm  sure  he's  being  looked  after  all 
right,  but  I  do  hope  they  haven't  told  him — very 
much — you  see  he's  so  nervous — " 

"My  dear  Newcome,  you  needn't  worry  on  that 
score.  I  happen  to  know  that  your  boy's  been 
told  nothing — absolutely  nothing.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  he's  at  present  away  at  the  seaside — much  the 
best  idea,  don't  you  think?  I  suppose  some  day  .  .  . 
but  for  the  present — well,  he  just  thinks  his  mother 
and  father  have  gone  away  somewhere  for  a  time. 
.  .  .  .Of  course  if  you'd  put  in  an  application  I've 
no  doubt  they'd  have  allowed  you  to  see  him — " 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  of  it — oh,  dear  no.  I  wouldn't 
like  him  to  come  here  at  all — he'd  be  frightened- 
he  was  always  scared  of  policemen.  I  think  that 
was  because  Jessie  always  used  to  say,  'I'll  fetch 
a  policeman  to  you,'  whenever  he  misbehaved — 
a  mistake  to  say  things  like  that  to  a  nervous 
child.  And  that's  what  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about. 
.  .  .  You  know  Jessie  meant  well,  but  she  didn't 
really  understand  the  boy.  She  and  I  had  different 
ways  with  him,  and  I  think — I  really  do  think — mine 
was  better.  I  wish  you'd  tell  the  Simpsons  that  if 
you  get  the  chance.  Tell  them  not  to  worry  the 
boy,  just  let  him  grow  up  and  conquer  things  for 
himself  .  .  .  and  then  some  day,  maybe,  he  can 
know  the  truth — about — to-morrow.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  Newcome,  I  must  say  I  think  that's  very 
sensible  of  you.  You  can  rest  assured  I'll  do  my 
damnedest  for  the  youngster.  Keep  an  eye  on  him 
myself,  I  give  you  my  word.  As  'matter  of  fact,  if 
I  had  my  way  I'd  tell  him  a  complete  lie  about 
you — I'd  say  you'd  joined  up  and  made  the — er — 


the  supreme  sacrifice— give  the  little  chap  some- 
thing to  be  proud  of.  .  .  .    Why  not — eh,  why  not?" 

And  then  the  Governor,  Major  Millman,  entered 
the  room  and  smiled  nervously.  The  Chaplain 
included  him  in  the  conversation  by  a  jovial  nod. 
"Well,  here  we  are,  Millman — discussing  the  War 
and  what  not — I'd  just  been  struck  with  an  idea — " 

Millman  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table  and  fidgeted. 
He  was  always  apt  to  be  upset  by  this  last  interview 
with  a  condemned  prisoner,  for  he  knew  how  un- 
pleasantly it  could  sometimes  turn  out.  He  felt  al- 
most grateful  to  Newcome  for  not  being  the  kind 
of  person  who  would  make  a  hysterical  scene. 
"Don't   go,"   he   muttered   to   the   Chaplain. 

The  latter  turned  to  David.  "Well,  don't  you 
think  it's  what  we   ought   to  tell  the  youngster?" 

David  made  a  mild  gesture  of  protest  with  his 
hands.  "Oh  no — don't  tell  him  that — never  tell 
him  anything  like   that — please  don't — " 

"But  why  not?  Isn't  it  something  that  might 
have  happened  but  for — " 

"Oh  no,  no — " 

"But  why  not,  man?" 

David  said  quietly:  "You  see,  I  don't  think  I 
could  ever  kill  anybody." 

"But  I'm  talking  about  the  War." 

"I  know.  That's  what  I  mean.  War  is  killing." 
Suddenly  the  little  doctor's  voice  rose  slightly.  "How 
could  I  spend  so  many  years  fighting  for  life  and 
then  fight  against  it?  Why  do  you  expect  me  to 
undo  everything  I  have  ever  done?  How  can  you 
live  and  sleep  while  this  is  all  happening?  How 
can  you?  Governor — preacher — we've  put  such  a 
lot  of  trust  in  you  two — why  have  you  let  things 
come  to  this?  Why  can't  you  save  us  from  these 
crazy  miseries?  Why  should  we  put  up  with  you 
if  you  can't?  People  only  ask  to  live  in  peace  and  do 
their  work!  We  don't  ask  miracles.  But  in  God's 
name,  haven't  you  learned  anything  in  two  thou- 
sand years?  We're  not  afraid  of  death,  but  we'll 
need  to  be  afraid  of  life  itself  unless  you  fix  things 
better  in  the  future!" 

David  sank  down  in  the  chair  with  his  head  in 
his  hands.  He  was  exhausted.  He  so  rarely  talked 
to  people  like  that — it  was  an  effort  that  left  him 
entirely  spent.  When  he  looked  up  he  saw  that 
both  the  Governor  and  the  Chaplain  had  gone,  and 
that  a  familiar  face  was  across  the  table  top.  "Hello, 
George,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir.    Duty  again." 

"You  sound  hoarse — or  is  it  my  ears?" 

"Not  your  ears,  sir — my  throat.    I've  a  cold." 

"Well  ...  it  won't  matter  much  if  I  catch  it 
from  you,  will  it?" 

"Ha,  ha  .  .  .  that's  a  good  one  .  .  .  glad  you're 
feeling  cheerful.  When  I  first  come  in,  sir,  and 
saw  you  sittin'  with  your  head  down,  I  thought 
you  was  takin'  on." 

"Taking  on?" 

"Worritin',  sir.  They  do,  you  know,  most  of  'em, 
when  it  gets  as  near  as  this.  But  as  I've  said  to  all 
my  mates,  sir,  I  do  believe  the  little  doctor  won't 
bat  an  eyelid." 

"Do  they  call  me  the  little  doctor?" 

"Yes,  sir — some  of  'em  bein'  Calderbury  men  for 
years,  same  as  yourself.    They  like  you,  sir." 

"Do  they?     Well,  I  like  them,  too.    I  love  them." 

"Well,  sir,  no  harm  in  that,  I'm  sure.  Would  you 
like  a  cup  of  tea?" 

"Thanks,  George.  .  .  .  Oh — and  George — about  to- 
morrow morning — it's  all  over  pretty  quickly,  I 
imagine?" 

"Oh,  bless  you,  yes,  sir — nothing  to  worry  about. 
Won't  take  more  than  a  minute  from  the  time  you 
step  out  of  here.     No  waitin'." 

Crossing  the  graveled  yard,  the  Governor  and  the 
Chaplain  paced  with  many  undertones. 

"Quite  startled  me,  the  way  he  suddenly  launched 
out.     What  had  he  got  against  us,  anyway?" 

"Damned  if  I  know,  Millman.  I  suppose  it's  as 
I've  said  all  along — the  fellow's  pretty  well  off  his 
head." 

"Well,  well,  I'll  be  glad  when  it's  over — I  hate 
these  affairs.  .  .  ." 

In  the  morning  a  light  drizzle  was  falling,  and 
David,  after  a  night  no  more  troubled  than  many 
previous  nights,  rose  before  dawn  and  watched  a 
simple  greyness  invade  the  sky.  Through  the  barred 
window  he  could  soon  see  the  prison  wall,  a  long 
horizon  of  granite,  with  but  two  interruptions,  the 
towers  of  the  Cathedral,  ghostly  through  the  rain. 
Over  the  roofs  there  came  the  steady  chimes,  by 
long  association  more  a  part  than  a  breaking  of  the 
silence;  the  first  real  sound  began  at  seven,  when 
the  early  morning  train  arrived  from  Marsland  with 
the  newspapers.  David  heard  it  steaming  and  clank- 
ing into  the  station.    Only  a  whisper  from  afar;  but 


it  was  the  voice  of  Calderbury  each  morning,  and 
David  heard  it  as  a  friend's. 

We  live  in  a  town  for  years  and  all  its  voices  come 
to  us  so  casually  and  with  such  small  effort  that  we 
hardly  know  them  till  we  are  about  to  leave,  and 
then,  into  our  regret  comes  some  little  thing,  the 
rattle  of  a  cart  over  cobblestones,  an  old  cracked 
bell  in  a  church  tower,  the  shout  of  a  boy  selling 
newspapers;  and  we  can  answer  with  nothing  but 
our  love.  David  was  leaving  Calderbury  that  morn- 
ing. He  knew  it,  and  his  heart  was  full  of  love  for 
the  little  town  and  for  its  people.  And  he  remem- 
bered, as  often  happens  on  the  last,  the  first  day 
he  had  seen  it — Jessie  pointing  across  the  water 
meadows  from  the  train  window — "There  you  are, 
David— that's  Calderbury.  See  the  Cathedral?  No, 
no,  not  there,  stupid — that's  the  electricity  works. 
There!"  And  he  remembered,  smiling  to  himself, 
that  habit  Jessie  had  always  had — of  seeing  some- 
thing herself  and  expecting  other  people  to  see  it 
instantly.  That  was  one  of  the  things  he  had  had  to 
put  up  with;  but  he  had  always  respected  her,  and 
people  didn't  realize  how  shocked,  as  well  as  puz- 
zled, he  had  been  when  .  .  .  But  it  was  all  such  a 
long  time  ago  now,  nearly  three  months.  Questions 
— answers — "Now,  doctor,  would  you  mind  telling 
us.  ...  I  put  it  to  you,  Dr.  Newcome.  .  .  .  But 
surely,  doctor.  .  .  .  Come  now,  doctor,  you  really 
must  explain.  .  .  .  Don't  lie  to  us,  Newcome.  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  lie,  my  friends,  I  can't  help  it  if  the  truth 
doesn't  sound  true.  They  say  my  boy  Gerald  never 
tells  the  truth — but  he  does,  sometimes,  often,  only 
people  don't  believe  him.  Truth  is  what  is  be- 
lieved— a  lie  is  what  is  disbelieved — how's  that  for 
a  pair  of  definitions?  I  don't  much  care  for  them, 
but  the  world  does.  Let  me  tell  the  truth  just  once 
before  I  die.    I  call  it  love.  .  .  ." 

The  two  warders  got  up  (they  had  not  un- 
dressed) when  they  saw  him  standing  by  the  win- 
dow, and  George  bade  him  good-morning. 

"Good  morning,  George.  Don't  bother.  It's  still 
very  early.    I'm  all  right." 

"What  would  you  like,  sir?     Coffee?     Tea?" 

"It  matters  so  much,  doesn't  it?    Let's  say  tea." 

So  the  tea  was  made,  and  David  drank  two  cups. 
He  did  not  eat  anything,  but  he  smoked  his  pipe 
for  a  while.  He  felt — well,  not  exactly  nervous,  but 
a  little  excited,  as  when,  during  student  days,  he  had 
made  his  first  knife  cut  into  living  flesh. 

Presently  a  stranger  entered  the  room  and  pin- 
ioned his  arms  with  a  leather  strap;  he  submitted 
to  this  without  word  or  murmur.  Then  he  saw  the 
Governor  and  the  Chaplain  standing  by.  "Good 
morning,"  he  said,  and  smiled  at  them. 

Across  the  graveled  yard  there  was  a  small  build- 
ing whose  use  he  had  not  realized  before,  but  it  was 
not  far  to  walk  to  it,  through  the  rain  and  in  the 
chilly  morning  air.  Then,  obeying  the  gestures  of 
the  stranger,  he  stood  on  a  little  platform  with  his 
head  under  a  wooden  beam.  A  white  hood  was  put 
over  his  head.  Just  at  that  moment  he  heard  George 
cough,  and  then  (they  were  his  last  words)  he 
said,  in  a  voice  that  came  muffled:  "That  cold  of 
yours  isn't  any  better,  George."  The  noose  slipped 
over  his  head  and  he  suddenly  remembered  Leni, 
and  her  little  crushed  smile,  and  that  she  too,  at 
the  same  moment  in  Midchester.  .  .  .  Come  with  me, 
go  with  me,  I  don't  know  where,  but  there  are  a  few 
of  us,  we  make  a  good  company  already,  we  carry 
love  in  our  hearts,  we  are  not  alone.  .  .  . 

The  lever  moved,  and  the  little  doctor's  body  fell 
into  the  pit,  from  which,  later  in  the  day,  it  was 
retrieved  for  burial  inside  the  prison  precincts. 


EPILOGUE 


a 


WAS  in  Calderbury  a  few  weeks  ago  and  as  I 
passed  the  corner  of  Shawgate  I  noticed  that  work- 
men were  pulling  down  the  old  house.  One  of 
the  inside  walls  was  exposed,  and  on  it  hung  what 
seemed,  at  a  distance,  to  be  a  picture  that  no 
one  had  bothered  about.  Even  while  I  watched, 
it  was  taken  down,  and  later  I  saw  it  handed  over 
to  someone  in  the  little  crowd  which,  in  days  of 
unemployment,  and  especially  in  a  place  like  Cal- 
derbury, always  collects  round  any  scene  of  activity. 
He  was  a  young  man  of  perhaps  thirty,  slim  and 
not  at  all  robust-looking,  attractive  in  an  ascetic 
way,  and  rather  shy  in  manner  as  he  took  the 
picture,  wrapped  it  in  a  newspaper  he  car- 
ried, and  tried  to  slip  away.  But  the  crowd 
turned  their  curious  eyes  on  him  and  someone 
called  out:  "Let's  have  a  look,  mister."  At  that  he 
almost  bolted,  crossing  the  road  at  a  tangent,  and 


colliding  with  me  on  the  opposite  curb.  The  pic- 
ture fell  with  a  tinkle,  and  I  made  some  apologetic 
remark,  though  it  was  really  his  own  fault.  He  an- 
swered: "Oh,  it  doesn't  matter — the  glass  was 
smashed  already." 

With  a  tidy  gesture  which  I  liked  in  him  he  began 
to  kick  the  glass  fragments  into  the  gutter.  I  joined 
him  in  this  usefulness,  and  while  we  were  both  busy 
I  said:  "I  don't  know  what  sort  of  treasure  you've 
got,  but  I  suppose  you  know  who  used  to  live  in  that 
house  they're  pulling  down." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered.  "The  little  doctor.  Did 
you  know  him?" 

"Fairly  well.  I  liked  him.  He  cured  me  of 
asthma." 

He  laughed.  "Well,  that's  certainly  a  good  reason 
for  liking  him.  I  wonder  if  mine  is  as  good.  He 
brought  me  into  the  world." 

We  walked  along  some  way  in  silence,  wondering 
perhaps  whether  each  was  inclined  for  the  other's 
company.  Presently  he  said:  "I  suppose  you  re- 
member the  case?" 

"You  mean  the — the  Calderbury  case?" 

"Is  that  what  you  call  it?  I  didn't  realize  it  was 
quite  so  famous.    I've  been  abroad  a  long  time." 

"But  you're  a  native  of  Calderbury?" 

"I  left  when  I  was  nine.  America — journalism 
— various  things.    I  write  poems — occasionally." 

He  spoke  in  a  nervous,  rather  truculent  way. 

"It's  a  pleasant  diversion,"  I  replied,  "apart  from 
any  value  in  the  poems." 

He  laughed  enough  for  me  to  realize  that  I  had 
said  the  right  thing.  "Come  into  my  hotel  and  have 
a  drink,"  he  invited. 

We  went  in  and  stood  by  the  counter  in  the  cool 
bar  of  the  "Greyhound."  There  was  no  one  about 
except  Brierley,  the  landlord.  He  served  our  drinks 
and  disappeared.  "Now  that's  the  fellow,"  I  said, 
"who  really  could  tell  you  something  about  the 
Calderbury  case.     He  was  foreman  of  the  jury." 

"Don't  ask  him,  please.  I've  read  all  the  news- 
paper reports — I'm  not  especially  interested  in  the 
police-court  angle.  I  suppose  it  was  a  fair  trial 
as  trials  go." 

"Maybe,"  I  answered.  "There  was  a  lot  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  and  I  daresay  many  men  have 
been  hanged  on  less.  And  then,  of  course,  there 
was  a  certain  amount  of  political  feeling  about  the 
girl.^German,  you  remember, — and  it  was  the  first 
autumn  of  the  War.  We  all  believed  she  was  a  spy. 
That  didn't  come  up  at  the  trial, — naturally, — but 
people  like  Brierley  couldn't  help  but  be  affected 
by  it.  The  judge,  I  thought,  was  a  shade  too  severe 
in  his  summing  up — maybe  he  was  affected  too. 
War  fever  is  an  insidious  disease." 

"You  take  an  interest  in  the  case?" 

"I  suppose  I  do — though  only  in  a  non-technical 
way.    I  gather  that  you're  interested  too?" 

He  smiled.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  he  brought  me  into 
the  world?" 

"He  did  that  to  a  good  many  young  people  you 
can  see  around  the  streets  of  Calderbury." 

"Yes,  of  course.  But  I  didn't  mean  it  in  quite 
that  sense.    You  see  .  .  .  I'm  his  son." 

I  LOOKED  at  him  then,  incredulous  for  the  mo- 
ment, then  in  sudden  silence  as  I  remembered 
Gerald.  The  little  boy  who  cried  and  screamed 
and  told  lies  and  had  nervous  fits  and  whom  no- 
body could  control.  He  seemed  embarrassed  at 
having  had  to  explain  his  identity  and  went  on:  — 

"I  suppose  you  feel  now  you  can't  discuss  the 
case  any  more  with  me?" 

"Oh,  1  don't  mind.  It's  more  a  question  whether 
you'll  want  to  discuss  it  with  me  when  you  know 
who  1  am."  I  told  him  then  my  name,  adding:  "I 
think  we   met — years  ago.     At  children's  parties." 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  I  remember.  And  after  that 
you  were  the  star  witness  for  the  prosecution." 

"Don't  hold  that  against  me.  I  was  too  young  to 
know  what  it  was  all  about." 

"Do  you  mean  you  no  longer  believe  he  was 
guilty?" 

He  shot  the  question  at  me  so  abruptly  that  its 
awkwardness   came   as  a   challenge. 

"Will  you  take  my  word  if  I  answer  that  I  really 
don't  know?" 

He  smiled.  "Why,  surely.  .  .  .  What  about  an- 
other drink?" 

"I  think  it's  my  turn,"  I  said,  calling  Brierley. 

When  we  were  left  alone  again  I  went  on:  "The 
evidence  I  gave  was  true  enough,  as  far  as  it  went." 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  never  doubted  it.  You  saw 
my  mother  going  into  the  house  at  a  certain  time, 
and  you  saw  the  other  two  leaving  the  house  at  a 
certain  time.  Ample  opportunity.  And  a  surgery 
full  of  poison.    Logic.     What  more  could  you  ask? 


Especially  after  the  letter  he'd  written  to  the  girl." 

"Yes,  it  all  pointed  one  way." 

"And  it  all  pointed  wrong." 

"Really?"  (What  else  could  one  say?  Well, 
there  was  one  thing  I  could  repeat.)  "I  must 
admit  that  if  I'd  known  what  use  was  going  to  be 
made  of  my  evidence  I'd  have  kept  it  to  myself." 

"But  why?" 

"Because  I  always  liked   the  little  doctor." 

"Yet  you  don't  feel  certain  that  he  wasn't 
guilty?" 

"I  don't  feel  certain  of  anything.  Something 
mysterious  and  terrible  happened  over  twenty  years 
ago  when  I  was  a  boy — why  expect  me  to  fix  blame? 
Maybe  the  court  was  right,  maybe  not.  The  thing 
looked  possible — more  than  that — even  probable. 
After  all,  we  do  know  that  murder  is  something 
that  men  will  commit  for  love." 

"So  you  think  he  was  infatuated?" 

"Call  it  that  if  you  like  the  word." 

"I  don't,  particularly.     'Love'  is  better." 

"That's  the  word  I  used." 

"Maybe  they  mean  the  same." 

"Maybe." 

"Do  you  think  you  understood  my  father?" 

"Well,  hardly — how  could  I?     I  was  only  a  boy." 

"There  was  something  boyish  in  him.  Childlike, 
almost.  I  once  wrote  a  poem  about  him — perhaps 
I  can  remember  it."  He  paused  a  moment  and  then 
recited,  rather  well: 

"Both  youth  and  age  were  his 

With  no  more  change  of  scene 
Than  from  the  blue  of  mountains 
Down  to  the  level  green. 

"And  in  that  blue-green  land 

Where  English  sons  were  bred, 
He  knew  the  dead  were  living 
And  saw  the  living  dead." 

I  said:  "I  rather  like  that.  And  I  think  I  under- 
stand what  you're  driving  at." 

"The  thing  I'm  driving  at  is  that  he  wasn't 
guilty." 

"Maybe  not." 

"She  wasn't  either." 

"You  think  not?" 

"My  God,  I'm  not  telling  you  what  I  think — I'm 
giving  you  facts." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  I  couldn't  go  on  arguing 
with  him.  I  said  nothing,  leaving  him,  if  he  chose, 
to  continue.  After  an  interval  he  said:  "You  see 
...  I  was  in  the  house  myself  that  night." 

"Really?"  (Again,  what  else  could  one  say?) 
"How  was  that?" 

"Simple  enough.  I'd  been  quartered  with  an  aunt 
and  uncle  who  lived  at  the  other  end  of  the  town. 
I  was  miserable  with  them — or  rather,  I  should  say, 
I  was  miserable  without  my  father.  Just  a  prisoner 
in  an  enormous  shabby  vicarage.  That  evening — 
you  remember  it  was  the  evening  war  was  declared 
— everyone  was  so  excited  by  the  news  that  I  had 
my  first  chance  to  escape.  I  took  it.  I  ran  across 
the  town,  aiming  for  home.  I  climbed  over  the  gar- 
den wall  from  the  side  footpath.  Nobody  saw  me 
or  would  have  cared  much  if  they  had.  I  thought 
the  house  was  empty.  I  went  to  the  surgery.  It 
was  always  fun  there,  but  that  night  more  than 
usual,  because — well,  because  a  cupboard  usually 
kept  locked  was  half  open." 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  the  evidence  about  that." 

"So  I  had  a  game  with  some  bottles,  taking 
the  corks  out  and  sniffing.  Lucky  I  didn't  poison 
myself  —  or  perhaps  damned  unlucky,  when  you 
come  to  think  about  it.  Suddenly  I  heard  foot- 
steps in  the  hall.  I  was  scared.  I  shut  the  cup- 
board as  quick  as  I  could  and  pushed  away  the 
bottles  on  a  shelf  where  there  were  other  bottles. 
I  didn't  want  her  to  know  I'd  been  touching  any- 
thing." 

"You  knew  who  it  was?" 

"Oh,  yes,  her  walk  was  quite  unmistakable.  .  .  . 
Presently  she  came  in  and  found  me.  She  was  very 
hot — it  was  a  very  hot  day  and  she'd  been  out  in  the 
sun.  'You  here?'  she  began,  but  she  didn't  grumble 
as  much  as  I'd  expected.  I  think  she  was  tired. 
'Where's  your  father?'  she  asked.  I  said  I  didn't 
know.  'He's  never  here  when  he's  wanted,'  she  said. 
Then  she  went  to  the  shelf  and  took  some  pills  out 
of  a  bottle.  'I've  got  a  bad  head,'  she  said,  'and  I 
want  to  lie  down.  Fetch  a  glass  of  water  to  my 
bedroom.'  So  I  did,  and  that  was  how  it  happened. 
.  .  .  All  quite  by  accident,  you  see." 

"Yes,  I  see." 

"Don't  you  believe  me?" 

"May  I  say  again — I  don't  really  know.  ...  At 
any  rate,  why  didn't  you  tell  all  this  to  the  court?" 


"I  never  had  a  chance.  I  was  only  too  glad  to  get 
away.  ...  I'd  always  been  blamed  for  everything 
and  I  thought  I  should  be  again.  ...  So  I  ran  back 
to  my  uncle's  house.  They  thought  I  was  ill — one 
of  my  'attacks,'  they  called  them — I  used  to  have 
bad  nerves  when  I  was  a  child." 

"And  you  didn't  tell  anybody?" 

"Well,  they  didn't  tell  me  anything,  either?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"They  never  told  me  anything  was  wrong.  It  was 
weeks  afterwards  they  said  my  parents  had  both 
gone  away  and  I  couldn't  see  them.  Years  later  I 
found  out  what  had  really  happened.  It  came — " 
he  hesitated  for  the  understatement — "as  a  consid- 
erable shock  to  me." 

XHERE  was  another  long  pause,  during  which  I 
recollected  as  much  as  I  could  of  Gerald's  reputa- 
tion as  a  child.  In  the  little  town  there  had  gath- 
ered quite  a  sizable  legend  of  his  precocious  unre- 
liability. He  "romanced,"  or,  if  you  cared  to  use 
the  less  flattering  word,  he  told  the  most  astounding 
lies.  He  would  (in  the  days  when  I  had  met  him 
once  or  twice  at  children's  parties)  assure  people 
that  he  had  seen  an  elephant  in  Shawgate,  or  a  col- 
lision between  two  steam  rollers  going  at  full  speed, 
or  a  man  with  three  noses.  And  once,  I  remember, 
he  told  a  few  of  us  very  solemnly  that  his  father 
had  bought  a  deathbed.  How  he  had  picked  up  the 
word  we  could  only  guess,  but  it  was  clear  that  in 
his  mind  a  deathbed  was  a  particular  kind  of  bed 
that  one  went  to  a  furniture  shop  to  buy;  so  that 
was  what  he  told  us,  as  calmly  as  you  please.  We 
thought  it  amusing  that  his  own  childish  ignorance 
should  so  completely  prove  him  a  liar. 

Thinking  of  all  this,  I  said:  "It's  a  pity  you 
didn't  tell  when  it  might  have  done  some  good." 

"Yes,  but  I  shouldn't  have  been  believed.  At  least, 
I  very  much  doubt  it.  Nobody  ever  believed  me. 
Why,  you  don't  even  believe  me  now.    Do  you?" 

"May  I  say — for  the  third  time — I  simply  don't 
know  what  to  believe." 

"I  don't  blame  you.  We  none  of  us  know  much 
about  what  really  happens.  Or  has  happened.  The 
real  truth  is  often  hidden — perhaps  because  it's  a 
dark  truth.  ...  It  seems  to  me  that  we're  all  chil- 
dren of  the  dead — the  dead  who  shouldn't  have  died 
— the  dead  who  were  put  to  death.  .  .  .  And  they 
wait  with  us  all  the  time,  hoping  we'll  understand 
and  leam  something,  but  we  don't,  and  we  can't  do 
anything  about  it.  .  .  .  Is  all  that  too  mystical?" 

"I  don't  quite  know  what  you  mean." 

He  laughed  as  he  answered:  "Why  should  you? 
To  hell  with  you,  anyway.  That's  how  you  make 
me  feel." 

I  smiled,  liking  him  a  little.  After  a  short  silence 
I  said:  "I'm  interested  in  the  girl — the  German  girl." 

"Why?" 

"I  liked  the  look  of  her.  I  think  I  saw  her  once — 
before  I  saw  her  in  the  court.  There  used  to  be  a 
motor  bus  that  made  journeys  between  the  foot  of 
Shawgate  and  Lissington  Hill — the  seats  faced  each 
other  and  one  day  I  sat  opposite  someone  I  couldn't 
help  staring  at.  Afterwards,  when  I  described  her 
to  others,  they  said  she  must  have  been  'the  foreign 
girl  who  works  at  the  little  doctor's.'  So  maybe 
she  was.  She  wore  a  brown  coat  and  a  black  fur 
hat  like  a  fez.  .  .  .  But  you  knew  her  well,  of  course. 
Tell  me  what  she  was  like." 

His  face  lit  with  the  beginnings  of  excitement. 
"She  was  ...  oh,  I  can't  tell  you.  It's  the  nearest 
thing  to  heaven  in  my  mind, — the  only  meaning 
heaven  has, — that  memory  I  have  of  her  and  of  him. 
The  little  doctor — my  little  father.  I  used  to  watch 
them  smile  at  each  other.  I  used  to  go  to  sleep 
after  they  had  touched  me.  They  were  real — and 
that's  what's  so  hard  to  believe — that  they  were  ever 
real.  .  .  .  Do  you  mind  if  we  take  a  walk?" 

"Good  idea." 

We  went  out  into  the  streets  of  Calderbury,  where 
it  was  growing  dusk  and  lights  were  blinking  from 
shops  and  houses;  and  far  ahead,  at  the  top  of  Shaw- 
gate, the  towers  of  the  Cathedral  lifted  insubstan- 
tially  into  the  darkening  east.  Calderbury  had  sur- 
vived, though  how  narrowly  none  could  say.  We 
passed  the  house  where  the  little  doctor  had  lived, 
and  then,  along  Briargate,  we  passed  the  jail  where 
the  little  doctor  had  died.  That  was  being  pulled 
down  also — it  was  far  too  big  and  the  site  had  grown 
valuable.  I  was  still  a  little  bothered  by  not  know- 
ing how  much  to  believe  of  all  that  Gerald  had  told 
me,  but  I  felt  there  must  be  a  sort  of  truth  in  it, 
somewhere.  "Well,"  I  said,  "you're  probably  right 
and  there  isn't  a  lot  any  of  us  can  do." 

"But  there  ought  to  be,"  he  answered,  so  des- 
perately that  I  was  startled.  "And,  oh  God,  if  only 
there  were  .  .  ." 


36 


/         THE 


SPEAKS 


r 


Something  new  in  ' 

"spectral     kiss." 

appears    only    momentarily 

Priscilla    Lane   in   "Four  Wives" — 

as  a   ghostly  nr~ 

traaic   love   in    "F 


■ 


ON  THIS  AND  THE 


■9 


FOLLOWING  PAGES  PHOTOPLAY 


BRINGS  YOU  HOLLYWOOD  AT 


ITS    P I PTH  R I  A  I    RFST 


OLD  STARS 

WEAR  1 

BEST 


BETTY  COMPSON  just  twenty  years 
ago  was  the  sensation  of  "The 
Miracle  Man,"  which  created  many 
stars  (Joseph  Dowling  and  Thomas 
Meighan  are  pictured,  Lon  Chaney 
was  another).  She  was  the  belie  of 
the  succeeding  decade,  became 
one  of  the  few  silent  queens  to 
score  in  early  talkies.  Then — bit 
parts;  the  transition  from  the  young 
roles  with  which  the  public  associ- 
ates them  is  always  harder  for  femi- 
nine stars,  since  the  demand  for 
mature  male  leads  has  always  been 
greater.  But,  when  Betty  finishes  her 
work  inColumbia's  "Cafe  Hostess," 
she  returns  to  her  rightful  heritage 
as  second  lead  in  the  new  Gable- 
Crawford  picture,  "Strange Cargo" 


LOIS  WILSON  experienced  a  com- 
fortable success  in  other  films  be- 
fore "The  Covered  Wagon"  (with 
J.  Warren  Kerrigan)  proved  to  be 
such  a  perfect  vehicle  for  her  that 
it  nearly  carried  her  to  oblivion! 
It  established  her  firmly  with  the 
movie-goers  of  1923  as  the  perfect 
American  "home  girl"  and  led  to 
innumerable  awards  and  titles  in 
that  field  for  years  thereafter.  But 
it  also  typed  her  in  the  eyes  of  both 
producers  and  public  and  led  to  a 
series  of  glorified  Westerns  from 
which  she  finally  rebelled,  never 
completely  recovered.  Smaller  and 
smaller  grew  her  assignments;  she 
played  her  last  "bit"  three  years 
ago— until  she  came  back  to  win  the 
public's  heart  again,  in  a  sympa- 
thetic role  in  "Bad  Little  Angel" 


LEWIS  STONE  is  Hollywood's  most 
brilliant  example  of  the  way  early 
matinee  idols  have  been  able  to 
make  a  lifetime,  unbroken  career  of 
motion  pictures.  "The  Havoc,"  in 
which  he's  shown  with  Bryant  Wash- 
burn, dates  from  1916.  Stone  was 
a  popular  movie  hero  even  then  and 
has  made  considerably  more  than 
one  hundred  pictures  since,  in  all 
of  which  he  played  leading  roles. 
Most  of  them  were  romantic  leads, 
until  in  recent  years  he's  reached 
the  peak  of  popularity  as  that  wise 
and  understanding  father,  "Judge 
Hardy" — a  series  which  he  has  only 
temporarily  deserted  to  play  the 
last-named  title  role  in  "Joe  and 
Ethel  Turp  Call  on  the  President" 


Newcomers  are  a  dime  a  d< 
these    "discoveries"   of 
still  hold  an  honored  place 


WALLACE  BEERY  never  really  quali- 
fied as  a  matinee  idol — just  look 
how  mean  he's  being  to  Anna  Q. 
Nilsson  in  "The  Love  Burglar"! 
That  was  in  1919,  and  he's  played 
many  brutal,  villainous  roles  since 
that  time,  only  to  become  strongly 
entrenched  in  the  public  heart  as 
their  favorite  soft-hearted  bully! 
Remember  "The  Champ"?  Remem- 
ber the  immortal  rollicking  team  of 
Beery  and  Marie  Dressier,  which 
probably  remains,  for  all  veteran 
cinemalovers,  the  outstanding  team 
of  all  time — bar  none  of  the  more 
sultry  passion-players?  We've  lost 
Marie,  but  Wally  carries  on  in  the 
old  tradition,  his  most  recent  assign- 
ment being  "Arouse  and  Beware" 


ALAN  HALE  rates  a  twenty-one-gun 
salute  as  a  beloved  actor  who  has 
been  an  important  figure  on  the 
screen  for  more  than  twenty  years. 
"The  Price  She  Paid"  ("she"  being 
Clara  Kimball  Young),  which,  ac- 
cording to  a  contemporary  critic, 
"consumed  seven  reels" — and  small 
wonder,  judging  from  these  goings- 
on! — was  one  of  the  first  films  in 
a  career  covering  more  than  110 
pictures  to  date.  Typical  of  his 
long  screen  life  is  the  fact  that 
he  was  "Little  John"  in  both  the 
1922  and  1938  versions  of  "Robin 
Hood" — sixteen  years  apart!  Latest 
of  his  many  historical  movies  was 
"The  Private  Lives  of  Elizabeth  and 
Essex,"  but  at  the  moment  he's  play- 
ing a  more  modern  private  (army 
— not  life)  in  "The  Fighting  69th" 


LIONEL  BARRYMORE  is  the  real 
dean  of  the  screen's  honored  Old 
Guard.  He  made  his  film  debut 
more  than  thirty  years  ago  in  "The 
New  York  Hat,"  which  also  made  a 
star  of  Mary  Pickford.  This  water- 
front scene  in  "Dorian's  Divorce" 
is  a  half-dozen  years  more  recent, 
but  is  typical  of  the  meticulous 
realism  of  those  infant  film  days. 
Despite  the  leer  and  the  presence 
of  Demon  Rum,  Lionel  was  playing  a 
very  noble  hero  indeed,  continued 
to  play  them  for  many  years  after. 
Today,  valiant  despite  illness  and 
trouble,  he's  as  beloved  as  ever, 
particularly  as  the  benign  doctor 
of  the  series  in  which  the  latest 
is    "The    Secret    of    Dr.    Kildare" 


THEIR  FAVORITE  PHOTOGRAPH 


GENE  KORNMAN  has  "developer"  in  his 
blood!  Father  was  a  San  Francisco  pho- 
tographic authority  —  daughter  Mary 
(from  one  of  three  marriages)  was  "Our 
Gang's"  first  leading  "lady."  A  20th 
Century-Fox  artist,  he  did  this  study 
of  Madeleine  Carroll  before  she  went 
to  Paramount — and  the  current  "Safari" 

CLARENCE  BULL  was  spellbound  when 
a  ladder  vanished — via  retouching — 
from  a  snapshot  of  the  Montana  ranch 
where  he  was  born.  He  sold  magazines 
— not  to  get  through  college  (the  U.  of 
Michigan) — but  to  buy  a  camera.  Fif- 
teen years  at  M-G-M,  where  he  posed 
Greer  Garson,  star  of  "Susan  and  God" 


CLIFTON  MAUPIN  calls  this  canine  pair 
"Chalk  and  Charcoal."  Like  Bull,  a 
Westerner  (from  Boulder,  Colorado), 
he  got  a  camera  with  the  first  dollar 
he  earned  and  was  an  amateur  lensman 
at  nine.  Turned  motion  picture  camera- 
man in  1918,  now  specializes  in  stills 
and    color   work   for   20th   Century-Fox 

ROMAN  FREULICH,  a  Deanna  Durbin 
specialist,  chooses  this  fashion  pose  of 
the  star  of  "It's  a  Date."  Born  in  Rus- 
sia, schooled  in  New  York,  he  joined  the 
Canadian  army,  took  to  photography 
while  in  Egypt  with  Allenby— climax- 
ing his  world-wide  career,  appropriately 
enough,    with    Universal    assignments! 


Studies  in  "still"  life 
that  reveal  more  of  the 
real  Hollywood  than  a 
cinema  encyclopedia! 


OS  EN   BY   HOLLYWOOD'S 
/ORITE   PHOTOGRAPHERS 


A.  L  "WHITEY"  SCHAFER    likes    this 
early    study.    Man    behind    the 
whiskers:  Walter  Connolly — who 
doesn't  look   like  this  today  as 
"The    Great   Victor    Herbert"! 
Man  behind  the  lens:    Whitey 
— who  was  born  in  Salt  Lake 
City,   grew   up   in   California 
-   (practically   with   the    movie 
industry),  and   is  now  head 
of  Columbia's  portrait  and 
still    staff.    He'll    tell    you 
still  work's  not  as  peace- 
ful as  it  sounds — since  a 
blast  of  movie  dynamite 
nearly  ended  his  career! 


ED  ESTABROOK  has  done  everyone  from  real 
kings  to  baby  film  queens.  He  did  the  former 
for  the  news  photo  syndicate  he  joined  after 
starting  his  career  at  fifteen  in  hometown 
Worcester,  Mass.  He  does  the  latter  (superb- 
ly— proven  by  his  very  informal  portrait  of 
Sandra  Henville,  star  of  "Little  Accident")  as 
part    of    his    present    big    job    at    Universal 


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The  Wedding:  Our  romance  developed  when  Mrs.  Van 
Hopper  was  taken  ill.  It  was  during  these  weeks  of 
companionship  that  Max  said  he  found  in  me  a 
peace  he  had  thought  was  gone  forever.  He  asked 
me  to   come   with    him   to    Manderley   as   his   wife! 


The  Meeting:  It  was  at  Monte  Carlo,  where  I 
(Joan  Fontaine),  acting  as  companion  to  the 
wealthy  Mrs.  Van  Hopper  (Florence  Bates),  first 
met  Max  de  Winter  (Laurence  Olivier).  His  glam- 
orous wife,  Rebecca,  had  been  drowned  and  gos- 
sip had  it  that  he  couldn't  get  over  her  death 


Manderley's  Ball:  At  Mrs.  Danvers'  suggestion,  I  copied  my  cos- 
tume from  a  family  portrait.  It  was  only  when  I  descended  the 
steps  the  night  of  the  ball,  saw  Max's  horror  and  the  startled 
faces  of  Beatrice  (Gladys  Cooper)  and  Frank  (Reginald  Denny) 
that  I  realized  I  had  been  led  into  a  trap.  I  had  chosen  the 
costume   Rebecca    herself   had  worn   at  the   ball   a   year  ago! 


For  alert  movie-goers,  Photoplay 
sneak  previews  the  year's  most  ex- 
citing best  seller — the  Selznick 
International  production  starring 
Laurence  Olivier  and  Joan  Fontaine 


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Inquest:  Naturally,  there  was  another  investigation — how  it  would  cul- 
minate, none  of  us  knew.  The  formal  inquiry  had  gone  well  but  it 
was  while  we  were  lunching  with  the  police  chief,  Col.  Julyan  (C. 
Aubrey  Smith),  that  Favell  tried  to   blackmail   Max  and   produced  an 


\  Homecoming:  I  felt  a  very 
tward  figure  as  I  stood  before 
i  dour  Mrs.  Danvers  (Judith 
Jerson),  whom  I  was  to  fear 
:greatly,   and  the  servants 


Rebecca's  Ghost:  Seated  at  the  desk  in  the  morning 
room,  I  picked  up  an  address  book  and  dropped  it, 
shocked.  On  the  book  were  the  initials  "R  de  W." 
The  Guest  Book  and  Menu  Book — everything  was  Re- 
becca's and  I  felt  like  an  intruder  in  my  own  home 


Unwelcome  Visitor:  Favell  (George  Sanders),  paying 
a  call  on  Mrs.  Danvers,  forced  an  introduction  to  me, 
Max's  bride.  I  resented  his  slurs  on  Max,  and  his 
familiarity  with  Mrs.  Danvers,  but  an  unknown  fear 
made   me   promise  him   not  to  tell   Max  of  his  visit 


Recriminations:  Back  in  my  own  room,  Mrs.  Danvers  twitted  me  with 
the  fact  that  even  in  the  same  dress  I  couldn't  compare  with  Re- 
becca; that  I  could  never  take  Rebecca's  place.  She  drove  me  almost 
to  the  point  of  suicide,  but  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  taunts, 
an  explosion  shattered  the  air — a  ship  had  gone  aground.  At 
dawn   Frank   brought  word  that   Rebecca's  boat   had   been  found! 


Understanding:  I  found  Max  in  Rebecca's  cottage  by  the  sea. 
He  buried  his  head  in  my  shoulder  and  told  me  that  we  had 
lost  our  chance  for  happiness — that  Rebecca's  body  had  been 
found  in  the  boat;  that  the  one  he  had  identified  so  many 
months  ago  had  not  been  hers  at  all.  The  heartbreaking  story 
that    followed    made    me    realize    at    last    that    he    loved    me 


[he  Doctor:  Incensed  by  Favell's  attitude,  and  in  de- 
ense  of  her  former  mistress,  Mrs.  Danvers  gave  us  a 
:lue  which  took  us  to  a  doctor  Rebecca  had  visited 
J>n  that  fatal  day.     No  one  was  prepared  for  the  in- 


Revenge:  On  leaving  the  doctor's  office,  Favell 
telephoned  Mrs.  Danvers  the  diagnosis  Rebecca 
had  withheld  even  from  her.  Her  mind  unbal- 
anced, she  rushed  to   Rebecca's  room,  deter- 


Happiness  at  Last:  Our  days  are  fraught 
with  a  tranquillity  we  had  not  known  be- 
fore. The  past  is  dead;  the  ghost  of  Re- 
becca laid.    Thus,  Max  and  I  have  found 


a**    -ou <3r 


factor  ^ 


VA^A\^° 


Wi'fA  o  threatened  strike  against  it, 
studio  production  reaches  a  new  low- 
but  the  quality's  high,  as  you  can  see 

BY  JACK  WADE 


THE  biggest  experiment  of  the  month  is 
"Young  Tom  Edison"  down  at  Metro-Gold- 
wyn-Mayer;  and  therefore,  all  pure  re- 
porter, we  saddle  our  white  steed  and  gallop 
over  there  for  the  first  look-see  this  trip  as  we 
cover  the  studios. 

"Young  Tom  Edison"  is  the  first  time  the  story 
of  a  real  man  has  been  filmed  as  two  separate 
movies.  Mickey  Rooney  will  be  Edison  as  a 
boy,  and  later  Spencer  Tracy  will  be  Edison  as 
a  man.  Remember  when  Freddie  Bartholomew 
played  young  David  Copperfield  in  the  first  half 
of  that  film  so  well  that  when  Frank  Lawton  re- 
placed him  as  an  adult  the  movie  fell  apart? 

It's  going  to  be  some  contest  between  Rooney 
and  Tracy;  and  Spence,  despite  his  being,  as 
Gable  says,  "hell-fire  at  the  box  office,"  is  the 


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one  in  the  tough  spot.  For  Mickey's  picture  is 
getting  out  first. 

We  walk  on  the  set  in  the  scene  where  Mickey, 
as  young  Tom,  has  just  come  back  from  a  stolen 
train  ride.  He's  hopped  on  the  train  to  sell  some 
maple-sugar  cakes  he  has  in  his  pocket  and  he's 
so  enthalled  by  his  quick  profits  that  he  is 
literally  carried  away.  When  he  gets  back 
there's  his  father  to  face.  It's  his  father  he's 
facing  as  we  appear. 

The  father,  Samuel  Edison,  is  being  played  by 
George  Bancroft,  and  Tom's  mother,  Mrs.  Edi- 
son, is  Fay  Bainter.  Virginia  Weidler  is  his 
sister,  so  you  can  see  that  the  Rooney  is  neatly 
surrounded  by  experienced  scene  stealers — but 
that  doesn't  disturb  Mickey  any. 

"Notice  anything  different  about  my  looks?" 
he  chirps  as  we  draw  near.  We  don't.  "Can't 
notice  my  character  make-up?"  he  persists.  We 
still  don't.  "Parted  my  hair  from  left  to  right," 
he  grins.  "Genius,  really.  Conscientious  about 
my  roles.  Muni  stuff."  He  takes  a  rumba  step 
to  get  back  into  camera  range,  then  sobers  com- 
pletely as  Norman  Taurog  calls  for  action.  He 
goes  through  the  scene  flawlessly. 

As  Tom,  he  knows  he's  in  the  doghouse  and 
he's  hoping  to  wiggle  his  way  out  of  it.  He 
gives  Bancroft  a  sickly  grin.  "I  think  people 
like  to  buy  things  on  trains,  don't  you,  Father?" 
he  asks. 

"Don't  think  you  can  talk  yourself  out  of  a 
licking,"  says  Bancroft  sternly.  Bancroft's  voice 
stumbles  on  the  word  "licking." 

"Cut,"  says  Director  Taurog. 

They  do  the  scene  again  and  Bancroft  blows 
once  more.  They  do  the  scene  a  third  time  and 
still  Bancroft  doesn't  get  it.  The  veteran  actor 
is  fussed.  Taurog  is  very  patient.  He  calls  for 
a  fourth  take.  This  time  Mickey  blows  it.  "And 
take  number  five,"  says  Mickey  before  Taurog 
can  speak. 

A  look  flashes  around  the  set  but  everybody 
remains  quiet.  Everybody  knows  Mickey  has 
deliberately  fumbled.     The  fifth  take  is  long, 


with  Fay  Bainter  and  Virginia  getting  in  lines, 
too.  It's  perfect,  though,  so  we  creep  out,  while 
they  are  setting  up  the  lights  on  a  new  scene, 
and  go  visit  the  "New  Moon." 

I  HIS  is  the  "reunion  picture"  for  Nelson  Eddy 
and  Jeanette  MacDonald  after  their  unfortunate 
productions  on  their  own.  The  "New  Moon"  is 
one  of  those  romance-and-thunder  operettas 
that  Jeanette  and  Nelson  create  so  persuasively. 
It's  full  of  old  sailing  ships,  Louisiana  planta- 
tions of  the  time  of  1783,  pirates,  a  nobleman 
sold  into  slavery  (that's  Nelson)  and  the  capri- 
cious, arrogant  girl  who  buys  him.  (You  know 
darned  well  that's  Jeanette.) 

We  walk  in  on  the  scene  where  Nelson,  who 
is  really  the  Duke  de  Villiers,  but  who  is  merely 
ordered  around  as  Charles  by  Jeanette,  is  plot- 
ting his  escape.  Nelson  is  as  handsome  a  sight 
as  even  Hedy  Lamarr  could  wish  to  see,  done 
out  in  a  sky-blue  coat  and  tight  white  trousers. 
He  is  going  into  whispered  consultation  with 
Dick  Purcell.  Those  two  are  as  pat  in  their 
lines  as  even  Woody  (One  Take)  Van  Dyke  can 
desire.  What's  stumping  Woody  is  that  he's  got 
two  little  colored  kids  on  the  set  and  that  he's 
having  to  stop  and  teach  them — they're  young 
Los  Angeles  inkspots — a  Southern  accent.  The 
kids  will  say  "New  Orleans"  even  as  you  and 
I  would.  Van  Dyke  takes  them  in  hand.  "It's 
New  Oily  Ans"  he  repeats  over  and  over  to 
them.  "Remember,  kids,  the  town  is  oily  in 
the  middle."  That  kills  the  kids.  Even  Mac- 
Donald,  walking  on  the  stage,  and  looking 
super-gorgeous  in  a  pink  hoop-skirted  evening 
gown,  gets  a  giggle  out  of  it.  Van  is  so  pleased 
he  breaks  into  song,  mocking  Nelson.  It's  to 
the  tune  of  "Boots  and  Saddles"  but  we  can't 
print  the  words  and  send  Photoplay  through 
the  mails  so  we  beat  it  for  the  "Strange  Cargo" 
troupe,  which  is  not  only  Gable  and  Crawford, 
but  also  Paul  Lukas,  Ian  Hunter,  J.  Edward 
Bromberg,  Peter  Lorre,  Albert  Dekker,  Eduardo 
Ciannelli,  and  John  Arledge. 


They  are  all  on  the  set  as  we  mosey  in  and  a 
worse  looking  crew  you  never  lamped.  They 
are  escaping  from  the  jungle.  They  have  one 
small  boat  and  Crawford  between  them.  The 
idea  is  that  the  men  are  escaping  convicts. 
Crawford  is  a  babe  from  the  streets  whom  Gable 
has  picked  up  and  dragged  along,  and  love  is 
beginning  to  gnaw  them.  You  practically  can't 
see  What-a-Man  Gable  behind  the  three  days' 
growth  of  beard  he's  sporting.  His  clothes,  like 
all  the  men's,  are  in  tatters.  So  are  Joan's, 
which  lets  us  see  quite  a  lot  of  Joan,  and  very 
nice,  too.  Crawford  is  really  giving  this  role 
the  business.  She's  doing  it  without  make-up 
and  with  bedraggled  hair.  It  will  be  interest- 
ing to  see  what  that  means  for  her.  The  big 
thought  behind  the  plot  is  that  the  whole  lot 
of  them  get  religion,  but  Gable  gets  Crawford, 
too,  the  lucky  stiff. 

We  watch  just  one  scene.  Albert  Dekker  and 
Gable  are  fighting  over  a  knife  Gable  has. 
When  the  scene  is  finished,  Gable  strolls  by.  "I 
may  get  the  knife  but  Dekker  will  get  the  pic- 
ture," says  Clark.  "That's  one  honey  of  an 
actor,  my  friend." 

Such  competition  being  too  tough  for  us,  we 
take  a  prowl  over  on  "The  Shop  Around  the 
Corner."  This  is  a  Lubitsch  production  star- 
ring Margaret  Sullavan  and  Jimmy  Stewart.  I 
walk  in  on  a  Christmas  Eve  scene.  Jimmy  is 
just  being  fired  from  his  job  because  Margaret 
Sullavan's  come  in  and  swiped  it.  Like  all 
Lubitsch  pictures,  this  has  a  foreign  setting — 
Hungarian,  this  time — and  Jimmy  and  Maggie 
have  one  of  those  love  stories  wherein  the  girl 
and  boy  quarrel  all  the  time  until  they  find  out 
they  are  meant  for  each  other  despite  the  fire- 
works. 

Stewart  and  Sullavan  are  such  good  actors 
that  they  go  through  the  firing  scene  without 
a  hitch.  Jimmy  has  all  the  lines,  with  Maggie 
merely  looking  on  with  those  big  eyes  of  hers. 
But  knowing  how  she  hates  the  press,  I  beat  it 
(Continued  on  page  11) 


47 


Jeanie  with  the  Light  Brown  Hair 


One  of  the  loveliest  songs  of  all  time  is 
"Jeanie  with  the  Light  Brown  Hair,"  com- 
posed by  Stephen  Foster  and  dedicated  to 
his  wife,  Jane,  who  inspired  it.  In  "Swanee 
River,"  the  life  story  of  Foster  which  was 
recently  released  by  20th  Century-Fox,  Don 
Ameche  portrays  the  role  of  the  composer 
with  brown-haired  Andrea  Leeds  as  his  wife 


Arr.  by 
LARRY  CLINTON 


Larry  Clinton,  famed  orchestra  leader  and 
composer,  wrote  this  modern  arrangement  of 
Stephen  Foster's  beautiful  love  song— sung 
in  20th  Century-Fox's  "Swanee  River"— for 
our  readers  to  play  and  sing  at  home.  Be 
sure  to  tune  in  when  it  is  played  on  the  Sen- 
sation Cigarette  radio  program  on  Monday 
night,  January  I  5,  on  the  NBC-Red  network 


Song  by 
FC 


STEPHEN  C.  FOSTER 


j .J  J  J  ir  e=g 


J   i J     bJ^  I- 


^n 


Hap-py     as   the 


m 


dai-sies  that  dance 


her 


i 


^^ 


W 


f 


ry 


rr 


wild       notes  her 


mer-  ry  voice  would 


Man-y  were  the    blithe  birds     that 


war  -  bled  them 


*      f»      |»      |*^==g 


fei 


£e 


^i 


i 


f 


m 


m 


bs?" 


o'er.       I 


rr 


^ 


Jean-ie   with  the 


dream 


of 


light         brown 


te 


mm 


^^= 


m 


t 


n^T 


¥ 


I 
vis  -    ion      on      the 


soft 


*  f  f  ? 


sum   -    mer 


air. 


m 


m 


^=£ 


* 


^ 


IT 


Photoplay  arrangement. 


Copyright  1939  by  Larry  Clinton,  New  York 


These  fashion  pages  were  designed  for  those 
who  plan  to  play  in  the  sun  this  winter- 
however,  if  you  must  "stay-at-home"  you, 
too,  will  find,  the  clothes  exciting,  for  in  them 
you  will  see  advance  trends  of  your  1940 
sunshine  clothes  to  come.  A  white  suit  is  a 
must  in  every  sunshine  wardrobe.  Mad- 
eleine Carroll  wears  this  one  designed  by 
Edith  Head  in  Paramount's  "Safari."  Tai- 
lored along  dressmaker  lines,  it  is  of  heavy 
non-crush  linen  with  a  flared  skirt  and  a  one- 
button  jacket  that  has  a  nipped-in  waistline. 
The  shirt  is  of  navy  Irish  linen  embroidered 
in  stripes  of  white— the  hat  is  a  casual  white 
panama  with  fringed  grosgrain  trim— the 
long   slip-on   gloves  are  of  softest  doeskin 


I 


I 


■ 


I 


Q&K" 


FOR  SPORTS 

THAT  WHET  THE  APPETITE 

AND  START  THE  DAY  RIGHT 


Yesterday's  girl  (above)  went  a'bicycling 
in  togs  like  this!  Mary  Martin  wears  an 
authentic  period  costume  designed  by  Edith 
Head  in  Paramount's  "The  Great  Victor 
Herbert."  The  1900  divided  skirt  is  of 
navy  spun  rayon  and  wool* — the  shirt- 
waist with  leg  o'mutton  sleeves  of  navy 
and  white  striped  rayon  taffeta*.  This 
quaint  'cycling  costume  has  been  adapted 
into  a  three-piece  1940  model  and  is  fea- 
tured in  sharkskin*.  Approximately  $  I  1 .00  at 
Bloomingdale's,  New  York;  J.  L.  Hudson, 
Detroit;  Carson  Pirie  Scott  &  Co.,  Chicago 


Mary  also  poses  in  a  hooded  bicycling  rayon 
sharkskin*  culotte  (right)  especially  designed 
for  her  personal  wardrobe  by  Edith  Head. 
The  stark  white  of  the  skirt  and  jacket  is 
contrasted  by  the  blouse  and  trim,  which 
are  of  red  and  white  stripes  in  spun  rayon* 

*Cr<mn  Tested 


50 


V 


Jean  Parker  dresses  at  twilight  for 
dinner  guests  in  a  white  waffle  pique 
apron  evening  gown  that  is  exqui- 
sitely hand  -  embroidered  in  multi- 
colored yarns — jeweled  centers  high- 
light the  floral  pattern.  The  gown, 
priced  at  $22.95,  was  created  by 
Patricia  Perkins.  Jean,  who  is  cur- 
rently filming  "And  So  Goodbye"  for 
RKO-Radio,  will  soon  be  seen  in  Par- 
amount's    "Knights    of    the    Range" 

//  you  would  like  to  know  the  name  of  the  shop 
in  your  vicinity  that  carries  the  fashions  shown 
on  these  paries  -write  to  Fashion  Secretary,  Pho- 
toplay, 122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  City,  N.  Y. 


Jean  dabbles  her  feet  in  the  water 
while  chatting  with  Fred  Shiller, 
author  of  the  original  story  and 
screen  play  of  RKO's  "Flying 
Deuces,"  in  which  Jean  appeared. 
Jean  wears  white  pleated  sharkskin 
gabardine  jumper  shorts*  over  a 
gayly  striped  seersucker  blouse. 
The  "Mexi-Coolee"  shoes  beside 
her  are  of  white  elk.  Blouse:  $2.95. 
Shorts:  $4.95.  Mexi-Coolees:  $5.50 


"Check  Mate,"  Jean's  three-piece  chic- 
check  cotton  play  dress*  is  of  red  and 
white  with  red  contrast  trim  on  the 
pockets  of  the  blouse  and  skirt,  and 
red  buttons.  The  red  and  white  color 
theme  is  repeated  in  the  Moccasin  capers 
that  are  smartly  named  "Cricket."  Play 
dress:  $12.95.    Moccasin  capers:  $5.95 


I   ts 


m 


YESTERDAY'S 


--* 


/ 


>+*€> 


WS> 


m 


*W* 


W:fyj$l4Q 


Jfe 


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lit1 


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J  '* 


chanting  in  this  adaptation   -1 
it  O'Hara's  "Barbeque  Dress" 
jjhuel  Chapman.  Of  white-ground,  flower- 

ttfj'gged  seersucker,  its  flattering  decol- 
ge  ik  outlined  by  a  deep  white  Ham- 
3  ruffle  beaded  in  black  velvet  baby 
abon.  Ann  Rutherford,  who  models  it  so 
larmingly,  will  next  be  seen  in  Selznick 
ternational's  "Gone  with  the  Wind." 
ie  May  Company,  Los  Angeles,  California 


9c/;. 


*>'*£'*<* 


t>eLsu, 


3'*$ 


/>> 


tew  * 


4 


AN 


iv*v 


*^**  > 


Sb.fc'^#- 


*&J 


a 


"^    ~^:    ^BY  -***"- 


TOMORROW'S 


is  expressed  in  this  grey  net  Kalmour 
formal,  with  its  soft  bodice,  tiny  cep 
sleeves  and  flowing  skirt  all  appliqued 
with  giant  silvery  cellophane  circles. 
Anita  Louise,  its  beautiful  wearer, 
will  next  be  seen  in  RKO-Radio's 
"Reno."  $45.00  at  Best  &  Co.,  New 
York    and    Neiman    Marcus,    Dallas 


/ 


n 


■ 


m 


1 


ie      o#  . -,  *<\    a^6    eHS 


.TENN 


Brenda  Joyce,  appearing  in  the  20th 
Century-Fox  production  "Little  Old 
New  York,"  selects  a  two-piece  ten- 
nis dress  for  her  favorite  sport. 
The  skirt,  which  flares  by  means 
of  numerous  umbrella-tucked  gores, 
is  worn  over  brief  matching  shorts. 
The  bra,  with  sleeves  cut  for  com- 
fort, ties  in  a  double  knot.  White 
"Tiger  sharkskin"  is  the  material 
used  by  Irene  Bury,  who  designed 
the  dress.     Bonwit  Teller,   New  York 


If    you    would    like    further    inf. 
about  tlu-  tennis  ,. 

/,>  Fashion  Secretary,  Photoplay,  J.V  East 
42nd  Street,  New  Vorh   I 


*c 


Parasols,  like  sunbonnets  are  1940 
fashion  darlings.  Ellen's,  of  blue 
and  white  chambray,  matches  the 
peasant  skirt  of  her  Duchess  of 
Windsor  frock  that  is  topped  with 
a  tailored  crepe  blouse  from  Mc- 
Mullen,  the  dress  around  $17.00; 
the  parasol  under  $5.00,  both  at 
Saks  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York, 
Chicago    and    Beverly    Hills 


NG 


This  so-washable,  so-lovable  fabric  is  leader  in 
resort  play  clothes.  Ellen  Drew,  appearing  in 
Paramount's  "Buck  Benny  Rides  Again,"  poses  in 
models  destined  for  winter  resort  and  summer 
fashion  leadership.  Ellen's  blue  chambray  pina- 
fore dress  from  McMullen  (center)  has  a  blue  and 
white  striped  pinafore  of  the  same  fabric,  around 
$20.00  at  Saks  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  Chicago 
and  Beverly  Hills.  A  piquant  sunbonnet  (right) 
matches  Ellen's  romper  and  pinafore  playsuit  of 
red  and  white  striped  cotton  Russian  cord  from 
Florence  Gainor.  The  playsuit  around  $12.95;  the 
sunbonnet  around  $3.00,  at  Macy's,  New  York; 
Florence  Tarrson,  Chicago;  I.  Magnin,  Los  Angeles 


GOSSIP    OF    HOLLYWOOD 


*\ 


*K 


—   of  this  month's  chorus  of  chatter — 

et  by  Ty  Power,  Claudette  Colbert, 

Annabella,  and  Gary  Cooper  at  the  Beverly-Wilshire 


PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY      HYMAN      FINK 


Put  your  earphones  to  our  under- 
ground wire  service  and  listen  to 
the    stories    the    stars    are    telling! 

That  Lady  Known  as  Luck 

NOT  so  long  ago,  big  festivities  at  20th  Century- 
Fox  celebrated  completion  of  Producer  Sol 
Wurtzel's  twenty-fifth  year  with  the  company, 
a  truly  fabulous  record  in  the  annals  of  the  pic- 
ture industry  where  "here  today,  gone  tomor- 
row" has  been  all  too  woefully  true  throughout 
the  business. 

When  we  asked  Sol  the  secret  of  his  success, 
he  grinned  and  said  it  was  due,  more  than  any- 
thing else,  to  a  little  word,  beginning  with  '"1" — 
luck:  Then  he  illustrated  his  point  with  a 
story. 

Seems  that  back  in  the  very  early  part  of  1917, 
when  he'd  been  with  the  old  Fox  company  less 
than  three  years,  he  was  assigned  to  produce  a 
war  picture.     It  was  his  big  chance.     He  was 


to  have  a  free  hand — with  only  one  qualification. 
Said  picture  was  to  be  strictly  neutral. 

"Don't  make  it  either  pro-Ally,  or  pro-Ger- 
man.   Steer  a  middle  course,"  he  was  told. 

Well,  Sol,  like  most  other  Americans,  was  ex- 
tremely pro-Ally  in  his  sympathies,  and  so,  he 
says,  he  just  couldn't  seem  to  help  putting  Ger- 
man uniforms  on  the  double-dyed  villains  in 
the  piece,  British  and  French  uniforms  on  the 
heroes,  and  also  inserting  certain  other  touches 
which  made  the  picture  when  finished  resem- 
ble a  product  of  the  British  propaganda  depart- 
ment. 

Result:  When  the  big  boss  saw  it,  he  was  furi- 
ous. He  ordered  the  film  shelved  and  was  about 
to  fire  Sol  when  Something  Happened!  United 
States  declared  war  on  Germany  .  .  .  Which, 
of  course,  made  everything  all  right. 


Last  Laugh 

ALTHOUGH  accustomed  to  seeing  audiences 
laugh  at  his  comic  roles  on  the  screen,  Edgar 
Kennedy  is  a  "straight"  man  in  private  life. 
Therefore,  as  he  drove  his  car  along  Hollywood 
Boulevard  the  other  day,  he  was  somewhat  puz- 
zled, to  say  nothing  of  embarrassed,  to  see  peo- 
ple point  to  his  car  and  laugh.    When  he  arrived 


home,  he  gave  the  car  the  once-over — and  had  a 
laugh  himself.     For  attached  to  the  rear  was  a 
sign  that  said,  "BLONDE  WANTED!" 
His  young  son,  Larry,  had  put  it  there. 


Discovery 

SAMUEL  GOLDWYN'S  latest  discovery  is  a 
likable,  quiet  young  chap  named  Dana  Andrews. 
He's  been  under  contract  to  Goldwyn  for  about 
six  months  now,  and  while  he  hasn't  appeared 
in  a  picture  he's  been  getting  some  fundamental 
training  in  Little  Theater  plays.  Now  when 
Sam  signs  anyone  to  a  contract  he  thinks  of 
everything.  That's  why  there  is  a  clause  in 
Dana's  that  requires  Goldwyn's  consent  to  his 
marriage— and  thereby  hangs  this  tale.  It  ap- 
pears that  Dana  had  been  engaged  for  some 
time  and  that  the  young  lady  had  finally  set 
the  day.  All  preparations  were  going  merrily 
forward  for  a  formal  wedding — and  so  it  was  up 
to  Dana  to  corner  his  boss  and  get  the  Deeded 
permission.  But,  as  it  turned  out.  that  wasn't 
so  easy.  Goldwyn  was  busy  preparing  for  "The 
Westerner,"  Gary  Cooper's  latest.  There  were 
tests  to  see  and  scripts  to  okay  and  Dana  just 
couldn't  seem  to  catch  the  boss  at  a  free  time, 
to  speak  his  carefully  rehearsed  speech.     Then 


59 


Talked-about  twosome  .  .  .  smiling  sphinx  in  a  gay  bonnet 
. . .  Norma  Shearer  with  Geo.  Raft  at  the  Beverly-Wilshire 


Chaperoned  by  her  brother,  Sonja  Henie  dines  at  the  Victor  Hugo  with 
Alan  Curtis  (whose  marital  mix-up  has  been  making  headlines  lately) 


came  the  projection  room  fire  when  the  whole 
lot  turned  out  to  see  the  blaze,  Mr.  Goldwyn 
included.  Seeing  the  Boss,  Dana  elbowed  his 
way  through  the  crowd  and  got  within  shouting 
distance. 

"You  wanted  to  see  me,  Dana,"  Goldwyn 
shouted  as  he  saw  the  lad  coming  towards  him, 
"what  for?" 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  something,"  Dana 
shouted  back  hoping  for  privacy. 

"Well,  ask  me  now,"  boomed  Sam.  And  so, 
throwing  his  speech  to  the  winds,  Dana  shouted 
back: 

"I  want  to  get  married!" 

"Oh,"  grinned  Sam  as  he  called  back,  "That's 
O.K. — go  ahead!"  And  Dana  went  beaming  on 
his  way.  But,  he  beamed  too  soon,  for  shortly 
thereafter  Goldwyn  decided  to  have  Dana  start 


his  picture  career  with  Gary  and  orders  went 
out  for  him  to  stop  shaving.  He  was  to  grow  a 
beard  for  the  part! 

"And  there  I  was,"  moaned  Dana  to  us,  "with 
a  week's  growth  of  beard  and  a  formal  wedding 
at  hand — there  was  only  one  thing  left  to  do — 
we  made  the  ceremony  informal.  I  just  couldn't 
show  up  looking  like  that." 

The  honeymoon?  Well,  it  may  have  to  be  a 
location  trip  to  Arizona. 


Villain  Unmasked 

I  HE  colored  servant  of  a  Westwood  household, 
up  for  rent,  reported  to  his  mistress  who  had 
been  away  for  the  day,  that  two  people  had  been 
there  to  see  about  renting  the  house. 


"I  know,"  said  the  mistress.  "It  was  a  Miss 
Vivien  Leigh  who  wants  a  house  for  a  few 
months.  And  what  do  you  think  of  Scarlett 
O'Hara?" 

"Oh,  she  wasn't  so  bad,"  was  the  reply.  "I 
guess  she'll  look  all  right  on  the  screen." 

"And  her  friend,  Mr.  Olivier,  who  was  with 
her?     What  did  you  think  of  him?" 

"Never  saw  that  little  man  before,"  was  the 
reply. 

"Why,"  said  the  mistress,  "I  thought  you  saw 
'Wuthering  Heights.'  " 

The  colored  boy  emitted  a  howl.  "Him.  That 
little  man  Heathcliff.  Oh  no,  that  couldn't  be 
Heathcliff.  Why,  I  declare  he  didn't  even  scare 
me  for  a  minute  while  he  was  here.  And  what's 
more  I  never  seen  such  baggy  pants  on  a  man. 
Him  Heathcliff!" 


One  last  Brown  Derby  picture  of  the  late,  beloved  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Senior — left  to  right,  Reginald  Gardiner;  Mr.  Blecke; 
Charlie  Chaplin;  Mrs.  Blecke  (Sylvia's  sister);  Paulette  Goddard;  Sylvia  Fairbanks;  Doug;  Alexander  Korda,  and  Merle  Oberon, 
director  and  co-star  of  "The   Private  Life  of  Don  Juan"  (1935),   Doug's  last  motion  picture  in  a   never-to-be-forgotten  career 


r 


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m* 


\< 


First  time  Fink  ever  snapped  Gene  Autry  in  a  tux! 
At   a    Biltmore    Bowl    charity    affair,    with    his    wife 


Safety  First 

IT  was  an  off  day  for  the  "Strange  Cargo"  cast 
on  location  at  Pismo  Beach,  a  small  seacoast 
town  above  Santa  Barbara,  California,  and 
loathing  inactivity  like  a  snail  hates  pace,  Gable 
gathered  together  members  of  the  crew  and 
challenged  the  girls'  softball  team  from  a  near- 
by high  school  for  a  match. 

Well,  it  was  a  bit  of  something  as  you  can 
imagine  with  Di  Maggio  Gable  holding  down 
first  base  and  Joan  Crawford  rooting  for  the 
girls  from  the  side  lines. 

It  became  pretty  obvious  that  the  girls  didn't 
make  much  effort  to  get  past  first  base,  but 
finally  one  cute  blonde  struck  the  ball  a  wallop 
and  slid  for  first  base.  Gable  caught  the  ball 
from  the  pitcher  a  second  after  the  blonde  hit 
the  base. 

"You're  safe,"  the  umpire  cried. 

From  the  side  lines  came  the  moan  of  a  cute 
onlooker. 

"Yeah,  that's  us  all  right.  Safe  even  with 
Gable  around." 


9'ves 


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nexi. 


issUe 


sess  a  charge  account!  This  is  the  way  it  works. 
When  Barbara  is  in  Hollywood,  she  lives  in  a 
big  apartment  house  not  far  from  Hollywood 
Boulevard.  Naturally,  she  is  very  busy  when 
she  is  making  a  picture,  and  Snooker  has  to 
watch  out  for  himself,  pretty  much.  When  he 
gets  hungry  and  Barbara  isn't  there  to  give  him 
his  meals,  he  knows  exactly  what  to  do.  He 
hies  himself  to  a  certain  near-by  delicatessen, 
and — "Sniff!  Sniff!" — tells  the  delicatessen  man 
he  wants  his  dinner!  He  gets  it  pronto  and  the 
delicatessen  man  mails  Barbara  the  bill! 

(Continued  on  page  81) 


Hard-boiled    director? 


To  Love  and  Cherish 

WHEN  the  town  recovered  from  the  surprise  of 
Wally  Beery  adopting  an  eight-months-old  baby 
girl  instead  of  a  child  Carol  Ann's  age,  it  re- 
membered that  Wally  had  already  proven  him- 
self one  of  the  best  mothers  in  the  village. 

When  Carol  Ann  came  to  the  Beery  home  she 
was  just  a  baby  herself  and  Beery  stepped  right 
into  the  mother  role  as  easily  as  a  duck  takes 
to  water. 

Everywhere  Beery  went,  Carol  Ann  went.  It 
was  a  familiar  sight  in  the  studio  with  Carol 
Ann  on  one  arm  and  a  basket  of  diapers  on  the 
other. 

"Why,  I  went  all  over  Europe  with  Carol  Ann 
in  a  basket  on  my  arm.  And  I  took  care  of  her 
myself,"  he  says  proudly. 

He  did  too  and  well,  spending  his  evenings  in 
the  nursery  cutting  out  lace  curtain  dresses  for 
dolls  and  later  supervising  Carol  Ann's  school 
work  and  helping  her  select  her  clothes.  In  fact, 
Wally  was  called  the  best  mother  in  town,  and 
now  the  two,  lonely  since  his  wife's  divorce, 
have  taken  on  another  baby  to  love  and  cherish. 

"Carol  Ann  felt  she'd  belong  to  us  more  if 
we  brought  her  up  from  babyhood  ourselves," 
Wally  explains. 


Scene:  Cocoanut  Grove. 
Cast:  Richard  Greene  and 
Virginia  Field.  Plot:  Early 
wedding  plans  being  made? 


Canine  Credit 

BARBARA  O'NEILL'S  Scotty,  Snooker,  has  the 
distinction  of  being  the  only  dog  known  to  pos- 


*  GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS-Fleischer-Paramount 

KlDS  and  adults  for  over  two  hundred  years  have 
jumped  up  and  down  over  the  adventures  of  Lemuel 
Gulliver  in  the  Kingdom  of  Lilliput — and  now  here 
it  all  is,  as  wonderful  as  ever,  in  the  animated  color 
cartoons  of  Max  Fleischer.  Nothing  of  Jonathan 
Swift's  subtle  satire  has  been  lost  in  the  transition, 
and  you  should  have  a  fine  time  watching  Gabby, 
King  Little,  King  Bombo,  Prince  David  and  Princess 
Glory.  Naturally  their  lives  are  somewhat  compli- 
cated by  the  presence  of  a  man  so  much  bigger  than 
they  are.  Especially  entrancing  are  the  detailed 
mechanics  of  the  tiny  Lilliputians  when  they  set  to 
work  to  lift  the  unconscious  giant.  The  music  must 
have  special  mention,  too,  with  sweet  tunes  linger- 
ing in  your  ears  as  you  leave  the  theater. 


*  WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE-Warners 

JAMES  HILTON'S  novel  has  been  made  into  a 
picture  without  any  compromise  to  the  public  taste; 
it  depends  on  your  frame  of  mind  whether  or  not  it 
entertains  you.  It  has  fine  production,  direction  and 
acting.  The  story  is  about  a  doctor  in  a  small  Eng- 
lish town;  he  has  a  little  boy  and  a  domineering 
wife.  A  young  Austrian  girl,  a  patient,  enters  the 
household  as  a  governess  and  on  the  night  the  doc- 
tor tries  to  smuggle  her  out  of  the  country,  to  pre- 
vent her  being  held  as  an  enemy  alien,  his  wife  takes 
the  wrong  medicine  and  dies.  Whereupon  the  girl 
and  the  man  are  caught  and  tried  for  murder.  Paul 
Muni  is  the  doctor.  Flora  Robson  his  wife,  Raymond 
Severn  the  son,  and  Jane  Bryan  the  girl.  Miss 
Bryan  is  amazingly  good. 


GUIDE     TO 


PICTURE 


•  GONE  WITH  THE  WIND— Selznick-M-G-M  *  THE  GREAT  VICTOR  HERBERT-Paramount 


I  HE  picture  you've  talked  about  and  cast  and  fought 
over  since  1937  is  here  ready  for  your  inspection. 
These  are  the  important  things  about  GWTW:  First, 
it  is  epic  entertainment;  second,  it  is  as  if  the  char- 
acters of  Margaret  Mitchell's  book  had  come  to  life 
speaking  the  dialogue  Miss  Mitchell  wrote.  Cer- 
tainly no  one  can  complain  of  infidelity  to  the  orig- 
inal story.  Scarlett,  played,  of  course,  by  Vivien 
Leigh,  is  the  same  vital,  stupid,  selfish,  pathetic  girl 
whose  valiant  fight  to  survive  the  death  of  the  Old 
South  you  followed  so  breathlessly  in  the  book. 
She  gives  a  truly  magnificent  performance.  Clark 
Gable  has  only  to  be  himself,  so  perfectly  cast  he  is 
as  Rhett  Butler.  These  two  carry  the  burden  of  es- 
sential emotion  from  the  time  of  their  meeting  at 
Twelve  Oaks,  through  the  fall  of  the  Confederacy,  to 
the  denouement  after  the  cruel  Reconstruction. 
Olivia  de  Havilland  has  done  the  finest  job  of  her 
career,  as  the  sweet,  gentle  Melanie.  Leslie  Howard 
as  Ashley  fulfills  expectations.  To  be  honest,  this  is 
far  too  much  picture  to  review  adequately  in  less 
than  several  pages,  with  the  brilliant  cast  itself  too 
large  to  discuss  in  this  space.  Suffice  it  that  you 
may  expect  to  find  your  favorite  novel  brought  to 
colorful,  indeed  overwhelming  life  in  some  of  the 
finest  Technicolor  ever  to  tint  the  screen.  Every 
spectacle,  every  emotional  climax  is  faithfully  re- 
produced. The  characters  come  and  go,  leaving  you 
somewhat  fatigued  by  the  most  fabulous  cinema 
pageant  Hollywood  has  produced  in  its  time.  It  was 
a  titanic  effort  and  in  our  opinion  a  successful  one. 


I  HERE  probably  isn't  anyone  in  America  who 
doesn't  like  Victor  Herbert's  sweet,  lyric  music — 
and  for  those  who  have  a  real  crush  on  him,  this 
pretty  picture  represents  a  fine  Christmas  present. 
The  title  may  make  you  believe  the  piece  is  a  biog- 
raphy, but  it  isn't;  Herbert,  played  by  Walter  Con- 
nolly, is  just  a  background  character  and  there  is 
no  attempt  to  tell  the  authentic  story  of  his  life. 
His  songs  are  sufficient,  sung  as  they  are  by  new 
star  Mary  Martin,  Allan  Jones  and  young  Susanna 
Foster,  who  also  debuts  here.  Miss  Martin  is  a  nat- 
ural. She  looks  somewhat  like  Claudette  Colbert, 
with  a  touch  of  Ruby  Keeler  thrown  in,  and  in 
addition.  Miss  Martin  has  a  gorgeous  voice.  She 
plays  a  small-town  girl,  engaged  to  Doctor  Lee  Bow- 
man and  she  comes  to  New  York  to  sing.  The  great 
Victor  will  not  see  her  but  she  meets  Allan  Jones, 
Herbert's  egotistic  star,  who  gets  her  a  break.  He 
goes  further  than  that;  he  marries  the  girl.  Mary 
becomes  a  star,  outshining  Allan,  who  goes  to  pieces 
because  of  it.  So  Mary  retires  in  order  to  give  him 
a  chance  to  come  back — a  chance  he  muffs.  It  is,  in 
the  end,  their  young  daughter,  Susanna,  who  saves 
everything  in  a  surprise  climax.  The  child  is  attrac- 
tive and  has  a  really  good  voice,  which  will  be  better 
for  more  extensive  training.  Connolly  does  an  ex- 
cellent job,  Jones  has  never  been  in  better  voice  or 
acting  fettle,  and  Jerome  Cowan  supports  well  as  an 
agent.  The  whole  film  is  chock-full  of  the  Herbert 
music,  easily  worked  into  the  running  sequence  of 
action. 


*  OF  MICE  AND  MEN-Hal  Roach-U.  A. 

I  HE  morbid,  infinitely  pathetic  story  of  big,  half- 
witted Lennie  and  his  little  mouse  comes  to  the 
screen  somewhat  sissified  as  to  dialogue  but  none- 
theless gripping  for  the  censorship.  Goodness  knows, 
it  could  not  have  been  an  easy  task  to  take  John 
Steinbeck's  wormwood-and-sugar  and  get  it  on  cel- 
luloid in  a  form  palatable  to  the  average  theater- 
goer. Hal  Roach,  director  of  comedies,  has  some- 
how managed  it.  He  cast  Burgess  Meredith  as 
George,  and  Lon  Chaney,  Jr.  as  Lennie,  his  pal — 
For  those  of  you  who  missed  the  book:  Lennie  and 
George  are  a  pair  of  wandering  workers  who  hire 
out  on  ranches  in  the  west.  Lennie  isn't  bright  but 
he  has  fantastic  strength  and  a  heart  like  May  Rob- 
son's.  He  gets  a  sensual  pleasure  from  touching 
soft  things,  and  if  frightened  at  all,  simply  grabs 
hold  and  can't  let  go.  Now  then,  Lennie  and 
George  have  planned  to  save  up  and  buy  a  little 
rabbit  ranch,  and  they  are  just  in  sight  of  their  goal 
when  Leiuiie  decides  he  wants  to  feel  the  soft  red 
dress  of  Betty  Field,  who's  married  to  the  son  of  the 
ranch  owner.  Well,  she  deserves  what  she  gets,  any- 
how, making  up  to  the  poor  half-wit  the  way  she 
does  and  then  frightening  him  by  screaming  when 
he  strokes  her.  .  .  You  see  Lennie  can't  even  keep 
a  pet  mouse  because  he  forgets  and  breaks  them  in 
two  every  once  in  awhile.  The  entire  piece  is  done 
with  feeling  and  sympathy;  and  in  addition  to  the 
fine  star  performances,  Charles  Bickford  and  Bob 
Steele  do  excellent  work.  It  will  wear  you  out 
emotionally,  but  it's  worth  it. 


62 


GERONIMO!-Paramount 

UERONIMO,  you  may  remember  from  your  Amer- 
ican history  classes,  was  an  Apache  Indian  Chief 
who  raised  particular  hell  quite  some  time  ago  and 
had  to  be  sat  on  by  the  U.  S.  Army.  There  isn't  much 
personal  story  but  you'll  see  a  riot  of  action.  The 
Indian  fights  are  bang-up.  Bill  Henry  plays  a  young 
West  Pointer  who  goes  West  to  serve  under  his 
father,  a  general.  That's  Ralph  Morgan,  and  it's  a 
mean  character.  Preston  Foster  is  the  cynical  cap- 
tain who  helps  the  frightened  young  man  survive. 
Chief  Thundercloud  is  Geronimo,  a  brilliant  piece  of 
casting;  and  Gene  Lockhart  has  one  of  his  traitor- 
and-renegade  parts,  at  which  he  excels.  Ellen  Drew, 
Marjorie  Gateson  and  Kitty  Kelly  have  bits.  The 
film  boasts  a  feeling  of  authenticity. 


FOUR  WIVES-Warners 

I  HOSE  four  girls — Priscilla,  Lola  and  Rosemary 
Lane,  and  Gale  Page — are  back  on  film  again,  but 
still  buried  under  emotional  crises.  This  is  a  sweet 
picture,  but  it  isn't  as  good  as  "Four  Daughters." 
They  are  all  married  now,  although  Priscilla  is  John 
Garfield's  widow;  and  she  is  carrying  his  baby.  Dis- 
covery of  her  condition  makes  her  as  neurotic  as 
anything  and  poor  Jeffrey  Lynn,  to  whom  she's  en- 
gaged, has  an  awful  time.  Eddie  Albert  is  cast  as  the 
doctor  Rosemary  wants  for  her  very  own.  The  out- 
standing impression  you  will  get  from  the  piece  will 
have  to  do  with  maternity.  All  the  original  cast  is 
present,  even  the  ghost  of  Garfield.  May  Robson 
plays  Grandma:  Claude  Rains  is  papa  again;  Frank 
McHugh  and  Dick  Foran,  husbands. 


*  GREEN  HELL— Universal 

I  HE  Matta  Grosse  district  of  South  America  is  the 
dangerous  background  for  this  dramatic  adventure 
story.  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr.  leads  an  expedition 
to  hunt  for  ancient  Inca  treasure  and  one  of  the  men. 
Vincent  Price,  is  shot  with  a  poisoned  Indian  arrow. 
By  the  time  his  wife,  Joan  Bennett,  is  sent  for  and 
arrives  Price  is  dead;  whereupon  the  entire  camp  is 
upset.  Friends  become  enemies,  beards  are  scraped 
off  and  strong  men  spend  their  time  picking  orchids. 
Of  course  the  romantic  denouement  brings  Joan  and 
young  Doug  together,  but  only  after  the  most  haz- 
ardous time  you  can  possibly  imagine.  The  pace  is 
rapid  and  George  Bancroft,  Alan  Hale,  John  Howard 
and  George  Sanders  are  the  superb  acting  names 
you'll  also  enjoy.    Bring  smelling  salts. 


SAVESYOUR     PICTURE 


E     AND     MONEY 


THE    BEST   PICTURES   OF  THE   MONTH 

Gulliver's  Travels 

We  Are  Not  Alone 

Gone  with  the  Wind 

The  Great  Victor  Herbert 

Of  Mice  and  Men 

Green  Hell 

The  Light  That  Failed 

His  Girl  Friday 

Destry  Rides  Again 

Two  Thoroughbreds 

Day-Time  Wife 

Harvest 

BEST    PERFORMANCES    OF   THE    MONTH 

Max  Fleischer  for  "Gulliver's  Travels" 

Jane  Bryan  in  "We  Are  Not  Alone" 

Paul  Muni  in  "We  Are  Not  Alone" 

Vivien  Leigh  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind" 

Clark  Gable  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind" 

Olivia  de  Havilland  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind" 

Mary  Martin  in  "The  Great  Victor  Herbert" 

Allan  Jones  in  "The  Great  Victor  Herbert" 

Susanna  Foster  in  "The  Great  Victor  Herbert" 

Burgess  Meredith  in  "Of  Mice  and  Men" 

Lon  Chaney,  Jr.,  in  "Of  Mice  and  Men" 

Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr.,  in  "Green  Hell" 

Joan  Bennett  in  "Green  Hell" 

Ronald  Colman  in  "The  Light  That  Failed" 

Walter  Huston  in   "The  Light  That  Failed" 

Cary  Grant  in  "His  Girl  Friday" 

Rosalind  Russell  in  "His  Girl  Friday" 

Marlene  Dietrich  in  "Destry  Rides  Again" 

James  Stewart  in  "Destry  Rides  Again" 

Charles  Winninger  in  "Destry  Rides  Again" 

Jimmy  Lydon  in  "Two  Thoroughbreds" 

Jackie  Cooper  in  "The  Big  Guy" 


*  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED-Paramount 

I  HE  venerable  but  still-so-handsome  Mr.  Ronald 
Colman  returns  now  with  a  few  inspirational  heart- 
aches to  cheer  a  warring  world.  As  you  might  well 
expect,  with  Colman  and  Walter  Huston  and  Pro- 
ducer-Director William  Wellman  working  together, 
the  picture  is  a  standout  and  a  probable  hit.  It's 
just  as  teary  as  can  be,  rating  our  official  rating  as 
a  four-handkerchief  film.  Colman,  as  a  boy,  plights 
his  troth  with  a  little  girl  and  goes  off  around  the 
world.  As  he  grows  up  he  learns  to  paint  and  gets 
quite  successful  at  it;  then,  during  a  battle  in  the 
Sudan,  he  gets  wounded  in  the  head  while  saving  his 
good  friend,  Huston.  Walter  goes  back  to  London 
and  eventually  so  does  Colman,  a  success  now;  there 
he  meets  again  the  little  girl,  only  she  is  a  woman 
now,  played  by  Muriel  Angelus.  She  is  wedded  to 
her  art,  which  happens  to  be  painting  too,  and  likes 
Ronald  because  he's  so  good  with  his  brush.  He 
paints  his  masterpiece  before  he  goes  blind  from  that 
head  wound  and  Ida  Lupino,  his  model,  destroys  it. 
Nobody  will  take  care  of  him  and  Huston  goes  back 
to  war  and  Miss  Lupino  is  mad  at  him  and  he  cer- 
tainly isn't  going  to  be  a  burden  on  Muriel  now — so 
everything  is  just  terrible,  and  back  to  the  Sudan 
gropes  disillusioned  Mr.  Colman.  Sets  and  photog- 
raphy are  marvelous  and  Colman's  performance  has 
that  polished  distinction  for  which  he  is  famous. 
Huston  would  have  stolen  the  picture  from  anyone 
less  masterful.  Miss  Lupino  has  worked  herself 
easily  into  her  role.  On  the  whole,  the  film  is  done 
in  good  taste  and  is  less  sentimental  than  the  book. 


•  HIS  GIRL  FRIDAY— Columbia 

I  HERE  is  always  one  great  difficulty  connected  with 
doing  re-makes  of  very  famous  pictures.  The  new 
version  always  seems  hackneyed.  "His  Girl  Friday" 
is  the  1939-40  version  of  "The  Front  Page,"  which 
set  the  newspaper  film  cartwheel  rolling,  but  it  is 
successful  because  of  Cary  Grant  and  Rosalind  Rus- 
sell and  the  production  of  Howard  Hawks. 

You  may  remember  that  the  hero  of  "The  Front 
Page"  was  called  Hildy  Johnson:  this  character  has 
become  Hildegarde  Johnson,  played  with  exuber- 
ance by  Miss  Russell.  She  is  the  former  wife  of  the 
paper's  editor,  Cary  Grant.  He  doesn't  want  her  to 
run  off  and  marry  Ralph  Bellamy,  that  insurance 
agent,  so  in  order  to  keep  her  hanging  around,  Cary 
fixes  up  a  mess  of  complications,  out  of  which  is 
created  the  plot.  There's  a  murderer  and  what  not. 
You  may  find  the  tone  of  this  on  the  mild  side  when 
you  think  back  to  the  language  they  used  in  the 
other  ripsnorting  version  but  Cary  and  Roz  work  so 
well  together,  he  with  his  sly,  suave  manner  full  of 
interesting  implications  and  she  with  her  tremen- 
dous vitality,  that  you  will  find  the  excitement  there, 
if  in  a  subtler  form.  John  Qualen  is  very  good  as 
the  neurotic  criminal,  Helen  Mack  is  as  pretty  as 
ever  in  her  role  as  the  only  loyal  friend  Qualen  has. 
and  the  mood  of  the  city  room  has  authenticity. 
Ernest  Truex,  Cliff  Edwards  and  Porter  Hall  are  re- 
porters. No  matter  what  fault  you  might  find  with 
the  picture  itself,  you  know  you'll  be  entertained 
by  a  cast  like  that. 

(Continued  on  pdj 


63 


HOLLYWOOD 

Pity    the   poor   producer   in    this    hilarious    tale!    All   his    troubles    were    relative  —  four    relatives,    to    be    exact    I 


BY  GENE  TOWNE  and  GRAHAM  BAKER 


HOWARD   DONALDSON  was   sitting   on 
top  of  the  world.     His  position  as  pro- 
duction head  of  Atlas  Pictures  gave  him 
wealth  and  power.     Since  he  had  earned  them 
by  hard  work  and  ability  they  hadn't  gone  to 
his  head,  so  he  was  rated  a  swell  guy  by  men 
and  a  lamb  by  the  female  population,  a  goodly 
percentage  of  which  had  attempted  from  time  to 
time  to  annex  his  name  and  his  bankroll.    These 
attempts  Howard  had  side-stepped  neatly,  only 
to  fall  in  love  with  Brooksie,  his  Carole  Lom- 
bard-ish    secretary.      He 
hadn't  got  around  to  pro- 
posing   to    Brooksie,    but 
both    of    them    knew    he 
was  working  up  to  it  and 
Brooksie,  at  least,  knew 
that    he    would    be    ac- 
cepted. 

In  addition,  and  this 
was  what  made  him 
unique,  Howard  was  free 
of  relatives.  Every  other 
man  in  Hollywood,  from 
presidents  and  stars  down 
to  doormen  and  extras, 
had  a  full  quota  of  fam- 
ily hangers-on  who  lived 
on  his  salary,  criticized 
his  methods  of  making  it 
and  complained  because 
it  wasn't  larger.  But  not 
Howard.  His  only  rela- 
tives were  a  sister,  a 
brother-in-law  and  two 
nephews  whom  he  hadn't 
seen  for  twenty  years  and 
whom  he  kept  out  of  his 
mind  by  the  simple  ex- 
pedient of  omitting  to 
open  Sister  Christine's 
letters  until  whatever  she 
was  writing  about  was 
too  outdated  to  need 
comment.  In  short,  How- 
ard's life,  present  and  fu- 
ture, was  rosy. 

Then  his  brother-in- 
law  and  nephews  de- 
scended upon  him  and 
changed  all  that.  They 
invaded  sets,  threw  casts 
and  technicians  into  a 
frenzy,  wrecked  equip- 
ment. They  staged  a 
party  at  his  home  and 
turned  the  place  into  a 
shambles.  Ralph,  How- 
ard's brother-in-law,  was 
taken  for  $2600  by  gam- 


6^ 


bier  Tony  Spangler  and  Howard  not  only  had  to 
cover  the  loss  but  had  to  sit  in  Tony's  office  until 
the  check  was  safely  cashed.  He  was  still  sit- 
ting there  when  police  raided  the  joint  and  in 
spite  of  his  protests  of  innocence  he  was  carted 
off  to  jail.  Brooksie  bailed  him  out,  and  the 
glint  in  her  eye  told  Howard  that  his  matrimo- 
nial plans  had  suffered  a  setback. 

He  thought  he  had  reached  the  depth  of  hu- 
man misery  when  the  raid  and  his  arrest  made 
headlines  from  coast  to  coast,  but  the  worst  was 


Her  only  miscue  was  when 
she  tangled  with  the  but- 
ler. Herman  wouldn't  take 
it — and  he  didn't  have  to! 


yet  to  come.  His  sister  Christine  wired  him  ten 
dollars  worth  of  vituperation  for  leading  her 
husband  and  sons  astray  and  concluded  with 
the  crushing  news  that  she  was  catching  the 
next  Hollywood-bound  plane. 

DY  all  rules  of  war  and  sport,  Howard  Donald- 
son was  entitled  to  a  certain  interval  of  peace 
and  quiet  before  the  arrival  of  his  terrifying 
sister,  Christine. 

Football    elevens,    prize   fighters,    Davis    Cup 


the 


rtainly 


EDITOR'S  NOTE:  Proudly  we 
the  comedy-fiction  scoop 
month  —  an  hilarious,  mo: 
novelette  by  Towne  and  Bak, 
lywood's  best-known  and  c 
its  most  madcap  team  of  "writers. 
Adding  another  string  to  their  bow, 
they  are  now  making  their  debut  as 
producers.  For  their  first  RKO- 
Radio  release,  "Swiss  Family  Rob- 
inson," they  have  assembled  one  of 
the  screen's  best  cast  of  characters, 
including,  among  others.  Tlwmas 
Mitchell,  Edna  Best.  Freddie  Bar- 
tholomew. Tun  Holt,  Terry  Kilburn 
and    baby    Bobby    Ouillan.—E.V.H. 


LLUSTRATED     BY     WALLACE    MORGAN 


players,  are  shielded  from  disturbing  ele- 
ments on  the  eve  of  conflict.  Even  soldiers 
about  to  go  over  the  top  are  granted  rela- 
tive calm  for  a  brief  period  before  the 
zero  hour. 

Such  respite  was  denied  Howard  Don- 
aldson. 

Waiting  at  the  Burbank  Airport  for  the 
arrival  of  Christine's  plane,  his  ears  were 
still  ringing  from  the  denunciation  with 
which  Brooksie  had  regaled  him. 

He  had  the  feeling  of  a  man  who  has 
just  slugged  out  a  losing  battle  with  Henry 
Armstrong  and  now  sees  Joe  Louis  crawl- 
ing into  the  ring. 

Brooksie's  charges  against  Donaldson, 
as  he  recalled  all  too  vividly,  were:  (a) 
cancellation  of  a  luncheon  date,  (b)  de- 
liberate runout  on  a  dinner  date,  (c)  arous- 
ing her  from  sound  slumber  to  bail  him 
out  of  jail,  (d)  being  in  jail  at  all,  (e) 
being  arrested  in  a  gambling  joint,  (f) 
being  intoxicated,  (g)  not  having  exter- 
minated his  relatives  years  ago,  (h)  trying 
to  alibi  himself  with  a  story  that  a  child 
of  six  wouldn't  have  believed,  (i  to  z,  in- 
clusive) being  a  pain  in  the  neck. 

As  oratory,  Donaldson  grudgingly  con- 
ceded, it  made  Mark  Antony's  funeral 
address  sound  like  something  out  of  the 
Congressional  Record. 

Christine's  plane  appeared  on  the  horizon, 
grew  larger,  began  to  sink  down  upon  the  air- 
port.   Donaldson's  heart  sank  much  faster. 

He  tried  to  shrink  into  the  crowd,  realizing 
as  he  did  so  that  this  was  futile.  Christine  was 
the  first  passenger  to  alight,  as  he  knew  she 
would  be.  She  ferreted  him  out  immediately, 
bounded  at  him  like  an  angry  leopard,  swept 


Donaldson  put  both  hand 
on  Wood's  desk  and  said 
"John,  I've  told  the  truth— 


him  into  a  bone-crushing  embrace,  then  held 
him  off  at  arm's  length.  Sisterly  love  having 
thus  been  indicated,  she  went  to  work  on  him. 
"What  have  you  to  say  for  yourself?"  she  de- 
manded, in  a  tone  which  defied  him  to  say  any- 
thing for  himself. 

"Hullo,  Christine,"  he  mumbled. 

"You  must  be  proud  of  yourself,"  she  said. 

"Not  especially,"  he  admitted. 

"Not  especially!"  she  howled,  so 
loudly  that  a  mechanic  in  a  hangar 
three  hundred  yards  away  dropped  a 
wrench  and  prepared  for  flight.  "Not 
especially!  A  man  of  your  age,  Howard 
Donaldson  —  and  in  your  position! 
Gambling!  Arrested  like  a  common 
thief!  Corrupting  my  husband!  Your 
name  in  the  headlines!" 

Donaldson  looked  apprehensively  at 
the  avidly  interested  audience  they 
were  entertaining.  There  must  be  a 
hundred  persons  within  earshot,  he  cal- 
culated, all  looking  and  listening. 

"My  car  is  right  over  there,"  he  said. 
"Couldn't  we  hold  this  reunion  a  little 
less  publicly?" 

She  paid  no  attention,  but  lifted  her 
nose  and  sniffed  like  a  blue-ribbon 
beagle  as  some  foreign  odor  smote  her 
nostrils.  She  did  everything  but  bay, 
as  she  eyed  her  wretched  brother  and 
said: 

"Howard  Donaldson  —  you've  been 
drinking!" 

A  spectator  snickered  too  audibly. 
Christine  wheeled  and  shot  him  a  look 
which  would  have  frightened  a  cobra. 
The  spectator  gulped  back  a  second 
snicker,  and  stepped  out  of  range.  He 
realized  he  had  overmatched  himself. 
Howard,  fearing  that  Christine  was  ac- 
tually contemplating  violence,  hurled 
himself  into  the  breech.  He  had,  to  tell 
the  truth,  consumed  a  single  glass  of 
beer,  but  this,  he  felt,  was  neither  the 
time  nor  the  place  to  defend  himself  on 
that  score. 

"Christine,"  he  said,  firmly,  "the  car 
is  waiting.    Let's  get  out  of  here." 

Christine,  startled  by  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  firmness  in  the  voice  of  her 
usually  pliable  brother,  let  herself  be 
led  away  before  she  realized  what  was 
$k  happening.  She  hated  to  leave  the  arena 
^*&a>  without  having  drawn  blood,  but  con- 
soled herself  with  the  thought  that  there 


was  still  plenty  of  time  to  say  everything  she 
wanted  to  say. 

It  took  only  thirty  minutes  to  drive  from  the 
airport  to  Donaldson's  home,  but  to  the  unhappy 
producer,  that  half  hour  stretched  out  into 
months,  years,  decades,  eternities.  His  sister, 
with  a  tongue  like  a  dull  band  saw,  and  a  tor- 
rent of  invectives  which  would  make  one  of 
Hitler's  comments  on  Chamberlain  sound  like  a 
valedictory,  was  not  silent  for  one  of  the  ten 
thousand  hours  in  that  thirty  minute  drive. 

Occasionally,  Donaldson  tried  to  inject  his  own 
— and  true — version  of  recent  events.  Christine 
did  not  listen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  would 
have  been  an  impossibility,  because  Christine 
had  never  learned  to  listen. 

DING  and  Herman  and  the  cook,  having  been 
induced  to  come  back  to  work  (at  double  sal- 
ary) had  managed  to  clean  up  most  of  the 
wreckage  at  Donaldson's  house  from  the  previ- 
ous night's  party. 

The  living  room  was  almost  presentable,  ex- 
cept for  the  presence  of  Christine's  husband  and 
sons — who  could  have  turned  Westminster  Ab- 
bey into  a  slum  simply  by  sitting  quietly  in  a 
corner  of  it. 

Their  attitudes  were  various.  Ralph,  Sr.,  in 
the  grip  of  a  really  spectacular  hangover, 
greeted  his  wife  with  detachment,  and  awaited 
resignedly  to  hear  her  foul  opinion  of  him. 

George  was  bored.  These  family  conclaves 
were  old  stuff  to  him.  Hollywood  was  new.  All 
he  wanted  was  an  opportunity  to  sneak  out. 

Ralph,  Jr.  was  eager  for  the  debate  to  follow, 
waiting  for  the  moment  when  he  could  join  in 
his  mother's  diatribe  with  a  few  carefully 
worded  insults  concerning  his  uncle. 

His  chance  came  twenty  minutes  later,  when 
Christine  had  finished  the  preamble  of  her  de- 
nunciation and  began  to  narrow  her  tirade  down 
to  specific  accusations. 

"What  got  into  you,  anyway?-'  she  demanded, 
glaring  at  her  brother. 

Her  brother  shook  his  head  hopelessly.  He 
was  so  confused  he  couldn't  think  of  an  answer. 

"He's  in  love  with  his  blonde  secretary."  said 
Ralph,  Jr.,  who  had  been  waiting  for  a  chance 
to  make  this  crack. 

"A  secretary!"  Christine  shrieked,  and  was 
silenced  for  a  moment. 

She  was  utterly  appalled  that  a  Donaldson 
should  be  in  love  with  a  secretary — a  typist 
She  had  momentarily  forgotten  the  Eact  thai  the 
best  job  her  husband  had  ever  occupied  was 
setting  up  pins  in  a  bowling  alley. 


65 


Recovering  a  bit,  her  next  thought— and  the 
only  really  Logical  one — was  that  this  secretary 
was  a  designing  hussy  who  was  making  a  dupe 
of  her  brother.  She  demanded  details,  and  got 
them  in  highly  colored  droves  from  Ralph,  Jr. 

Donaldson  not  only  couldn't  get  in  a  word, 
he  didn't  even  try.  He  hadn't  been  permitted 
to  finish  a  sentence  for  so  long  he  had  forgotten 
there  were  periods  in  the  language. 

Herman,  the  butler,  interrupted — after  a  good 
deal  of  trouble — to  announce  that  the  studio 
had  telephoned  to  state  that  Mr.  Donaldson  was 
wanted  immediately.  It  was  the  only  good  news 
Donaldson  had  received  up  to  this  point. 

By  superhuman  effort  he  managed  to  pre- 
vent Christine  from  coming  with  him,  promis- 
ing to  be  back  in  two  hours. 

Although  you  could  not  have  convinced  him 
of  it,  things  were  not  as  bad — at  least  not  quite 
as  bad — as  Donaldson  imagined. 

Brooksie,  it  is  true,  had  treated  him,  verbally, 
as  a  fire  treats  a  barbecued  steer.  Actually  she 
had  meant  very  little  of  it.  She  was  in  love 
with  the  man,  but  reasoned  that  something  had 
to  be  done — and  drastically — about  his  attitude 
toward  his  repulsive  relatives. 

She  loved  him.  True,  she  regarded 
him  as  nothing  more  than  a  simple- 
minded  goof,  but  women  are  prone  to 
adopt  that  feeling  toward  the  men 
they  love.  Consequently,  she  felt 
sorry  that  she  had  talked  to  him  in  so 
rough  a  manner,  and  made  up  for  it 
by  being  as  disagreeable  as  possible 
to  Donaldson's  subordinates. 

The  climax  to  this  typically  fem- 
inine brain  storm  came  when  John 
Wood,  president  of  Atlas  Pictures, 
called  on  the  phone  and  asked  for 
Mr.  Donaldson,  in  the  friendliest  of 
all  possible  tones. 

"Mr.  Donaldson,"  said  Brooksie, 
crisply,   "is   not  here.    He  is  a  busy 


Wood's  secretary  was  listening  to  this  conver- 
sation as  a  matter  of  course.  She  cared  nothing 
about  what  happened  to  Donaldson,  but  she  did 
care  what  happened  to  Brooksie,  as  long  as  it 
was  bad.  The  reason?  Brooksie  had  once  worn 
the  same  style  of  hat  to  a  preview  as  Wood's 
secretary.  An  Albanian  blood  feud  wouldn't 
produce  more  hatred. 

Consequently  she  called  Brooksie  and  said: 
"Your  boy  friend  is  out.    Sorry?" 

"What  boy  friend?" 

"Donaldson." 

Brooksie  paused  a  moment  to  think  it  over 
before  she  replied: 

"He's  not  my  boy  friend.  I  don't  think  he's 
out.  If  he  is,  he'll  get  a  better  job.  In  the  mean- 
time, what  is  your  interest  in  it,  and  why  do 
you  call  me  up  and  tell  me  about  it  and  how  do 
you  know  except  you've  been  listening  in  to  pri- 
vate conversations?"         , 

With  that,  Brooksie  banged  the  telephone  re- 
ceiver. 

Once  she  had  broken  the  connection,  Brook- 
sie knew  this  was  serious. 

At  heart  she  knew  that  Donaldson  had  never 
been  wrong.    She  had  only  put  him  on  a  grid- 


Had  HUndU- 

PLAY  TRUTH  AND 
CONSEQUENCES 

with  RONALD  COLMAN 


"I'm  quite  sure  that  he  is,"  Mr. 
Wood  purred.  "But  I'm  sure  you  had 
better  find  him.    As  of  now." 

Even  Brooksie  could  not  deny  that 
the  president  of  Atlas  Pictures  had  a 
right  to  talk  to  his  top  producer.  Thus 
the  call  to  Donaldson's  home.  .  .  . 

LOOKING  like  a  composite  photo- 
graph of  10,000  European  refugees,  Donaldson 
walked  into  Wood's  office.  He  had  no  idea  that 
more  grief  was  in  store  for  him.  He  reasoned 
that  there  could  not  possibly  be  any  more.  He 
was  wrong. 

"Howard,"  Wood  began,  unconsciously  imi- 
tating the  tone  of  a  diabolic  intoning  of  the 
Black  Mass,  "you  can't  get  away  with  things 
like  this.  You  occupy  an  important  position, 
and  you  cannot  put  the  entire  motion-picture 
industry  in  such  a  bad  light." 

Donaldson  put  both  hands  on  Wood's  desk — 
as  though  to  prove  that  he  carried  no  weapons 
— and  said: 

"John,  I've  told  you  the  truth,  about  what 
happened.  Are  you  going  to  disbelieve  me  after 
our  friendship  of  twenty  years?" 

Wood  had  been  on  a  spot  already.  Donald- 
son's statement  put  him  on  a  second,  and  a  man 
who  is  on  two  spots  simultaneously  is  in  a  very 
disagreeable  position.  He  looked — or  pretended 
to  look — over  a  cost  sheet,  then  said: 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,  Howard,  but  don't  expect 
too  much,  because  I'm  trying  to  keep  out  of  the 
grease.  The  Board  of  Directors  takes  these 
things  pretty  seriously.  The  Chairman — Frank 
Swain — wants  to  know  if  there  is  a  morality 
clause  in  your  contract.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course,  there  is,"  Donaldson  said.  "I  put 
it  in  all  the  contracts." 

"Well,"  Wood  said.  "We  live  and  learn,  don't 
we?" 

"We  live,"  Donaldson  answered.  "I'm  not  so 
sure  about  the  other  part  of  it." 


Suave  is  his  middle  name — and  he  proves 

that  he's  anything  but  shy,  in  his 

witty  {and  honest)  answers 

in  MARCH  PHOTOPLAY 


die  to  make  him  come  to  life  and  assert  himself. 
Consequently,  after  some  thought,  she  came 
to  a  decision,  and  acted  upon  it  immediately. 
Grabbing  her  hat  and  coat,  she  left  the  studio, 
walked  to  the  corner,  and  boarded  a  bus  which 
read:     "Sunset  Boulevard." 

A  SCANT  few  moments  after  Brooksie's  de- 
parture, Donaldson  returned  to  his  office.  He 
had  promised  Wood  to  meet  Swain,  at  his — 
Wood's — home  that  evening,  but  he  wanted  to 
talk  first  to  the  one  person  in  whom  he  had  any 
confidence  at  all — Brooksie.    She  was  gone. 

Donaldson  sat  down  behind  his  desk  and 
buried  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"The  rats,"  he  mumbled,  "are  leaving  the 
sinking  ship.  Only  Brooksie  is  no  rat.  Maybe 
the  sinking  ship  is  leaving  the  rats.  Maybe  the 
sinking  ship  and  the  rats  are  leaving  the  sea. 
Maybe  the  sea  is  leaving  the.  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  himself  with  an  effort. 

"This  way,"  he  told  himself,  "either  lies  mad- 
ness, or  I'm  one  of  the  Marx  Brothers.  .  .  ." 

While  Donaldson  sat  in  his  office  considering 
the  painless  ways  of  taking  one's  life,  his  sister 
was  completing  the  task  of  wrecking  what  had 
once  been  a  pleasant,  well-ordered  home. 

Bored  with  denouncing  her  husband — who 
no  longer  gave  a  satisfactory  response — Chris- 
tine started  in  on  the  servants,  and  went 
through  the  house  like  a  plague  of  locusts. 

She  didn't  like  the  way  the  maid  ran  the  vac- 
uum cleaner.    The  maid  quit. 


She  didn't  approve  of  the  menu  for  dinner. 
The  cook  resigned. 

She  found  Bing,  the  chauffeur,  asleep  in  his 
room  over  the  garage.  Inasmuch  as  he  had  been 
on  call  for  the  preceding  forty-eight  hours  his 
slumber  was  understandable  to  everyone  but 
Christine,  who  aroused  him  in  a  manner  rem- 
iniscent of  Bill  Sykes  awakening  his  dog.  Bing 
responded  with  a  leprous  curse  upon  Christine 
and  went  back  to  his  job  with  the  cab  company. 

Her  only  miscue  in  this  domestic  steeplechase 
was  when  she  tangled  with  Herman,  the  butler. 
When  she  picked  upon  this  gentlemen's  gentle- 
man, she  really  fouled  a  hurdle,  because*  Her- 
man not  only  wouldn't  take  it,  but  didn't  have 
to.  Half  the  bachelors  in  Beverly  Hills  had  al- 
ready offered  him  jobs. 

Therefore,  when  Christine  abused  him  for 
having  answered  the  telephone,  he  told  her  that 
he  was  so  tired  of  being  hired  and  fired  every 
time  his  master  got  in  front  of  the  eight  ball 
that  he  wasn't  going  to  play  that  way  any  more. 

When  she  asked  what  he  meant  by  that  state- 
ment, he  replied: 

"You  can't  fire  me,  and  I  won't  quit,  and  even 
money  I  can  get  to  the  phone  faster  than  you 
can.    Wanta  play?" 

The  telephone  rang,  and  the  race  of  the  cen- 
tury was  on.  Christine  had  the  instrument  in 
her  hands  before  Herman  had  finished  the  first 
lap. 

An  annoyed  voice  shrilled  at  her: 

"This  is  Bill  Alden,  of  the  Colossal  Broad- 
casting System,  and  I  must  find  Howard  Don- 
aldson immediately." 

"Why?"  asked  Christine. 

"Why!  He's  due  on  the  air  here  tonight!  He's 
supposed  to  be  the  guest  star  on  our  program, 
to  make  a  speech  about  the  future  of  the  mo- 
tion picture  industry!    Where  is  he?" 

"He's  at  the  studio,"  Christine  replied. 

"If  he  is,  he's  under  one  of  the  stages,"  Alden 
snapped  back. 

"Mr.  Alden,"  said  Christine,  with  great  dig- 
nity, "if  Mr.  Donaldson  said  he  would  be  at  your 
broadcasting  studio,  he  will  be  there." 

Banging  up  the  receiver,  she  shouted  to  Jun- 
ior: 

"Get  out  the  limousine!  I  know  where  to  find 
Howard!" 

Inasmuch  as  Bing  had  carried  off  the  car  keys, 
Junior's  assignment  proved  to  be  difficult.  When 
he  reported  this,   Christine  howled: 

"Well,  then,  call  a  taxicab.  Can't  anyone  think 
of  anything  but  me?" 

Howard  Donaldson,  during  ail  this,  was 

still  collapsed  in  his  office  at  the  studio,  won- 
dering where  Brooksie  was,  and  trying  to  get 
a  grip  on  his  sanity.  He  had  left  instructions 
that  he  would  talk  to  no  one  on  the  telephone 
but  Brooksie.  And  Brooksie  was  possibly  the 
only  person  in  greater  Los  Angeles  who  wasn't 
trying  to  reach  him. 

At  that  moment,  Brooksie  was  taking  matters 
into  her  own  hands,  in  an  attempt  to  straighten 
out  this  tangled  mess.  Descending  from  the  bus 
she  walked  straight  to  Tony  Spangler's  Casino 
Club  and  confronted  the  doorman  menacingly. 

"I  want  to  see  Tony  Spangler,"  she  said. 

"He  ain't  up,"  the  lookout  replied. 

"That's  not  what  we're  talking  about,"  she 
said,  "I  said  I  wanted  to  see  him." 

"You  ain't  got  a  chance,  sis,"  the  lookout  an- 
swered. 

Brooksie  gave  him  a  sneer. 

"Buddy,"  she  snarled,  "don't  believe  every- 
thing you  read  in  the  papers.  Bonnie  Parker 
isn't  dead,  because  I'm  Bonnie  Parker.  Open 
that  door  or  I'll  make  you  eat  it." 

Dear  Brooksie!  She  means  well,  but  her  hero 
has  simply  jumped  out  of  the  frying  pan  right 
into  the  soup — which  promptly  comes  to  a  boil 
as  the  climax  of  all  climaxes  is  reached  in 
March  Photoplay. 


66 


CLAUDETTE  COLBERT 

PRAISES  THE  WIDE-OPEN  SPACES  AS  SHE  TELLS 

Hollywood 


Claudette's  vivid  memories  of  a 
city  park  made  this  dream  come  true 
—"a  whole  acre  in  grass  so  I  could 
walk  on   it  as   much   as   I    pleased" 


AS  TOLD  TO  JACK  SMALLEY 


DON'T  think  for  a  minute  that  I'm  kidding 
when  I  say  I  like  Hollywood  best  for  its 
wide-open  spaces.  There's  breadth  to 
this  country,  and  I  think  it's  grand. 

Out  here  there's  so  much  space  you  measure 
distance  Indian  fashion,  by  time.  You  know — 
"seventeen  minutes  from  our  house  to  the  stu- 
dio!" 

I  like  this  outdoor  life.  That's  the  part  I  en- 
joy most  in  Hollywood  .  .  .  Bob  Taylor  in  a 
ten-gallon  hat,  Carole  and  Clark  Gable  criti- 
cally inspecting  cow  ponies  at  a  horse  show, 
station  wagons  with  cattle  brands  on  the  door 
to  represent  some  happy  family's  half-acre 
"ranch."    Hollywood! 


I  remember  only  too  well  the  five  flights 
down,  and  the  long  hard  blocks  from  the  apart- 
ment to  Central  Park,  just  for  a  glimpse  of 
green  grass  all  covered  with  "Keep  Off"  signs. 
No  matter  how  city-bred  you  are,  you  never 
quite  lose  that  longing  for  grass  and  flowers  and 
things  growing  green.  As  soon  as  I  could  afford 
it,  after  coming  to  Hollywood,  I  planted  a  whole 
acre  in  grass  so  I  could  walk  on  it  as  much  as 
I  pleased.  It  takes  a  gardener  all  day  to  take 
care  of  that  big  lawn,  but  it's  worth  it. 

My  people  in  France  always  had  a  garden,  and 
I  suspect  all  French  folk  are  happiest  when 
growing  flowers  and  a  patch  of  vegetables. 
That's  why  my  garden  gives  me  so  much  gen- 
uine pleasure.  I'm  afraid,  though,  I'm  too  im- 
patient for  results  to  enjoy  the  philosophy  of  our 
gardener,  Henry.  He  is  a  short,  calm-faced 
Oriental  fatalist.  When  I  asked  him  to  buy  two 
nice  trees  for  me,  he  planted  seedlings  a  foot 
high. 

"Bye'n  bye  they  grow  big,"  he  assured 
me  when  I  protested  that  I  wanted  trees.  For 
two  years  I  patiently  trained  purple  Lantana 
to  grow  over  the  entire  wall  of  my  tennis  court, 
and  was  I  proud  of  my  work!  One  day  I  came 
home  and  they  were  all  gone. 

"Henry!"  I  cried  in  my  most  stricken  voice, 
"what  happened?" 

"They  look  dirty  ...  I  cut  off,"  Henry  said 
placidly.  "Oh,  you  like?  They  grow  back 
bye'n  bye."  But  even  Henry  can't  ruin  my 
pleasure  in  gardening. 

Yes,  I  like  this  wide,  sprawling  country  with 
mow-capped  mountains  and  oranges  to  pick  at 
the  foot  of  them.  I  like  to  play  tennis,  or  go 
golfing  without  driving  two  hours  through  traf- 


fic to  a  golf  course.  I  miss  New  York  and  the 
theater,  but  this  has  its  compensations. 

When  I  first  came  here  I  was  sure  I  wouldn't 
like  it.  I  knew  I  would  be  lonely  for  Broad- 
way and  the  crowds  and  the  people  I  knew.  But 
there  is  plenty  of  mental  stimulation  in  Holly- 
wood. I've  seen  groups  containing  many  bril- 
liant people,  musicians,  writers,  actors,  members 
of  various  professions — groups  that  anywhere 
else  in  the  world  would  be  regarded  as  tremen- 
dously exciting. 

As  for  the  criticism  that  we  are  too  prone  to 
talk  shop,  isn't  that  true  everywhere?  On  my 
trip  to  Europe,  I  found  each  group  talking  its 
own  brand  of  shop.  In  the  Tyrol,  all  the  con- 
versation was  about  skiing,  yet  changes  of  vast 
significance  were  taking  place  in  their  coun- 
try. Over  here,  a  certain  set  may  talk  golf  until 
you're  sick  of  the  subject,  or  tennis,  or  bridge. 
It's  human  nature  to  talk  shop  and  our  own 
particular  shop  is  the  picture  business.  It's  fun. 
it's  always  new,  and  generally  exciting. 

I  like  to  work  in  movies.  Once  in  a  while,  of 
course,  we  all  draw  a  lemon,  and  you  can  tell  it 
even  before  the  picture  is  under  way,  but  there's 
a  tingle  of  excitement  in  starting  any  picture, 
good  or  bad.  And  there's  always  the  thrill  of 
conferences  and  tests  and  finally  the  start  before 
the  cameras,  with  that  onrush  of  determination 
to  make  good  and  give  it  all  you  have.  It's  the 
most  stimulating  work  in  the  world. 

Yet,  of  all  the  things  I  like  aboul  Hollywood, 
I  like  best  its  width  and  breadth  and  hospitable 
outdoors.  There  aren't  many  "Keep  Off'  signs 
here,  on  the  grass,  or  elsewhere. 

There's  something  of  the  spirit  <>(  the  old  West 
that  has  gotten  into  Hollywood,  and  I  like  ;t. 


67 


SEE  YOURSELF  THROUGH  THE  EYES  OF 
A  MAN— You've  got  yourself  made  up  to 
the  teeth — a  brand  new  coiffure,  a  luscious 
shade  of  lipstick,  delicate  eyeshadow — you've 
given  yourself  the  works,  and  what  happens? 
In  spite  of  it  all,  you  failed  to  make  an  impres- 
sion upon  the  one  man  you  wanted  to  impress. 
And  you  wonder  why.  Perhaps  it's  because 
you've  overlooked  the  one  thing  in  your  ap- 
pearance that's  most  important  to  him,  the  thing 
that  he  notices  first  of  all  about  a  woman.  And 
the  difficulty  is  that  this  factor  varies  with  all 
men,  so  the  thing  to  do  is  to  find  out  what  your 
particular  man  likes  or  dislikes  most  of  all  in  a 
girl's  appearance. 

The  great  truth  about  how  one  jarring  note 
in  your  ensemble  can  spoil  the  glamorous  effect 
of  a  perfect  make-up  and  coiffure  was  borne 
upon  me  the  other  day  at  luncheon  with  Errol 
Flynn,  James  Cagney,  and  George  Raft  (and  a 
nice  assortment,  that).  A  very  attractive  girl 
passed  by  the  table.  Raft  dismissed  her  loveli- 
ness with,  "The  seams  of  her  stockings  are 
crooked.  Her  face  isn't  as  important  as  a  well- 
groomed  effect." 

So  we  began  to  talk  about  what  they  noticed 
first  about  women. 

"The  thing  that  impresses  me  is  the  way  they 
walk,"  said  Errol.  "A  woman  should  hold  her- 
self proudly,  carry  herself  erect,  and  if  she 
hasn't  a  graceful  walk,  she  should  practice  in 
some  way  until  she  does." 

''Women's  voices  are  the  most  important  thing 
to  me,"  said  Cagney.  "What's  the  use  of  a  girl's 
being  beautiful  if  she  talks  like  a  parrot?  A 
harsh  or  loud  voice  in  a  woman  irritates  me.  I 
want  to  get  away  from  her  as  quickly  as  possi- 
ble. Why  don't  they  think  about  things  like 
that  instead  of  worrying  about  what  shade  of 
lipstick  to  wear?" 

George  Raft  said,  "Whether  a  woman  is  neat 
and  tidy  is  what  I  notice  first  of  all.  She  must 
look  fresh  and  well-groomed.  If  she's  wearing 
a  dress  with  a  white  collar,  for  example,  that 
collar  should  be  scrupulously  clean  and  fresh. 
Wrinkles  in  clothes,  shoulder  straps  showing, 
ruin  the  appearance  of  the  most  beautiful  girl." 


It's  Open-Forum  for  the  Hollywood 
ads  this  month,  with  the  Distaff 
Side  coming  in  for  a  lot  of  hints 
on  how  to  make  an  impression  with 
the  one  man  she  likes  best.  And 
Anne  Shirley  (above),  the  smart  lit- 
tle minx,  passes  muster  on  all  counts 


John    Payne  —  artifici- 
ality   gets    him     down 


Fine  thing,  I  thought.  But  this  conversation 
made  me  wonder  just  what  other  Hollywood 
men  think  important  in  a  woman's  appearance. 

So  I  plunged  right  in  and  asked  a  whole  row 
of  popular,  attractive  actors  what  they  noticed 
first  about  women,  what  they  disliked  most 
about  a  woman's  appearance  and  what  single 
thing  they  considered  the  most  important. 
Here's  the  results  of  my  one-woman  survey. 
Perhaps  the  reason  you  didn't  get  a  second  date 
from  your  man  is  in  one  of  these  actor's  replies. 

Maybe  it's  your  hair.  If  it's  stringy  and  not 
perfectly  set,  you'd  never  get  a  second  look 
from  Richard  Greene.  He  doesn't  like  untidy 
hair  and  it's  the  thing  he  notices  first  about  a 
woman. 


Richard    Greene — he's] 
allergic  to   untidy   hairi 


Are  you  sure  the  part  in  your  hair  is  always 
straight?  If  you  need  a  new  permanent,  don't 
put  it  off  any  longer — maybe  your  beau  is  al- 
lergic to  straight  hair.  Be  sure  that  there  are 
no  loose  ends  spoiling  the  symmetry  of  your 
hairdress. 

Your  hair  should  be  shampooed  frequently 
and  brushed  daily  to  keep  it  smooth  and  shin- 
ing. Hot  oil  shampoos  will  do  wonders  for  it 
if  your  hair  is  dry  or  the  ends  are  splitting. 
Have  your  hair  cut  at  least  once  every  two 
weeks  to  keep  it  even  and  at  the  proper  length 
for  your  coiffure. 

Unless  you  have  your  hair  set  every  few  days, 

don't  go  in  for  elaborate  coiffures.    Wear  your 

(Continued  on  page  73) 


63 


IVE  lather  facial  for 


WM 


± 


^ 


THE  ACTIVE  LATHER 
OF  LUX  SOAP  GIVES 

THOROUGH  CARE. 
PAT  IT  GENTLY 
INTO  YOUR  SKIN 


NEXT  RINSE  WITH 

WARM  WATER,THEN 

A  DASH  OF  COOL. 

ACTIVE  LATHER 

LEAVES  SKIN 

REALLY  CLEAN 


'im 


THEN  DRY  THE 

FACE  BY 
PATTING  LIGHTLY. 
REMEMBER  MEN 
ADORE  A  LOVELY 

COMPLEXION! 


K^r**1* 


«'  I        I 


^A 


9  out  of  10 
Screen  Stars  use! 
Lux  Toilet  Soap 


Mj 


XX 


k^,  50 


STAR   OF  PARAMOUNT'S  "REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT' 


Women  everywhere  find 
this  bed-time  Beauty  Care 
really  works! 

Everywhere  clever  women  are  following  the  screen  stars' 
lead  —  are  enthusiastic  about  ACTIVE -lather  complexion 
care.  Hollywood's  Lux  Toilet  Soap  facials  take  just  a  few 
moments  —  yet  they  give  your  skin  protection  it  needs. 
ACTIVE  lather  leaves  skin  fresh  and  glowing.  Lovely  Barbara 
Stanwyck  shows  you  how  to  give  your  skin  this  gentle,  thor- 
ough care.  Try  ACTIVE -lather  facials  for  30  days — any 
time  during  the  day  before  you  renew  make-up, 
ALWAYS  at  bedtime.  Prove  what  this  care 
the  screen  stars  use  can  do  for  your  skin. 

Use  cosmetics  all  you  like, 
but  don't  risk  Cosmetic  Skin 

It's  foolish  to  risk  unattractive  Cosmetic 
Skin:  dullness,  enlarged  pores,  little  blem- 
ishes that  spoil  good  looks.  Because  Lux 
Toilet  Soap  has  ACTIVE  lather,  it  removes 
stale  cosmetics,  dust  and  dirt  thoroughly. 
Give  your  skin  the  protection  of  perfect 
cleansing — protection  it  needs  for  beauty. 
Use  Hollywood's  beauty  care,  the  gentle  white 
soap  with  ACTIVE  lather,  regularly! 


EBRUARY 


940 


69 


/ 


^sv 


s  THAT 

STAYS  ON 

Swim,  eat,  smoke,  kiss  —  Don  Juan 
Lipstick  stays  on !  It's  the  beauty  find 
of  the  year.  Thousands  of  women 
everywhere  are  changing  to  it  be- 
cause .  .  .  while  it  stays  and  stays  on 
your  lips,  it  does  not  dry  them  .  .  . 
it's  made  of  only  the  purest  ingredi- 
ents ...  its  consistency  is  firm— not 
greasy  ...  its  colors  are  constant,  re- 
maining the  same  when  applied  to 
the  lips.  And  the  colors  are  the  most 
delightful  hues  you've  ever  seen  in 
a  lipstick !  Most  smart  stores  in  the 
United  States  and  Canada  now 
carry  Don  Juan. 
In  a  striking  black 
and  white  plastic 
cameo  container 
at  $1.00.  Refills, 
60c.  Trial  size 
10c.  Rouge'  to 
match    $1.00. 


MOVIES  in  Your  Home 

BY  JACK  SHER 


Tips  and  advice — hot  from  Holly- 
wood's own  experts — for  all  ama- 
teur movie  -  camera  enthusiasts 
who  want  to  buy,  make  and 
show    their    own     home     movies 


DO  you  know  some  ambitious 
young  lady  who  aspires  to 
a  screen  career?  If  so,  don't 
be  surprised  if  she  asks  you  to  drag 
out  your  8  mm  or  16  mm  camera 
and  make  a  screen  test  of  her. 
Hollywood  casting  directors  are  be- 
ginning to  watch  the  narrow  gauge 
field  for  future  acting  talent — and 
she  merely  wants  you  to  help  her 
"crash"  the  studios. 

To  assist  home  cameramen  in 
meeting  this  situation,  Edward  H. 
Griffith,  who  recently  directed 
Madeleine  Carroll's  latest  Para- 
mount picture,  "Honeymoon  in 
Bali"  offers  some  excellent  profes- 
sional advice. 

The  toughest  problem  for  the 
amateur  screen-test  director  to 
overcome,  says  Griffith,  is  that  of 
getting  the  camera  subject  a  "make- 


up" comparable  to  that  provided 
by  a  studio.  Proper  make-up  is 
essential  to  show  the  casting  direc- 
tor how  the  subject  will  look  in 
front  of  the  35  mm  cameras.  The 
subject  should  be  made  up  by 
someone  experienced  in  stage  or 
screen  make-up  technique. 

The  second  problem  is  sound  re- 
cording. In  these  days,  a  screen 
test  without  sound  means  very  lit- 
tle. Hence,  those  who  do  not  have 
sound-on-film  will  need  to  use 
auxiliary  sound  recording  equip- 
ment. Such  equipment  can  usually 
be  rented  at  reasonable  cost. 

The  next  step  is  to  obtain  a  script 
from  some  motion  picture  or  play, 
preferably  one  which  is  playing 
currently  and  can  be  studied.  From 
this  script,  select  a  sequence  con- 
taining only  one  character.  This 
role  should  have  a  fairly  strong 
emotional  pitch  and  should  prefer- 
ably allow  the  subject  to  move 
around,  stand  up,  sit  down,  and 
show  herself  at  all  angles.  In  shoot- 
ing the  scene,  remember  that  the 
studio  is  not  interested  in  the 
script,  or  in  the  photography  and 
lighting  effects,  but  only  in  the  act- 
ing ability  and  photographic  qual- 
ity of  the  subject  being  tested. 


After  this  sequence,  the  test 
should  show  any  specialties  the 
subject  can  do — dancing,  singing, 
acrobatics,  etc.  The  casting  direc- 
tor will  not  be  particularly  inter- 
ested in  the  dance  routine  used, 
nor  in  the  song  itself,  but  will  be 
looking  for  that  particular  "oomph" 
with  which  a  good  actress  can  put 
over  any  song  or  any  situation. 

If  such  a  screen  test  is  properly 
made,  says  Director  Griffith,  there 
is  no  reason  why  the  studios  should 
not  give  it  the  same  amount  of  at- 
tention that  they  would  give  their 
own  studio  tests. 

UASTLE  has  three  new  Terry 
Tunes,  the  best  of  which  is  a  cute 
little  film  called  "Romeo  and  Ju- 
liet," which  will  tickle  the  kids. 
Dad  and  the  son  will  want  to  look 
at  the  new  Castle  short,  "Gridiron 
Classics  of  the  Year." 

New  Equipment:  For  8  mm 
Filmo  cameras,  Bell  &  Howell  an- 
nounces a  new  wide-angle  lens 
attachment  doubling  the  angle  of 
the  regular  lens  .  .  .  R.  C.  Mercer, 
Hollywood  manufacturer,  offers  a 
16  mm  film  rule  for  cutting  titles, 
dissolves  and  special  effects  to  ex- 
act lengths.  .  .  . 


Boos  and  Bouquets 


VALDOR         C^S^ 


STAYS         ON 


hate  and  terrorism?  Prisons,  chain 
gangs,  killers,  revolutions,  third  degrees 
and  tortures  are  just  a  few  of  the  cheery 
little  things  that  make  up  the  bolt  from 
which  too  many  of  the  new  pictures  are 
cut.  There  are  some  grim  scenes  in 
"Dust  Be  My  Destiny,"  "The  Real  Glory" 
and  "Blackmail"  that  make  the  old  hor- 
ror movies  like  "Dracula"  and  "Franken- 
stein" seem  like  fairy  tales.  Harrowing 
as  the  newsreels  are  these  days,  they 
make  one's  spine  creep  less  than  the  fea- 
ture films. 

Now,  if  ever,  we  need  the  relief  of 
pleasant  pictures.  Here's  a  vote  for 
movies  that  leave  the  fan  with  a  good 
taste  in  his  mouth! 

Marian  E.  Smith, 
New  York  City,  N.  Y. 

MATCHMAKING  MOVIE— 

I'M  so  very  happy  and  I've  just  got  to 
let  everyone  know  about  it,  as  it  was 
brought  about  by  the  movie,  "The 
Women." 

My  boy  friend  (whom  I  love  dearly) 
and  I  had  had  a  misunderstanding  and 
we  had  been  separated  for  nearly  two 
and  a  half  months. 

I  went  one  night  to  see  "The  Women," 
and  heard  Norma  Shearer's  wonderful 
quotation  that  "Pride  is  a  luxury  that  a 
woman  in  love  can't  afford."  It  stayed  in 
my  mind  for  about  three  days,  when  I 
swallowed  my  pride  and  sent  my  boy 
friend  a  little  note. 

Hardly  had  he  received  the  note  and 
read  it,  when  he  was  down  at  my  house. 
We  are  together  again  and  so  very 
happy — in  fact,  we  are  making  plans  to 
be  married  in  February.  I  sincerely 
I  feel  that  if  I  hadn't  attended  "The 
Women"  that  night,  we  would  still  be 
|  parted. 

So — long  live  the  movies  and  may 
Norma  Shearer  have  all  the  happiness 


(Continued  from  page  4) 

in  the  world  for  uttering  that  wonder- 
ful sentence,  for  she  certainly  has  made 
me  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world. 
J.  O.  B., 
Philadelphia,  Pa. 

—AND  MATCH-SAVING  MOVIES 

BROTHER,  these  past  few  months  have 
been  a  nightmare  to  me.  Despite  the 
fracas  in  Europe,  it  seems  as  though 
prosperity  has  skidded  around  the  cor- 
ner in  this  good  old  U.  S.  A.  .  .  .  pro- 
duction orders  piling  up  in  the  shop  .  .  . 
striving  to  meet  impossible  schedules  .  .  . 
bosses  tearing  around  like  lunatics.  .  .  . 

Guess  that's  why  the  wife  and  I  drifted 
into  a  rut  that  almost  broke  up  our  home. 
Arriving  home  in  a  fierce  temper,  after  a 
hectic  day  at  work,  we  got  into  the  habit 
of  packing  off  to  a  chosen  cafe.  Every 
night  spent  in  a  costly  round  of  jovial- 
ity, trying  to  forget  the  day's  ordeal  .  .  . 
a  worse  tomorrow  .  .  .  only  to  arise 
feeling  worse,  next  morning. 

Fifty  times  we  started  for  the  movies, 
only  to  decide  that  another  night  of 
carousing  would  be  more  beneficial. 

Then,  it  happened!  How,  I  don't  know. 
We  finally  went  to  the  movies.  I  can't 
describe  the  feeling  that  stole  over  me 
as,  sitting  there,  totally  engrossed  in  the 
picture,  I  felt  my  wife's  hand  steal  over 
and  gently  press  my  own.  It  was  an 
old,  familiar  gesture  and  the  answering 
squeeze  assured  me  we  had  jound  our- 
selves! 

We've  hardly  missed  a  night  since. 
It's  a  tonic,  brother,  sitting  in  the  land  of 
make-believe,  holding  hands  with  your 
favorite  "star,"  while  Myrna  Loy  helps 
to  make  you  oblivious  of  the  day's  or- 
deal. Now,  we  take  some  refreshments 
home  after  the  show  ...  sit  side  by  sid3 
and  discuss  the  picture  we've  just  seen 
.  .  .  boy!  we're  in  love  again  .  .  .  she's 
my  Myrna — I'm  her  Tyrone. 


Next  day?    Hell  with  the  boss;  let  'im 

rave.      I'm    doing    my    job   faster    than 

ever,  so's  I  can  get  home  early — and  out 

again— to  the  MOVIES,  God  bless  'em. 

Jack  Leslie, 

Westmont,  N.  J. 

QUEEN  WITHOUT  A  CROWN 

nGAIN  it's  about  time  to  present  the 
Academy  Award  to  the  year's  most  ca- 
pable actress— or  perhaps  by  the  time 
you  receive  this  letter  it  will  already  be 
given  away.  And  again  I  am  gnashing 
my  teeth  because  the  one  and  only 
really  great  actress  of  the  screen  is  not 
given  even  a  chance  at  it,  and  never 
has  been.  The  actress  is,  of  course,  the 
great  Garbo,  queen  of  the  drama. 

Greta  Garbo's  pictures  always  are  re- 
leased at  the  wrong  time  for  considera- 
tion. And  I,  like  everyone  else,  would 
like  to  know  why.  I  don't  wish  to 
sound  hard  and  ungracious,  but  when  a 
really  glorious  actress,  one  who  can 
make  even  a  small,  unimportant  scene 
heart-stirring  and  immortal,  is  refused 
the  Award,  it  is  hard  for  me  to  under- 
stand the  judges'  decision.  I  realize  that 
their  choices  are  always  wonderful  ac- 
tresses, but  the  great  Garbo  so  far  sur- 
passes them  that  there  is  no  comparison. 
Barbara  Stivers, 
Belle  Plaine,  Kans. 

THANKS— WE'LL  SEE! 

nS  Jeanette  MacDonald  and  Nelson 
Eddy  are  as  far  above  the  average  run 
of  movie  stars  as  Photoplay  is  above 
the  average  movie  magazine,  how  about 
a  joint  interview  with  them?  No  two 
stars  have  ever  had  more  false  rumors 
spread  about  them — and  we  think  this 
should  be  cleared  up. 

Betty  Jo  Kirchman, 
Peekskill,  N.  Y. 


70 


PHOTOPLAY 


Mrs.  Ernest  du  Pont,  Jr.,  popu- 
lar in  Delaware  society,  sponsors 
Wilmington's  spectacular  charily 
ball— the  Society  Follies. 


Miss  Bette  Miller  helped  found 
the  Kansas  City  chapter  of  Rail- 
way Bu>ine»-  W  omen.  The  club's 
winter  dance  is  a  "ala  function. 


A  Southerner,  titfan-haired  Mrs.  du  Pont 
is  very  hospitable,  and  her  historic  old 
home  on  the  Delaware 
many  gay  social  affairs. 


"Yes.  I  don't  believe  in  taking 
chances  with  my  complexion  — 
I  always  use  Pond's  2  Creams. 
Pond's  Cold  Cream  is  perfect  for 
cleansing  my  skin — keeping  it 
soft  and  supple  at  the  same 
time.  And  for  powder  base  and 
protection  against  weather, 
Pond's  Vanishing  Cream  is  ideal!' 


QUESTION  TO  MRS.   DU   PONT: 

Do  you  feel  that  using  2  creams 
helps  keep  your  make-up 
fresh  looking  longer? 

ANSWER: 

"I'm  sure  it  does!  That's  why, 
before  powder,  I  always  cleanse 
and  soften  my  skin  with  Pond's 
Cold  Cream  and  smooth  it  with 
Pond's  Vanishing  Cream.  This 
gives  my  skin  a  finish  that  takes 
make-up  so  well  it  looks 
fresh  for  literally  hours!" 


Mrs.  du  Pont  arrives  by  private  plane  at 
the  airport  near  her  New  Castle  home, 
poking  fresh  and  unwearied  after  a  quick 


shopping 


New  York. 


ponds 

j  ponds 


ANSWER: 

"Not  it  she  follows  my  system. 

It's  quick,  thorough — and 

economical!  I  just  use  the  2 
Pond's  Creams.  First  Pond's  Cold 
Cream  to  get  my  skin  really 
clean — give  it  the  clear,  'glowy' 
look  that  I  like.  And  then  I 
never  fail  to  smooth  on  Pond's 
Vanishing  Cream  for  powder 
foundation  —  it  seems  to  make 
make-up  so  much  more  attractive!" 

QUESTION  TO  MISS  MILLER: 

When  you're  outdoors  for  hours  at 
a  time,  don't  you  worry  about  sun 
and  wind  roughening  your  skin? 

ANSWER: 

"No — why  should  I?  Pond's 
Vanishing  Cream  smooths  away 
little  skin  roughnesses  in  only  one 
application.  I  usually  spread  on  a 
light  film  of  Vanishing  Cream 
before  I  go  outdoors,  too.  Jyst 
for  protection." 


SEND  FOR  TRIAL  BEAUTY  KIT 
Pond's,  Dept.   ISCV-D,    Clinton,  Conn. 

Rush  special  lubea  ofPond'i  Cold  Cream, 
Vanishing    Cream    and    Liquefying    Cream 

(quicker- Illng  cleansing  cream)  and  li><- 

different   shades  of  Pond's  Face  Powder,  1 
enclose  I  or  to  cover  i>i>»iiik<-  and  packing. 


J 


i  in.  Pond's  Extt 


DO  YOU 


WANT  YOUR  MAKE-UP  TO  STAY 
ON   FOR  HOURS  AND   HOURS? 

WANT  SOMETHING  THAT  WILL 
HELP  KEEP  A  BLEMISH  OUT  OF 
SIGHT? 

WANT  A  CREAM  THAT  WILL 
HELP  TO  PROTECT  YOUR  SKIN? 


w 


HI"  A*D£ 

^-ll\Y  FOUNDATION  Citttf 


ELIZABETH  ARD  EN'S 
WONDERFUL  NEW 

is   the   answer 


It  keeps  your  make-up  on  beauti- 
fully all  day  long  . . .  and  through 
festive  evenings.  It  helps  to 
keep  a  blemish  or  freckles  out 
of  sight...  It  gives  your  face  a 
lovely,  luminous  look.  It  helps 
to  protect  your  skin  ...  To  use  it 
most  effectively,  you  use  it  very 
lightly.  In  five  wonderful  shades 
—  Natural,  Rachel,  Dark  Rachel, 
Rose  Rachel,  Rosetta  Bronze  . .  *1 

691    FIFTH  AVENUE  .  NEW  YORK 
PLAZA    3-5846 


Cash — and  Cary 


An  added  incentive  would  seem  to  be 
a  slim,  delicate  blonde,  Miss  Phyllis 
Brooks,  to  whom  Cary  has  been  paying 
rather  arduous  court  for  so  long.  At  this 
point  they  say  he  is  breaking  up  with 
her,  that  they'll  be  married  before 
Christmas,  that  they're  already  married, 
that  they're  feuding  terrifically,  or 
that- 
Well,  whatever  the  reason  for  this  un- 
usual expenditure  on  the  part  of  the 
budget-minded  Cary — whether  it  be  in 
anticipation  of  the  day  he  carries  his 
bride  across  the  threshold,  or  whether 
it  be  that  he  is  just  plain  weary  of  doling 
out  rent — the  fact  remains  that  the  pur- 
chase of  the  Talmadge  house  remains, 
to  date,  Cary's  sole  Hollywood  "extrav- 
agance," with  one  delightful  exception — 
the  bed. 

And  there  was  an  excellent  reason  for 
that,  too.  You  see,  Cary  is  no  midget. 
He's  one  of  those  unhappy  men  who  has 
to  go  through  life  curled  up  like  a  cork- 
screw in  beds  and  Pullman  berths.  At 
first,  in  Hollywood,  Cary  accepted  his 
usual  fate  as  to  beds  with  his  usual  phil- 
osophy. Then,  one  morning,  he  awoke 
with  a  stiff  neck,  stretched  vainly  to  get 
the  kinks  out  of  his  six  feet,  one  inch 
frame,  and  announced  vehemently,  "I'm 
going  to  get  a  bed  that  fits  me." 
He  did. 

He  drew  a  plan.  He  went  down  to  a 
local  lumber  yard.  He  selected,  with 
infinite  care,  some  blond  bird's-eye 
maple.  The  result  was  the  most  amaz- 
ing, the  most  colossal  of  downy  couches 
this  side  of  Grand  Rapids.  So  huge  was 
the  bed  that  four  people  could  easily  be 
lost  in  it.  In  size,  it  had  a  startling  re- 
semblance to  a  football  field.  In  fea- 
tures, an  affinity  with  a  general  store. 
It  contained  a  built-in  radio,  shelves 
and  drawers  in  copper  and  cork,  a  car- 
afe for  water,  a  nook  for  cigarettes,  a 
section  for  magazines  and  books,  a  com- 
partment for  penny  candies — the  kind 
children  like  to  buy  in  old-fashioned 
candy  stores  —  licorice  whips,  candy 
marbles,  chews  in  wax  paper.  Once 
Cary  took  to  his  bed,  he  never  had  to 
budge. 

H  OLLYWOOD  laughed  for  weeks  about 
Cary's  bed — but  this  young  man  has 
done  more  to  Hollywood  than  merely 
give  it  something  to  laugh  at  over  its 
cocktails.  He  has  commanded  that  self- 
centered  town's  deepest  admiration  and 
respect  by  his  gestures  of  sincere  kind- 
ness and  generosity.  It  isn't  as  though 
Cary  has  broadcast  his  helping-hand 
tactics.  Just  the  opposite.  About  his 
good  deeds,  he's  as  mum  as  Harpo 
Marx.  But  word  of  them  has  a  way  of 
slipping  out.  There  are  the  people 
whom  Cary  has  helped.  They  want  the 
world  to  know  what  a  grand  guy  he  is. 
Take  Grace,  for  instance.  Her  story  is 
one  of  many: 

Grace's  mother  had  been  desperately 
ill  and  money  was  needed  for  several 
expensive  operations.  Hearing  of  her 
difficulties,  Cary  went  straight  to  Grace. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I  know  your 
mother's  very  ill,  that  your  expenses 
have  been  piling  up.  Won't  you  let  me 
give  you  a  loan?  What  are  friends  for, 
if  not  to  crash  through  with  help  when 
you  need  it?  It'll  be  a  secret  between 
us.    No  one  need  ever  know." 

Cary  has  kept  people  who  had  worked 
with  him  in  New  York  shows  as  guests 
at  his  home  for  months  at  a  time,  be- 
cause he  suspected  they  were  down  to 
their  last  penny. 

Once  when  a  man  whom  he  had 
trusted  implicitly,  cheated  Cary  out  of 


(Continued  jrom  page  22) 

$6000,  a  friend  asked  him,  "What  are 
you  going  to  do  about  it,  Cary?" 

Cary  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Nothing,"  he  replied.  "Poor  guy,  he 
hasn't  anything.  Besides,  he  must  have 
needed  the  money  terribly  to  have  done 
what  he  did." 

His  generosity  to  others  isn't  purely 
financial,  either.  Always  kind  himself, 
he  never  forgets  the  kindness  anyone 
else  has  shown  him. 

At  one  point  Cary  was  slipping  badly 
at  the  box  office,  and  everyone  in  Holly- 
wood assumed  he  was  on  his  way  out. 
But,  as  a  last  minute  reprieve,  Cary  was 
given  the  role  of  the  cockney  thief  in 
"Sylvia  Scarlett."  The  great  Katharine 
Hepburn  had  the  lead — she  was  RKO's 
fair-haired  child  at  the  time,  Cary  was 
just  another  featured  player.  If  Katie 
had  wished,  she  could  have  made  every 
scene  her  own  special  property,  and 
gently  but  firmly  kept  Cary  in  the  back- 
ground. Instead,  she  deliberately  threw 
all  possible  bits  of  business  to  Cary,  and 
whenever  he  had  a  spot  in  which  there 
was  a  chance  for  him  to  make  an  im- 
pression, she  played  with  her  back  to 
the  camera. 

Later,  when  La  Hepburn  wasn't  doing 
so  nobly  at  the  box  office  and  Holly- 
wood's "fair-weather"  gang  was  knock- 
ing her,  Cary  didn't  forget  her  kindness 
— and  remained  her  very  staunchest 
booster.  He  is  crowing  now  with  pride 
over  her  Broadway  hit  "The  Philadel- 
phia Story,"  which  so  definitely  refutes 
the  "Hepburn's  washed  up!"  theme. 

IT  is  because  Cary  has  been  so  sin- 
cerely openhanded,  so  bighearted  all 
along  the  way,  that  he  was  left  a  be- 
wildered and  terribly  hurt  man  when 
his  marriage  with  moving-picture  ac- 
tress Virginia  Cherrill  went  on  the  rocks 
in  1935.  Her  charge  in  the  divorce  ac- 
tion, that  he  had  been  lacking  in  gener- 
osity, hurt  Cary  more  than  anything.  It 
was  so  false,  so  untrue.  It  marked  the 
end  of  an  idealistic  period  in  his  life. 
He  had  dreamed  of  long  peaceful  years 
ahead  when  he  gave  up  his  carefree 
bachelor  days  to  marry  the  attractive 
Virginia.  He  had  visualized  a  Joan  and 
Darby  marriage — cozy  quiet  evenings 
at  home,  children.  But  this  wasn't  real- 
ity. No  person  whose  eyes  were  not 
blinded  by  love  could  expect  a  girl  as 
beautiful,  as  sought-after  as  Virginia,  to 
be  content  with  the  dream  existence 
Cary  believed  in.  Yet  the  shattering  of 
Cary's  dream  did  not  cut  so  cruelly  as 
the  cold  harshness  of  that  divorce 
charge.  The  bitterness  is  still  with  him, 
which  is  why  some  people  doubt  that 
pretty  Phyllis  Brooks  will  ever  share 
the  new  home  with  him,  although  they 
have  been  one  of  Hollywood's  most  de- 
voted couples. 

A  person  with  Cary's  Boy  Scout,  Do- 
A-Good-Turn-Daily  qualities  could  go 
through  life  being  a  fearful  stuffed  shirt 
without  an  ounce  of  humor  to  his  name. 
But  not  Cary.  He  can  take  it.  Witness 
Vaffaire  pelican: 

It  had  its  beginning  when  two  of 
Cary's  neighbors  with  Peck's  Bad  Boy 
tendencies  caught  a  pelican  and  decided 
Cary's  bathroom  was  the  place  for  it. 
So  they  tied  a  piece  of  twine  around  its 
beak  to  keep  him  from  biting  (the  peli- 
can, I  mean)  and  left  him  fastened  se- 
curely in  the  middle  of  the  room.  A 
half  hour  later,  Cary  awoke  from  peace- 
ful slumber  and  went  to  take  his 
shower.  He  had  been  gadding  the  night 
before  and  his  head  still  felt  a  trifle 
fuzzy.  So  when  he  came  face  to  face 
with  the  strange  looking,  awkward  ani- 


mal with  the  long  bill  going  clack, 
clack,  clack,  Cary  mentally  took  the 
pledge  and  looked  around  for  pink 
elephants  on  the  wall.  Then  he  let  out 
a  mighty  roar  of  laughter,  and  went 
after  his  two  friends. 

uARY  is  notoriously  absent-minded. 
There  was  the  time  he  invited  three 
friends  to  Sunday  morning  breakfast. 
When  they  put  in  an  appearance  on  the 
appointed  day  and  hour,  the  Filipino 
house  boy  who  answered  the  door  im- 
passively remarked,  "Mr.  Grant,  he  still 
asleep." 

"But  he  invited  us  to  breakfast." 

"Mr.  Grant  no  tell  me." 

For  a  half  hour  the  friends  waited  for 
Cary  to  waken.  Finally,  in  hungry  des- 
peration, they  stampeded  into  his  bed- 
room. Cary  looked  sleepily  surprised  at 
the  intrusion.  Then,  yawning  widely, 
he  said,  "Well,  after  all,  just  because  I 
invited  you  to  breakfast,  doesn't  mean 
I  have  to  be  there,  does  it?" 

Cary  is  meticulously  neat  about  his 
clothes.  There  must  be  a  place  for 
everything — ties  here,  socks  there,  col- 
lar buttons  yonder;  yet,  paradoxically, 
he  can  never  put  his  hands  on  what  he 
wants  when  he  wants  it.  He  is  forever 
mislaying  his  car  keys.  He  is  forever 
bellowing  around  the  set:  "Where  is  my 
script?"  "Has  anyone  seen  my  fountain 
pen?"    "Who  took  my  scarf?" 

Cary  is  easily  annoyed  by  trifles.  He 
becomes  impatient  at  having  to  auto- 
graph pictures  and  bored  with  having 
to  perform  other  duty  jobs.  He  will 
procrastinate  as  long  as  possible,  but, 
in  all  fairness,  we  will  say  for  him  that, 
eventually,  he  will  tackle  whatever  he 
is  supposed  to  do. 

Cary  is  not  a  fatalist.  He  is  a  man 
with  a  single-track  mind,  who  will 
stick  like  grim  death  to  any  subject  or 
idea  that  interests  him.  During  one  of 
Hollywood's  worst  earthquakes,  he  car- 
ried on  a  prolonged  telephone  conversa- 
tion about  a  subject  close  to  his  heart, 
blissfully  unmindful  of  the  tremors  that 
were  rocking  his  dressing  room  back 
and  forth. 

Cary  is  consistently  modest  about  his 
own  achievements  and  abilities  to  the 
point  of  having  an  inferiority  complex. 
The  morning  after  the  preview  of  his 
first  picture,  "This  Is  the  Night,"  he 
called  up  a  friend  in  the  studio's  pub- 
licity department. 

"Good-by,"  he  said.  "I'm  leaving 
town." 

"What!"  the  friend  gasped. 

"Yes,  I'm  checking  out  fast.  I  saw  the 
preview  last  night.  I've  never  seen  any- 
thing so  stinkeroo  in  my  life,  and  I  was* 
worse." 

"Hold  on,  Cary,  what  are  you  talking 
about?  Everyone's  raving  about  the 
picture." 

And  it  took  the  publicity  department 
an  hour  and  a  half  of  solid  arguing  to 
convince  Cary  he  still  might  have  a 
movie  future. 

More  recently,  after  another  preview, 
he  phoned  a  close  friend  to  get  her  opin- 
ion of  his  performance. 

"Didn't  your  agent  tell  you?"  she 
asked. 

"Sure  he  did,"  he  said.  "But  no  mat- 
ter how  terrible  I  was,  he'd  be  sure  to 
tell  me  I  was  stupendous,  colossal.  I 
knew  you'd  tell  me  the  honest-to-God 
truth,  with  no  punches  pulled." 

— And  this  from  the  tall,  dark,  young 
man  who  goes  around  with  a  furrowed 
brow  and  an  anxious  look  saying,  "Look 
here,  do  you  think  I've  gone  Holly- 
wood?" 


72 


PHOTOPLAY 


Photoplay's  Own  Beauty  Shop 


(Continued  from  page  68) 


hair  softly  and  simply,   and  above  all, 
keep  it  smooth  and  shining. 

"I  notice  a  girl's  mouth  first,"  said 
Jeffrey  Lynn.  "Her  teeth.  If  they're 
strong  and  white  and  clean  looking. 
Then  the  way  she  makes  it  up.  If  she's 
got  lipstick  all  over  her  teeth  or  if  the 
edges  are  blurred,  I  don't  like  it.  And 
I  don't  like  too  much  lipstick  either.  A 
heavy  smear  of  red  paint  certainly 
doesn't  appeal  to  a  man." 

There's  no  excuse  for  having  your 
lipstick  on  unevenly  when  a  little  time 
and  practice  will  perfect  your  method 
of  applying  it.  A  lipstick  brush  will 
give  a  smooth  outline  to  your  mouth 
and  cleansing  tissues  will  remove  the 
surplus,  so  your  lips  have  a  smooth  mat 
finish.  And  do  watch  out  for  lipstick  on 
your  teeth. 

John  Payne  is  another  who  dislikes 
too  much  lipstick.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  he  dislikes  artificiality  of  any 
kind.  "Those  thin  eyebrows,"  he 
groaned.  "They  take  all  character  away 
from  a  girl's  face.  And  too  much  make- 
up always  makes  me  want  to  wash  her 
face  and  see  what  she  looks  like  un- 
derneath all  the  paint.  I  like  a  girl  to 
look  wholesome  and  natural  and  unaf- 
fected." 

John's  wife,  Anne  Shirley,  illustrates 
perfectly  what  he  means.  Anne  is  one 
of  the  most  natural  girls  in  Hollywood. 
Her  eyebrows  are  unplucked,  and  their 
strong  curve  gives  character  and 
warmth  to  her  face.  She  uses  very  lit- 
tle make-up  and  that  very  unobtrusive- 
ly, and  her  clear  healthy  skin  and  bright 
eyes  need  no  embellishing. 

Cesar  Romero's  pet  peeve  against 
women  is  that  they  make  up  in  public. 
"I  can  take  anything  but  that,"  he  says. 
"When  they  start  powdering  their  faces 
or  putting  on  lipstick  across  a  dinner 
table,  I'm  disillusioned.  I  know  they're 
all  made  up,  and  I  like  it,  but  I  don't 
want  to  see  the  process  going  on.  It 
detracts  from  their  glamour." 

Perhaps  your  escort  winces  inwardly, 
too,  when  you  take  out  your  compact 
mirror  to  repair  damages.  Try  preserv- 
ing the  illusion  you  worked  so  hard  to 
obtain,  and  make  up  your  face  in  pri- 
vate. 

"I  don't  like  women  who  aren't  femi- 
nine," said  George  Brent  firmly.  "They 
don't  have  to  be  clinging  vines,  and 
they  must  be  intelligent  to  be  interest- 
ing, but  they  should  have  an  air  of  deli- 
cacy and  charm  about  them.  They 
should  make  the  most  of  their  feminin- 
ity— be  delicately  made  up,  have  soft 
voices,  and  all  the  feminine  qualities 
that  men  have  idealized  for  so  long. 

"They  should  be  neat,  too,"  he  said, 
warming  up  to  his  subject.  "Women 
are  more  disorderly  than  men,  and  more 
careless  in  their  habits,  I  think.  I  hate 
to  see  a  woman  get  lipstick  on  a  napkin, 
for  example,  or  leave  a  red  smear 
around  a  glass.  And  the  inside  of  their 
handbags!  Always  a  clutter  of  things. 
Old  ticket  stubs  and  bits  of  paper  with 
addresses  on  them.  It's  so  messy.  Men 
notice  things  like  that." 

"It's  a  very  feminine  habit,  and  you 
said  you  liked  feminine  women,"  I 
pointed  out  weakly,  trying  to  hide  my 
own  handbag  someplace  where  he 
couldn't  see  it  bulging. 

"You're  evading  the  issue,"  he 
grinned.  "You  know  what  I  mean.  Fem- 
inine, but  not  careless  or  untidy  or  dis- 
orderly." 

Kent  Taylor  notices  a  woman's  com- 
plexion first.  If  it  isn't  clear  and  smooth 
and  healthy,  he  doesn't  bother  to  notice 
anything  else  about  her.  "Unless  she 
has  on  one  of  those  funny  hats,"  he 
added.     "In  that  case,  I  can't  see  any- 


thing else  but  the  hat,  and  I  keep  won- 
dering what  she  thinks  she  looks  like  in 
it.  Those  really  ridiculous  hats  some 
of  them  are  wearing  keep  me  from 
finding  out  whether  I'm  going  to  like 
her  or  not." 

Is  your  new  hat  overshadowing  your 
personality?  Take  a  good  look  at  it.  It 
may  be  smart  to  other  women,  but  if  it's 
ridiculous  to  the  man  in  your  life,  it's 
not  serving  its  purpose. 

"Her  eyes,"  said  Jimmy  Ellison.  "I 
look  at  them  first.  They  don't  have  to 
be  large,  and  I  have  no  preferences  as 
to  color,  but  they  must  be  clear  and 
sparkling  and  alive.  If  a  woman's  eyes 
are  dull,  then  she's  probably  pretty  dull 
herself.  I  don't  like  too  much  mascara, 
either,  or  too  much  eye  shadow." 

A  good  eye  lotion  or  one  of  those  herb 
packs  that  you  place  over  your  lids  will 
brighten  your  eyes  and  clear  them  so 
they  don't  have  the  dull  appearance 
that  Jimmy  dreads. 

If  you're  properly  made  up,  no  one 
will  notice  whether  or  not  you're  wear- 
ing mascara  and  eye '  shadow.  The 
shadow  should  give  just  an  illusion  of 
color,  so  apply  it  sparingly  and  blend 
it  carefully.  If  you  apply  your  mascara 
with  an  almost  dry  brush,  and  then  sep- 
arate the  lashes  with  another  clean  lit- 
tle brush,  you'll  get  the  glamorous  ef- 
fect of  mascara  without  that  beaded, 
made-up  look. 

"Deliver  me  from  those  long,  blood- 
red  fingernails,"  said  Ronald  Reagan.  "I 
think  they're  awful.  They  look  like 
gory  claws." 

•  Fortunately  for  Ronald,  bright-red 
nail  polish  is  no  longer  as  smart  as  it 
was  last  season.  The  softer,  more  deli- 
cate colors  are  coming  back  into  favor. 

Your  hands  should  be  soft  and  white 
and  well  kept  to  meet  with  men's  favor, 
too.  Always  smooth  hand  lotion  into 
them  after  your  hands  have  been  in 
water.  And  when  you  dry  your  hands, 
make  a  point  of  smoothing  back  the 
cuticle  to  keep  your  nails  looking  well- 
groomed.  There's  nothing  that  ruins 
the  appearance  of  your  hands  so  much 
as  a  broken  nail.  When  that  happens 
to  you  (and  it  always  does,  sooner  or 
later)  either  have  a  false  one  put  on  or 
file  the  others  down  so  that  your  nails 
are  symmetrical. 

There  are  so  many  other  things  that 
women  are  apt  to  be  careless  about  and 
that  men  notice  and  dislike.  One  of 
them  is  powder  that  comes  off  on  their 
coats.  That  really  is  unnecessary,  since 
a  good  powder  base  will  keep  your 
powder  firmly  attached  to  your  face. 
And  a  powder  brush  to  brush  off  all 
the  surplus  powder  is  double  insurance 
against  this  mishap. 

Rough  elbows  are  another  detail  that 
we're  so  apt  to  overlook.  Smooth 
cream  into  them  before  going  to  bed 
at  night  or  try  patting  a  little  hand 
lotion  into  your  elbows  each  time  you 
put  some  on  your  hands.  If  you  have 
a  very  advanced  case  of  rough  and  red 
elbows,  soaking  them  in  warm  oil  will 
do  much  to  improve  them. 

Very  few  of  the  men  objected  to 
bleached  hair,  but  they  were  unanimous 
in  their  disapproval  of  that  dark  part 
where  the  natural  color  hair  grows  in. 
If  you're  going  to  be  a  blonde,  be  a  con- 
sistent blonde,  and  keep  your  hair  al- 
ways the  same  color,  they  said. 

So  check  up  on  yourselves.  Try  to 
look  at  yourself  with  a  man's  eyes  to 
see  if  you're  overlooking  anything  that's 
particularly  important  to  him,  that  he 
notices  first  of  all.  And  I  hope  that  this 
survey  of  what  the  Hollywood  men  no- 
tice first  about  women  will  help  you  to 
get  the  man  in  your  life. 


every  gesture  glamourous 
with  Itevliiii  \iiil  Enamel 


1  FIRST  learned  of  Revlon  Nail  Enamel 
three  years  ago  at  my  beauty  salon. 
The  manicurist  praised  its  long-wear- 
ing qualities,  ease  of  application  and 
wide  range  of  fashionable  shades.  So, 
as  with  most  of  my  friends,  Revlon 
has  been  my  favorite  nail  enamel  ever 
since,"  says  Muriel  Maxwell,  one  of 
America's  most  glamourous  photo- 
graphic models. 

Thousands  of  smart  fingertips  —  Rev- 
lon fingertips  —  introduced  to  Revlon 
at  their  beauty  salons  are  constantly 
on  parade  everywhere  ...  at  the  thea- 
tre flicking  the  program  pages  before 
the  curtain  rises;  at  the  opera  waving 
a  greeting  to  a  friend  .  .  .  across  the 
luncheon  or  bridge  table. 


Fashion-minded  women  all  over  the 
world  entrust  their  fingertip  glamour 
to  Revlon  Cream  Nail  Enamel  year  after 
year.  Revlon,  with  its  21  fashion-right 
colors,  its  gleaming  lustre,  "smooth- 
as-silk"  finish,  enduring  wear,  holds 
the  friends  it  makes  .  .  .  lends  charm 
to  every  fingertip  gesture  .  .  .  confi- 
dence to  every  movement  of  the  hand. 

REVLON  LIPSTICKS  in  9  glowing  colors  go 
with  Revlon  Nail  Enamel  shades.  Newest 
color  excitements  are  Bravo,  Chilibean,  Red 
Dice,  Shy.  Revlon  Lipsticks  are  soft-tex- 
tured, lustrous,  long-lasting.  Price,  $l.OO. 

Revlon  Cream  Nail  Enamel,    {^^J^\ 
made  of  the  finest  ingredients    ^asEis^ 
obtainable  .  .  .  contains  no  acetone .  .  .  won't 
cause  splitting  or  cracking  nails. 


FEBRUARY,      I  940 


73 


This  "Magazine  Cover"  Girl  says 

I  LOVE  T>1NG€€ 

SMOOTH  COLOR' 


I  his  cream  base  lipstick 
ends  that  painted  look 

No  wonder  beautiful  artists'  models  and 
stars  of  the  stage  and  screen  love  this 
smooth,  "cream  base"  lipstick.  For 
Tangee's  brilliant  new  shade  — THEAT- 
RICAL—gives  their  lips  daring,  exciting 
color  without  a  trace  of  that  unpleasant 
"painted  look." 

Try  Tangee  theatrical  yourself.  See 
how  smoothly  it  goes  on,  how  exciting  it 
looks!  It's  non-drying,  non-greasy  and 
blends  beautifully  with  all  complexions 
and  costume  colors. 

Matching  Rouge  and 
Powder.   Use  Tangee 

THEATRICAL   Rouge  to 

P  echo  the  brilliant  tone 
~~  i  of  your  Theatrical 
Lipstick.  Use  Tangee 
Powder,  too,  to  give  your  skin  a  flattering 
underglow.  When  you  want  less  vivid 
make-up,  use  Tangee  natural.  This  cream 
base  lipstick  changes,  when  applied,  to  the 
shade  of  rose  or  red  most  becoming  to  you. 


USE  THIS  VALUABLE  COUPON 

The  George  W.  Luft  Co..  417  Fifth  Ave..  New  York 
City  .  .  .  Please  rush  "Theatrical  Make-Up  Set" 
of  sample  Tangee  Theatrical  Lipstick.  Rouge 
Compact  and  Face  Powder.  I  enclose  IOC  (stamps 
or  coin).  (15tf  in  Canada.) 

Check  Shade  of  Powder  Desired: 
G  Peach  D  Light  Rachel       D  Flesh 

D  Rachel         D  Dark  Rachel       D  Tan 


|     Street- 


Tears  Into  Laughter 


career  was  almost  ruined  by  cheap 
films.  A  fine  trouper,  she  fought  until 
she  got  the  proper  roles,  and  then  made 
good. 

Robert  Taylor's  background  and  early 
life  were  different  from  hers.  He  had 
the  advantages  an  only  child  can  obtain 
from  parents  in  comfortable  circum- 
stances. She  fought  for  everything. 
That  he  will  prove  an  understanding 
person  by  lavishing  on  her  the  tender- 
ness and  affection  she  lacked  in  her 
childhood,  and  which  she  gives  so  un- 
stintingly,  is  conceded  by  those  who 
know. 

I  HIS  article  concerns  Barbara  —  and 
those  who  are  fond  of  her  are  happy  to 
include  her  husband.  Neither  has  ever 
made  friendship  a  crutch  upon  which  to 
lean  in  Hollywood.  Both  have  been 
sturdy  and  real.  Thrown  on  the  lap  of 
fortune,  they  would  make  room  for  all. 

An  orphan  girl,  Barbara  adopted  her 
boy,  "to  bring  to  another  child  the  ad- 
vantages I  was  denied." 

I  first  met  Barbara  a  dozen  years  ago. 

I  was  not  known  as  a  gentle  inter- 
viewer.   She  came  alone  to  meet  me. 

"Miss  Stanwyck,"  I  said,  "I'm  really 
not  so  hard-boiled.  I'm  merely  so  at  af- 
fectation. I'm  not  ashamed  of  my  own 
background — my  father  was  a  ditch- 
digger  who  divided  his  life  between  a 
shovel  and  a  bottle." 

"Oh  then,"  and  her  smile  was  lovely 
to  see — "I'm  a  notch  above  you — my 
daddy  was  a  bricklayer  who  liked  a 
bottle,  too — a  full  one,  I  mean." 

She  was  then  married  to  Frank  Fay 
and  at  the  beginning  of  her  fame. 

What  happened  between  them  is  not 
for  this  space.  Frank  knows  quite  well 
— that  one  does  not  find  a  Barbara 
Stanwyck  every  day. 

If  read  as  fiction,  her  life  would  seem 
unreal. 

It  is,  however,  heroic  and  true. 

She  early  knew  the  tragedy  she  por- 
trays so  well  upon  the  screen. 

Her  mother,  about  to  bring  another 
child  into  the  world,  was  pushed  from 
a  moving  streetcar  by  a  drunken  stran- 
ger and  killed.  The  stranger  was  never 
found. 

Barbara  was  under  four  at  the  time. 
Her  father,  a  bricklayer,  worked  when- 
ever possible.  Under  the  strain  of  trying 
to  keep  his  four  motherless  children  to- 
gether, he  drank  too  much,  and,  in  des- 
peration, went  to  the  Panama  Canal 
Zone.     His  children  were  scattered. 

The  little  girl,  with  face  finely 
chiseled,  long  auburn  hair,  and  large 
life-hurt  eyes,  was  taken  in  by  a  family 
in  Brooklyn,  her  native  city. 

The  family  had  a  demented  son.  He 
cut  Barbara  with  a  knife. 

She  carries  the  scar  today. 

With  such  vivid  experiences  she 
reached  her  twelfth  year. 

Her  two  sisters  were  older,  her 
brother  younger  than  herself.  A  vaude- 
ville dancer  became  interested  in  Bar- 
bara's two  sisters,  and  taught  them 
the  rudiments  of  dancing.  They  would 
meet  Barbara  whenever  possible  and 
pass  what  they  had  learned  on  to  her. 

nFTER  six  years  in  the  Panama  Canal 
Zone,  Barbara's  father  sent  the  children 
word  that  he  was  returning  home. 

He  sent  money  for  a  down  payment 
on  furniture.  The  four  youngsters  ea- 
gerly anticipated  the  arrival  of  the  boat 
in  their  pathetic  Sunday  best.  They 
were  to  have  a  home  at  last. 

The  great  boat  came  into  the  harbor. 


(Continued  from  page  17) 

When  it  anchored,  the  captain  ap- 
proached the  expectant  children  and 
told  them  that  their  father  had  died  and 
was  buried  at  sea. 

The  children  stared  through  wet  eyes. 
They  then  went  their  orphaned  ways 
again. 

The  furniture  was  returned — at  a  dis- 
count. 

At  thirteen,  Barbara  left  behind  all 
her  childish  joys,  if  any,  and  went  to 
work  at  ten  dollars  a  week  for  a  tele- 
phone  company. 

She  not  only  supported  and  clothed 
herself  on  this  amount,  but  helped  her 
younger  brother. 

It  was  one  for  all  and  all  for  one  in 
her  clan. 

When  fourteen,  a  foreman  spoke 
harshly  to  her.  Being  Irish  she  told  him 
to  go  to  hell.  As  he  was  already 
working  for  a  daily  wage,  he  did  not  go. 
Instead,  he  promoted  her.  She  re- 
mained with  the  company  until  she  was 
about  fifteen.  She  then  became  ob- 
sessed with  an  ambition  to  become  a 
missionary  in  China. 

Upon  learning  how  far  it  was  to  the 
Orient,  she  decided  to  prolong  her  de- 
parture. 

At  this  time  she  selected  the  name  she 
was  later  to  make  famous. 

Glancing  at  an  ancient  English  theater 
program,  she  read  the  name  of  James 
Stanwyck.  She  called  herself  Barbara 
Stanwyck,  and  was  Ruby  Stevens  no 
longer. 

She  now  studied  dancing  in  earnest. 
To  keep  herself  alive,  she  did  whatever 
work  possible,  from  being  an  office  girl 
to  selling  patterns  for  a  woman's  maga- 
zine. 

A  RIFT  came  in  the  sky  after  many 
months  when  she  read  that  girls  were 
wanted  by  the  Remick  Music  Company 
— the  salary,  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 

She  was  the  first  to  call  next  morn- 
ing. 

Expecting  work  as  a  typist,  she  was 
amazed  when  the  man  asked  her  if  she 
could  dance.  It  was  the  turn  in  the 
road  that  changed  the  course  of  her  life, 
though  she  did  not  know  it. 

She  promptly  answered  "Yes." 

"Where  did  you  ever  dance?"  was  the 
next  question. 


PHOTOPLAY  plans  to  fea- 
ture full-length  presentations 
of  the  great  modern  novels 
from  which  some  of  our  finest 
motion  pictures  are  being 
made!    Don't   miss   the   next 

MOVIE  BOOK  OF  THE 

MONTH 
in  MARCH  PHOTOPLAY 


Her  sisters  had  danced  at  the  Mari- 
gold Gardens  in  Chicago. 

Barbara  told  a  white  lie.  May  it 
never  be  charged  against  her. 

"The  Marigold  Gardens,  Chicago," 
was  her  answer. 

The  company  was  putting  on  a  show. 
Barbara  was  given  a  job  in  the  chorus. 

She  hurried  to  her  sisters  with  the 
news. 

Together  they  looked  up  the  dancing 
teacher  who  had  been  in  vaudeville. 
She  went  through  every  step  the  three 
could  devise,  and  then  took  her  place  in 
the  line-up. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  performance, 
she  was  given  the  curt  approval,  "You'll 
do." 

It  was  enough.  She  lived  her  work 
every  waking  hour. 

AFTER  several  weeks  Barbara  attracted 
the  attention  of  a  producer,  and  when 
"The  Noose"  was  opened,  she  was  given 
a  small  role.  She  put  so  much  fire  into 
her  few  speaking  lines,  that  when  the 
highly  successful  play  "Burlesque" 
opened  on  Broadway,  she  was  given  one 
of  the  leading  roles. 

She  then  met  Frank  Fay,  who  was  a 
headliner  at  the  Palace  Theater.  After 
marriage,  they  formed  the  team  of  Fay 
and  Stanwyck  and  appeared  at  a  lead- 
ing New  York  night  club.  Attracting 
the  attention  of  a  motion-picture  scout, 
they  were  soon  offered  contracts  to 
come  to  Hollywood. 

A  quick  wit,  an  Irish  brogue,  a  win- 
ning personality  had  made  Frank  Fay 
nationally  known  as  a  monologue  artist. 
Barbara  was  unknown. 

Fay  became  successful  in  Hollywood. 

Barbara  appeared  in  "The  Locked 
Door"  with  Rod  LaRoque. 

It  nearly  locked  the  door  of  her 
future. 

So  bad  was  the  impression  that  it 
was  some  time  before  she  was  given 
another  screen  test.  When  it  finally 
came  at  Warner  Brothers  Studio,  she 
was  told  that  she  had  no  screen  possi- 
bilities. 

"A  lot  of  low  weeks  passed." 
Nearly  everything  was  gone  but 
courage. 

When  asked  to  make  another  test  she 
said,  "I'm  through  with  the  damned 
tests." 

Frank  Fay,  without  his  wife's  knowl- 
edge, went  to  Harry  Cohn,  chief  of  Co- 
lumbia Films. 

Barbara's  record  was  not  one  to  make 
Cohn  interested.  He  finally  gave  her  a 
small  chance.  One  discouragement 
after  another  came,  until  finally  Frank 
Capra,  ace  director  at  Columbia,  cast 
her  in  "Ladies  of  Leisure."  Barbara 
went  on  from  there.  Her  work  in 
"Criminal  Code"  stood  out  as  the  finest 
of  the  year. 

She  had  taken  emotion  and  drive  and 
great  understanding  from  the  Brooklyn 
streets.  America  at  last  had  an  actress 
from  a  background  of  sorrow.  I  was 
alone  in  my  prediction  that  she  was  po- 
tentially a  very  great  actress,  that  she 
would  emerge  as  had  her  great  sisters, 
Bernhardt,  Duse,  and  that  other  girl, 
born  of  Gypsy-Jew  parents  in  a  wagon 
on  a  road  in  Europe — Rachel.  She  had 
tremendous  sincerity  as  had  they. 

In  "Golden  Boy"  she  was  splendid. 
In  "Remember  the  Night"  she  is  so  real 
that  the  filmy  structure  shakes  in  which 
she  appears. 

She  is  still  going  to  far  higher  places 
than  she  has  ever  been.  She  has  just 
begun  to  climb. 

May  her  shadow  be  long  in  the  hills! 


74 


PHOTOPLAY 


hfi* 


Myf 


BY  FRANCES  HUGHES,  NEW  YORK  FASHION  EDITOR 
ASSISTING  GWENN  WALTERS,  FASHION  EDITOR 


GLOVES  are  going  to  be  very  important 
this  spring!  Women  who  don't  wear 
gloves  will  be  conspicuous  for  their  bad 
taste.  Women  who  do  will  depend  on  their 
gloves  for  a  fashion  lift.  The  big  news  is 
that  gloves  are  on  the  up!  Watch  for 
longer  lengths.  Shorties  for  driving  cars 
and  other  busybody  stuff,  but  from  lunch- 
eon on,  gloves  are  social-climbers.  Wear 
colored  gloves  to  electrify  sober  blacks, 
browns  and  greys,  and  pin  your  faith  to 
colors  like  Hunting  red,  Blue  Alerte,  tur- 
quoise, coral,  petal  pink,  Brass  Hat  gold 
and  champagne.  They'll  pick  you  up  like 
an  aperitif.  Air-conditioning  is  news  in 
gloves  too,  and  scalloped  cuffs,  seams 
whipped  in  contrasting  colors,  and  wrists 
shirred  as  fancifully  as  dresses.  Smart 
women,  please  note,  crush  and  wrinkle 
their  gloves  around  their  wrists  and  wear 
bracelets  and  bangles  outside. 


I.  Daniel  Hays'  "Finger  Free"  cocktail  gloves  with 
shirred  cuffs.  Riotous  colors.  $2  at  The  Emporium, 
San  Francisco.  2.  Ireland's  air-conditioned  English 
doeskin  shorties.  White  or  natural,  $4.  Washable 
"Lavando,"  all  colors,  $4.50,  Stern  Bros.,  New  York. 
3.  Speare's  4-button  slip-on  in  washable  suede — 
potent  accent  colors,  $1.95.  Altman's,  New  York; 
Harzfeld's,  Kansas  City.  4.  Van  Raalte's  10-button 
"Amer-suede"  slip-on,  $2  at  McCreery's,  New  York. 

5.  Meyer's  pigskin  shortie  with  contrasting  wall, 
thong    lacing,    tassel.     $3    at    James    McCutcheon. 

6.  Fownes'  6-button  washable  "Melova"  suede  slip- 
on.  In  colors,  $3.50;  in  white  and  natural,  $3. 
Blackton-Fifth  Avenue.  7.  Kayser's  "Good  Times," 
perforated  English  doeskin  back,  Kay-suede  palm. 
White,  natural,  black.  $1.25  at  Kayser  Stores,  New 
York.  8.  Aris'  scalloped  6-button  glove.  "Kasa- 
nova"  suede.  Rainbow  colors.  Washable.  $6  at  the 
Denver  Dry  Goods  Co.,  Denver,  Colorado.  All 
jewelry  by  Corot.    Opera  and   Harlequin  glasses  by 

Lugene,  New  York 


. , .  4c&t  J?&&Z  a  #u*z£a4£/ 


How  much  more  you  can  get  in  a  suitcase  if  things  are  folded  nicely  than 
if  they're  wadded  up  and  tossed  in !  And  this  same  principle  makes  a  Kotex 
sanitary  napkin  less  bulky  than  pads  made  with  loose,  wadded  fillers  .  .  . 
Kotex  has  a  soft,  carefully  folded  center  (with  more  material  where  you 
need  it . . .  less  in  the  non-effective  portions  of  the  pad).  So  naturally  —  it's  less 
bulky!  Less  apt  to  chafe,  too  ...  for  Kotex  is  entirely  sheathed  in  cotton 
before  it's  wrapped  in  gauze! 


Why  be  self-conscious!  With  Kotex 
your  secret  is  safe !  Pressed  ends  (patented 
by  Kotex)  never  make  embarrassing,  tell- 
tale outlines  .  .  .  the  way  napkins  with 
thick,  stubby  ends  so  often  do! 

And  —  for  complete  peace  of  mind  — 
remember  this.  Between  the  soft  folds  of 
Kotex  there's  a  moisture -resistant  panel! 
A  special  safeguard  .  .  .  newly  developed 
by  the  Kotex  Laboratories! 


FEEL  ITS  NEW  SOFTNESS 

PROVE  ITS  NEW  SAFETY 

COMPARE   ITS   NEW 

FLATTER  ENDS 


Kotex*  comes  in  3  sizes,  too!  Super 
—  Regular  —  Junior.  Kotex  is  the  only  dis- 
posable sanitary  napkin  that  offers  you  a 
choice  of  3  different  sizes!  (So  you  may 
vary  the  size  pad  according  to  each  day's 
needs!) 

All  3  sizes  have  soft,  folded  centers  .  .  . 
fiat,  tapered  ends  .  .  .  and  moisture  -  resis- 
tant, "safety  panels'.  All  3  sues  sell  for 
the  same  low  £>  ice  ! 


FEBRUARY,      1940 


y. 


ic  ^c&zcety'  *&*t 


t*Uru/  frCnc-te,    -Wi 


7" 


&z<vt*t>& 


jf/' 


Santa  Fe 


ON  YOUR  TRIP  TO  OR  FROM 

California 

THE  ECONOMICAL         M 

scout 

SWIFT  DAILY  COACH-SLEEPER  TRAIN 


Here's  the  "Budget  Special"  for  thrifty 
folks  who  seek  the  utmost  in  travel  com- 
fort to  and  from  California  at  the  very 
lowest  cost  .  .  . 

This  spic  and  span  Santa  Fe  economy 
train,  daily  between  Chicago  and  Los 
Angeles,  is  swift  and  air-conditioned.  Its 
ultra-modern  chair  cars  are  streamlined 
in  stainless  steel;  its  tourist  sleepers  are 
roomy  and  restful.  And  in  the  Scout's 
cheery  dining  car  delicious  Fred  Harvey 
meals  are  served  for  only  90c  a  day! 

Then,  too,  there  is  a  cozy  lounge  car 
for  sleeper  patrons;  a  beautiful  chair  car 
reserved  exclusively  for  women  and  chil- 
dren; and  the  free  and  friendly  service  of 
a  uniformed  courier-nurse. 

HERE'S  ALL  IT  COSTS 

The  Scout's  one-way  coach  fare,  Chicago  to  Los 
Angeles,  or  San  Francisco,  is  only  $39.50 ;  round  trip, 
$65.  Tourist  sleeper  fare,  one  way,  $49.90;  round 
trip,  $74,  plus  berth  charges.  There's  no  need  to  shop 
around  /or  lou.er  rail  fares — there  just  aren't  any.1 

CpCr  A  new  booklet,  showing  the  Scout 
*  "■•I.  from  end  to  end  in  natural  color 
photographs!  Just  mail  the  coupon  below. 

T.  B.  Gallaher,  P.  T.  M.,  Santa  Fe  System  Lines 

1327  Railway  Exchange,  Chicago,  III. 
Send  new  Scout  booklet  □ ;  Details  on  Grand  Canyon  □ 
Dude  Ranches  □ ;  Yosemite  □ ;  Escorted  Tours  Q ; 
and  fares  from to 

Address 


How  the  Movies  Can  Help  Keep  Us  Out  of  War 


That  is  the  pattern  on  which  we  must 
build. 

There  are  all  kinds  of  movies  and 
every  kind  has  its  value  from  the  edu- 
cational point  of  view.  The  newsreel 
can  tell  the  inhabitants  of  any  country 
what  is  going  on  within  its  boundaries, 
and  in  other  countries  of  the  world.  One 
need  never  go  outside  of  one's  own 
community,  and  yet  one  can  see  and 
understand  conditions  all  over  the 
world.  Through  the  newsreel  young 
and  old  can  know  what  war  is  really 
like,  what  it  means  not  to  soldiers  alone, 
but  to  civilian  populations.  They  can 
know  what  are  the  actual  methods  used 
in  war  today,  what  are  the  results  to 
victims  and  to  attackers  alike.  The 
movies  can  show  us  what  are  the  eco- 
nomic conditions  in  our  own  country, 
and  in  other  parts  of  the  world;  can 
show  us  working  conditions  of  people 
in  far  countries,  their  wages  and  stand- 
ards of  living,  why  their  habits  and  cus- 
toms are  our  concern. 

Religions  have  been  a  controlling 
force  in  the  daily  lives  of  millions  of 
people,  and  there  is  drama  in  the  stories 
of  these  religions,  and  there  is  much 
connected  with  them  which  might  point 
the  way  not  only  to  peace  for  this  coun- 
try, but  to  peace  for  the  world  at  large. 

I  realize  that  movies  covering  many 
of  these  points  have  been  made.  For 
instance,  "The  Story  of  Louis  Pasteur" 
points  the  way  to  a  new  standard  of 
success — selfless  service  to  man  rather 
than  the  acquisition  of  material  pos- 
sessions. Documentary  films  such  as 
"The  River"  and  "The  City"  give  us 
new   conceptions   of   our  own  country, 


(Continued  from  page  15) 

while  such  diversified  fictional  stories 
as  "The  Good  Earth,"  "Man  of  Aran," 
and  "Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips,"  as  well  as 
the  many  excellent  travel  films,  bring  us 
to  closer  understanding  with  people  in 
other  lands.  War  itself,  with  all  its  suf- 
fering for  both  combatants  and  civilians, 
all  its  futility,  has  been  brought  home 
to  us  in  such  pictures  as  "All  Quiet  on 
the  Western  Front"  and  "Grand  Illu- 
sion;" and  "Boys  Town"  showed  us  what 
strength  and  solace  we  can  find  in  re- 
ligious faith  in  today's  stormy  world. 

But  this  is  only  the  beginning.  The 
movies,  by  showing  us  through  these 
pictures  what  they  can  do,  must  now 
exert  themselves  further  along  educa- 
tional lines  to  the  end  that  not  only  may 
we  keep  out  of  this  war,  but  that  all  men 
everywhere  may  keep  out  of  all  war. 

Here  and  now,  however,  it  seems  to 
me  there  are  some  concrete  things 
which  the  movies  can  do  to  serve  this 
particular  time  and  to  direct,  through 
all  the  methods  at  their  disposal,  the 
people's  attention  to  the  fact  that  some- 
time soon  we  must  be  at  peace  again 
in  the  world. 

Whether  one  side  wins  in  Europe  or 
the  other,  or  whether  there  is  a  stale- 
mate, the  rest  of  the  world  is  faced  with 
the  need  for  rehabilitating  populations 
which  have  given  themselves  up  to  de- 
struction for  a  given  number  of  months 
or  years.  I  should  like  to  think  that  we 
might  be  moved  by  pure  charity  and 
kindness  toward  our  unfortunate  neigh- 
bors. That  may  not  be,  however.  Per- 
haps we  will  be  moved  instead  by  the 
realization  that  either  we  help  to  re- 
habilitate and  return  great  numbers  of 


people  to  a  standard  of  living  whereby 
they  again  become  a  good  market  for 
our  wares,  and  not  too  dangerous  as 
competitors,  or  we  face  the  fact  that  a 
goodly  portion  of  the  globe  has  ceased 
to  be  a  market  and  because  of  a  very 
much  lowered  standard  of  living,  will 
produce  things  at  a  price  which  will 
force  us  down  in  our  effort  to  compete. 

This  interdependence,  this  necessity 
for  co-operation  has  got  to  be  brought 
home  to  us  in  one  way  or  another,  be- 
cause we  either  go  up  together  or  we  go 
down  together.  This  fact  used  to  hold 
good  in  smaller  areas  only,  but  as  com- 
munication and  transportation  has  im- 
proved, it  now  holds  good  for  an  ever- 
increasing  area. 

These  are  perhaps  serious  suggestions 
to  deal  with  in  connection  with  the  busi- 
ness of  providing  recreation.  The  movies 
are  primarily  for  recreation,  but  through 
recreation  perhaps  the  most  serious  les- 
sons may  be  learned.  As  everything 
about  us  today  seems  to  be  a  challenge, 
in  one  way  or  another,  to  new  paths  and 
new  efforts,  perhaps  this  is  the  challenge 
to  the  movies.  Our  greatest  recreational 
industry  may  have  an  obligation  to  do 
a  definite  educational  work,  to  teach  the 
most  unpalatable  lessons  in  a  way  which 
will  make  people  enjoy  them. 

What  can  the  movies  do,  you  ask,  to 
keep  this  country  out  of  war?  I  have 
tried  to  sketch  for  you  a  few  of  the 
things  which  occur  to  me.  It  puts  the 
movies  at  once  into  the  world  picture, 
just  as  our  nation  must  of  necessity  be 
in  this  picture,  no  matter  how  hard  we 
try  to  keep  our  eyes  turned  inward  on 
ourselves  alone. 


The  Man  Garbo  Would  Diet  Foi 


It  is  all  part  of  Dr.  Hauser's  formula 
for  living — a  sermon  he  preaches  and 
practices  himself.  Relaxation  and  diet 
are  his  keys  of  success  and  happiness. 

This  is  the  sermon  he  delivers  to  thou- 
sands of  women,  the  sermon  which 
made  him  famous  before  he  placed  on 
Garbo's  finger  the  sparkling  diamond 
that  so  blinded  reporters  they  failed  to 
tell  his  true  story. 

He  will  not  say  that  he  loves  Garbo, 
but  he  states  without  reserve,  "She  is 
the  most  glamorous  woman  in  the 
world."  He  will  not  admit  he  is  engaged, 
but  does  not  deny  the  ring  or  its  sig- 
nificance. 

The  fascinating  story  reporters  failed 
to  tell  runs  something  like  this: 

In  1925,  a  young  Swiss,  who  spoke 
English  with  a  charming  accent,  came 
to  America  for  the  first  time.  He  was 
an  attractive  lad,  well-educated,  unusu- 
ally intelligent.  He  had  a  profession  of 
sorts.  He  had  studied  in  Vienna,  confin- 
ing his  medical  research  to  the  dietary 
field.  But  his  progress  had  been  hamp- 
ered by  ill  health.  At  sixteen  he  had 
been  exiled  for  a  time  to  the  tubercu- 
losis colony  at  Davos,  Switzerland,  and 
now  he  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  to  try 
an  operation  at  the  hands  of  a  well- 
known  American  surgeon.  Instead  of 
finding  his  health,  however,  by  means 
of  a  surgeon's  scalpel,  he  found  it  by 
means  of  a  diet  which  he  himself  had 
formulated — thereby  also  finding  his 
fortune!  He  remained  in  America  to 
improve  his  diet,  and  gradually  built 
up  a  reputation  among  women's  groups 


(Continued  from  page  16) 

and  health  fadists.  A  clever  press  cam- 
paign broadcast  news  of  his  "Chemical 
Man,"  an  amazing  gadget,  half  the  size 
of  a  man,  composed  of  a  glass  head, 
glass  stomach  and  glass  organs,  with 
which  the  doctor  demonstrated  his  die- 
tetic theories.  Soon  stout  women, 
scrawny  women,  beautiful  women, 
homely  women,  were  beating  a  path  to 
his  door,  and  Dr.  Bengamin  Gaylord 
Hauser's  success  was  assured. 

When  his  career  path  lead  to  Holly- 
wood, and  the  name  of  Miss  Garbo  ap- 
peared on  his  star-studded  patients'  list, 
it  was  well  within  the  prescribed 
method  of  his  practice  that  he  should 
learn  to  know  Greta  very  well.  In 
Garbo's  case,  it  was,  perhaps,  that  "to 
know  her,  was  to  love  her,"  for  it  wasn't 
long  before  the  doctor  was  also  play- 
ing the  role  of  her  protector  and  com- 
panion. 

He  had  learned  that  Garbo's  constant 
dodging  the  press  was  not  based,  as 
many  believe,  on  temperament  or  affec- 
tation. Her  run-for-cover  actions  have 
been  caused  by  a  sort  of  psychological 
crowd-panic.  He  sympathized  with  her 
in  this,  having  had  frequent  experiences 
with  crowds  himself.  Yet  he  felt  that 
everyone  in  public  life  should  learn  to 
face  its  public.  That  was  why  he  ar- 
ranged for  Garbo  to  attend  the  fashion 
show  at  Bullock's-Wilshire. 

"She  was  as  delighted  as  a  child  who 
has  been  promised  a  glimpse  of  Santa 
Claus  Lane,"  he  recounts.  "She  cried, 
'Gaylord,  you  are  wonderful!  Who  but 
you  could  have  arranged  this  for  me.' 


Everything  was  going  along  fine  until 
Hymie  Fink  showed  up." 

The  doctor  had  hoped  that  no  camera- 
man would  be  present  at  Garbo's  first 
voluntary  public  appearance,  for  he  was 
afraid  it  would  "spoil  everything."  It 
is  true  that  as  soon  as  Garbo  sensed  a 
cameraman  in  the  offing,  she  made  a 
dash  for  the  exit,  with  Hauser  leading 
the  way — (not,  however,  before  Hymie, 
Photoplay's  lensman,  got  his  scoop  of 
the  year),  but  since  that  episode,  she 
has  appeared' at  many  public  gatherings, 
apparently  enjoying  herself  hugely. 

If  the  two  should  happen  to  be,  as  Dr'. 
Hauser  says,  "just  wonderful  friends," 
that  friendship  has  a  firm  foundation  of 
common  likes  and  dislikes  beneath  it,  on 
which  a  happy  marriage  could  also  be 
based.  They  are  both  foreign-born,  they 
are  both  athletic,  they  both  like  to  re- 
lax away  from  the  howling  mob,  they 
are  both  famous  in  their  respective  pro- 
fessions and  both  wealthy  in  their  own 
right.  And  through  association  with  the 
Doctor,  Garbo  has  shown  healthy  signs 
of  emerging  from  her  chrysalis,  and 
blossoming  into  a  woman  who  can  min- 
gle with  other  people,  who  can  laugh 
and  enjoy  life.  She  can  be  eternally 
grateful  to  him  for  this,  and  could 
easily  love  him  for  it. 

Dr.  Hauser  denies  they  are  engaged, 
yes,  but  he  does  not  refute  a  rumor 
that  he  flew  from  Portland,  Oregon,  to 
place  a  diamond  on  her  finger. 

Why  shouldn't  the  man  Garbo  would 
diet  for  be  the  man  she'd  follow  to  an 
altar? 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


out  of  there  before  she  spots  me,  and 
head  for  Warners'. 

There  are  only  two  pictures  shooting 
in  the  big  valley  studio,  "Virginia  City" 
and  "The  Life  of  Dr.  Ehrlich."  There 
is,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  very  little  going 
on  anywhere  with  a  threatened  strike. 
(Though  now,  happily,  a  temporary 
truce  has  been  called.)  But  no  produc- 
tions make  light  work,  we  say,  as  we 
push  our  way  past  Director  Dieterle  and 
get  a  gander  at  "The  Life  of  Dr.  Ehr- 
lich." 

TrlE  star  of  this  one  is  Edward  G. 
Robinson  and  the  story  is  another  ex- 
citing one  of  medical  research,  similar 
to,  but  more  dramatic  than,  "The  Life 
of  Louis  Pasteur."  We  notice  a  very 
good-looking  man  standing  in  the  cen- 
ter of  the  scene,  waiting  for  the  lights 
to  come  up.  We  give  a  double-take  at 
the  good-looking  gent  and  suddenly 
realize  it's  Robinson  with  his  "Little 
Caesar"  expression  bearded  out  of  rec- 
ognition. We  never  have  gone  for 
whiskers  before  but  this  time  we  do,  for 
they  actually  make  Robinson  handsome. 
Ehrlich  was  the  doctor  who,  after  605 
disappointing  experiments,  found  the 
cure  for  syphilis  with  the  famous  606 
solution.  That's  really  the  whole  story 
of  the  film. 

The  scene  we  witness  shows  a  com- 
mittee of  the  German  government  call- 
ing upon  Ehrlich  to  ask  for  a  report  on 
his  work.  They  are  tersely  rebuked  by 
the  little  doctor.  Donald  Crisp  is  among 
those  present  in  the  scene.  Robinson, 
supposed  to  tell  the  government  com- 
mittee whom  to  see,  catches  Crisp's  eye, 
gets  muddled  and  solemnly  says,  "You 
can  go  see  Donald  Crisp  who  is  director 
of  the  Bank  of  America."  Which  fact 
is  true,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do  with 
"Dr.  Ehrlich." 

That's  good  for  a  general  laugh,  of 
course,  but  when  that's  over  we  decide 
a  set  full  of  men  is  no  thrill  for  us,  so 
we  wander  to  "Virginia  City,"  in  which 
we  hope  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Miriam 
Hopkins. 

We  don't  have  any  luck,  though.  All 
we  hit  is  a  scene  in  a  small  tunnel 
where  Errol  Flynn,  Big  Boy  Williams 
and  Alan  Hale  are  digging  their  way 
out  of  prison.  The  tunnel  seems  a  very 
practical  one  and  it  is  just  big  enough 
for  them  to  lie  in,  scooting  along  on 
their  stomachs.  The  boys  are  all  com- 
plaining about  their  beards,  the  studio 
having  found  out  that  artificial  ones 
photograph  better  than  the  ones  nature 
provides.  Errol's  is  bright  red,  which 
may  photograph  dandy,  but  which 
looked  something  fierce  to  our  prej- 
udiced eye. 

This  little  number  is  a  Civil  War 
drama  in  which  Miriam  Hopkins  is  an 
entertainer  in  a  saloon  with  definite 
Southern  sympathies,  Miriam,  we  mean, 
not  the  saloon.  She  is  in  love  with 
Randy  Scott,  a  high  scion  of  the  old 
South,  who  is  trying  to  smuggle  a  mere 
five  million  in  gold  out  of  Virginia  City 
and  back  to  the  Confederacy.  Errol,  a 
Union  prisoner,  learns  of  the  plan  and, 
with  Hale  and  Big  Boy,  gets  out  of 
prison  and  foils  the  plot. 

Humphrey  Bogart,  Warners'  Bad  Man 
Number  One,  mixes  in  this  by  means 
of  holding  up  the  gold  train  and  con- 
veniently kills  Randy,  thereby  getting 
him  out  of  the  story  and  Miriam's 
clutches. 

Not  that  we  see  any  of  this.  All  we 
see  is  that  the  candle  Errol  is  holding 
in  the  tunnel  scene  isn't  lighted.  We 
think  it  is  part  of  the  action,  but  after 


(Continued  from  page  47) 

they  have  taken  the  shot,  the  script  girl 
notices  the  omission  and  everybody 
starts  scurrying  around  for  matches. 
As  it  has  taken  one  solid  hour  to  set 
the  lights  for  the  scene  originally  we 
fear  another  hour  lost,  lost  for  glamour, 
we  mean,  so  in  search  of  a  little  girl- 
hood to  feast  our  eyes  upon,  we  trek  to 
Paramount  where  both  Dorothy  Lamour 
and  Madeleine  Carroll  are  working. 

Lamour  is  not  in — or  should  we  say 
out  of — her  sarong  in  "The  Road  to  Sing- 
apore." She  is,  however,  done  up  in  a 
very  nifty  native  dress  of  red,  white 
and  blue  print,  and  she  is  looking  at 
Bing  Crosby,  as  we  totter  in,  in  a  way 
that  would  make  us  unable  to  keep  our 
mind  on  our  work.  It  doesn't  upset  the 
Groaner  any,  however.  He's  standing 
on  what's  supposed  to  be  a  wharf  in  the 
island  of  Kargoon — the  script  is  careful 
not  to  be  too  definite  as  to  where  that 
is — and  he  is  giving  out  with  a  tune 
that  we'll  wager  you'll  be  swinging  to 
shortly,  "When  the  Sweet  Potato  Piper 
Plays."  As  Bing  is  boo-boo-booing,  Bob 
Hope,  standing  alongside  him,  is  play- 
ing on  an  ocarina.  Bing  is  the  wealthy 
son  of  a  shipping  magnate  who  has  run 
away  from  it  all  back  in  the  States 
(that  "it"  includes  the  girl  daddy  wants 
him  to  marry) .  Hope  is  a  beachcomber, 
definitely  not  the  Charles  Laughton 
type,  and  Dottie  is  just  what  the  boys 
in  the  back  room  would  like  to  have  on 
their  desert  islands  but  so  seldom  do. 

As  they  finish  the  scene,  Director 
Victor  Schertzinger  calls  for  a  play- 
back. 

"What?"  howls  Professor  Crosby. 
"Have  a  playback  when  instead  we 
could  be  listening  in  on  the  football 
games?"  So  forthwith,  he  turns  on  the 
portable  radio  he's  got  on  the  set  (it 
being  a  Saturday)  to  find  out  what  is 
happening  to  Tulane's  team.  It's  only 
the  end  of  the  first  quarter,  however, 
and  we  keep  thinking  of  Madeleine 
Carroll  on  that  other  set. 

She's  there,  our  (and  ten  million 
other  men's)  dream  woman.  They  tell 
us  that  what  she  has  on  is  the  ultra 
thing  for  safari  wear.  That's  the  name 
of  the  picture,  too,  "Safari."  Subtle, 
these  press  agents.  Strangely  enough 
there's  been  a  triangle  worked  into  this 
one,  too.  Tullio  Carminati  (where  on 
earth  has  he  been?),  Madeleine,  and 
Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.  are  the  angles  on  it. 

Madeleine  is  trying  to  get  Tullio  to 
propose,  but  he  resists.  (The  man  must 
be  mad.)  When  he  proposes,  not  mar- 
riage, but  a  cruise  to  Africa  and  a 
safari  (which  is  just  a  fancy  word  for 
hunting  trip)  into  the  jungle  she  de- 
cides to  go  along.  They  meet  up  with 
a  white  hunter,  Doug,  Jr.,  and  Madeleine 
decides  to  flirt  with  him,  just  to  make 
Tullio  jealous.  But,  heck,  with  Carroll 
in  the  picture  you  don't  demand  an 
original  plot,  too,  do  you? 

What  do  our  wondering  eyes  behold, 
however,  but  the  script  girl,  the  star, 
the  hairdresser,  the  make-up  girl  all 
sitting  around  the  set  knitting  scarfs. 
When  we  ask  why,  they  reply  in  chorus 
that  they  are  knitting  scarfs  with  wool 
Madeleine  has  provided.  These  scarfs 
are  for  her  French  orphans. 

Maybe  they  will  keep  the  orphans 
warm,  but  they  chill  us,  so  we  steal  out 
into  California  sunshine  again. 

THE  most  ambitious  of  RKO's  produc- 
tions is  "Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  from 
the  classic  adventure  story.  Just  in  case 
you  don't  remember  the  plot,  it's  about 
an  English  family  who  shipped  to  a 
tropical  island  in  order  to  get  away  from 


city  living.  They're  hunting  for  quiet 
but  they  get  into  more  excitement  than 
you  can  shake  a  scenario  at. 

The  action  concentrates  on  the  kids,  of 
whom  the  most  important  are  Freddie 
Bartholomew  and  Terry  Kilburn,  the 
latter  the  little  boy  who  kept  repeating 
over  the  generations  in  "Goodbye,  Mr. 
Chips."  The  gossip  on  the  set  as  we 
fneander  in  is  that  Freddie  is  plenty 
worried  over  the  scene-swiping  Terry 
is  doing  but  Terry  in  turn  is  worried 
over  Bobbie  Quillan,  age  three  and 
making  his  screen  debut.  As  we  stand 
watching  one  scene  we  understand  why. 
Terry  and  Bobbie,  exploring  a  cave  on 
the  desert  island,  meet  a  spider.  The 
spider  is  really  a  lulu,  as  big  as  a  press 
agent's  lie,  with  a  body  of  beaver  fur 
and  with  great  waving  legs  made  of 
silk-covered  wire.  He's  supposed  to 
frighten  the  kids  out  of  their  wits.  Terry 
is  correctly  overcome  but  there's  no 
scaring  Bobbie.  "Ooh,  a  spider,"  Bobbie 
is  supposed  to  cry  with  horror.  Instead 
he  croons  at  it.  Director  Edward  Lud- 
wig  has  to  make  a  dozen  takes  but 
Bobbie  still  beams.  Finally  Ludwig  de- 
cides to  give  up  and  merely  have  Terry 
be  frightened.  Terry  goes  into  the 
scene.  He  knocks  the  spider  out  of  its 
web,  beats  it  with  a  stick,  finally  kills  it 
and  turns  to  walk  out  of  the  scene.  It 
is  then  that  Bobbie  comes  through, 
showing  that  the  blood  of  a  long  line  of 
comedians  flows  in  his  veins.  He's  been 
watching  Terry  all  this  time.  Without  a 
word  from  Ludwig  and  purely  on  his 
own  initiative  he  turns  back  into  the 
scene,  goes  over  to  the  spider  and  jumps 
up  and  down  on  it.  The  adults  around 
the  set  manage  to  restrain  themselves 
until  the  scene  is  recorded,  but  the  mo- 
ment Ludwig  cries  "Cut"  they  shake 
with  delight.  It's  the  best  bit  of  busi- 
ness in  the  whole  picture. 

•  A  phone  call  finds  nothing  working 
at  Universal  or  Columbia,  so  we  gallop 
over  to  Radio  Row. 

At  NBC  we  run  into  a  mess  of  adop- 
tion news.  The  Phil  Harrises  have 
adopted  a  young  son,  a  redheaded  Irish 
lad  named  Tookie.  Bob  Hope  and  his 
wife  have  adopted  a  baby  girl  named 
Linda  and  the  Basil  Rathbones  have  also 
adopted  a  girl,  as  yet  untitled.  Best 
story  about  any  of  them,  however,  is 
told  about  Tookie  Harris.  His  new 
father  took  him  to  meet  the  Jack 
Bennys  who  were  coming  back  from  a 
vacation.  Little  Joanie  Benny  was  pres- 
ent, of  course,  and  Phil  brought  a  big 
bouquet  along  for  Tookie  to  give  to  Joan. 
Tookie  did  the  honors,  holding  out  the 
bouquet  as  the  photographers  flashed 
the  scene.  The  minute  they  stopped, 
Tookie  snatched  back  the  flowers. 

"That  was  just  for  the  pictures,"  he 
said. 

Keeping  our  ear  close  to  the  ground 
we  hear  that  M-G-M  wasn't  any  too 
pleased  with  the  ribbing  Clark  Gable 
took  lately  from  Charlie  McCarthy. 
The  only  other  big  news  at  NBC  seems 
to  be  Jim  Ameche  replacing  Herbert 
Marshall  who  replaced  Charles  Boyer 
on  the  Woodbury  Playhouse,  but  with 
Boyer  back  from  France,  there's  no 
telling  how  this  will  work  out. 

All  being  peace  at  NBC  we  ventured 
into  CBS  and  got  war:  The  probable 
war  between  Jimmie  Fidler  and  Hedda 
Hopper  when  they  get  running  into 
competition  on  their  Hollywood  news 
broadcasts.  They're  tough  fighters, 
those  two,  but  being  the  shy  sunflower 
type  ourself,  we  refuse  to  commit  our 
thoughts  as  to  who  will  be  the  probable 
winner. 

S'long,  folks. 


."v.-"-' 


**^W- 


•  "The  brighter  the  righter".  . .  is  fashion's  lat- 
est color  advice  on  lips.  Coty  "Sub-Deb"  re- 
sponds with  ringing  new  shades— bright,  clear, 
rich,  red!  And  you  get  these  high-style  Coty 
colors  without  fear  of  Lipstick  Parching!  To 
help  you  avoid  chapping  and  roughness,  "Sub- 
Deb"  contains  a  special  softening  ingredient- 
designed  to  protect  lips,  while  it  gives  them 
exciting  color.  You'll  adore  "Sub-Deb"... try  it! 

THRILLING   RANGE   OF   9   SHADESI 
Ask  especially  to  see  the  very  new  "Magnet 
Red". . .  a  vital  red  red,  full  of  dash  and  style. 


FEBRUARY,      I  940 


77 


''^^ 


IN  EVERY  circle,  there  are  women  who 
lead  and  women  who  follow.  That  is 
how  Tampax  has  spread  so  rapidly,  from 
friend  to  friend,  throughout  the  nation, 
until  over  200,000,000jiave  been  sold. 

Perfected  by  a  doctor,  Tampax  is  worn 
internally,  thus  solving  many  problems  of 
monthly  sanitary  protection.  It  does  away 
with  chafing,  wrinkling  and  "showing." 
Of  course  Tampax  is  invisible,  and  the 
wearer  does  not  even  feel  it.  Made  of  pure 
surgical  cotton,  it  comes  to  you  hygieni- 
cally  sealed.  By  a  patented  method,  your 
hands  do  not  touch  the  Tampax!  It  is 
dainty  beyond  comparison. 

Tampax  lets  you  dance  without  care  and 
travel  with  a  light  heart.  It  cannot  come 
apart  and  is  easily  disposed  of.  No  belts, 
pins  or  odor.  Now  sold  in  three  sizes:  Super, 
Regular  and  Junior.  At  drug  stores  and 
notion  counters.  In- 
troductory box,  20tf. 
Large  economy  pack- 
age (4  months'  sup- 
ply) saves  up  to  25%. 

Accepted  for  Advertising  by 
the  Journal  of  the  A), 
Medical  Associate 


Round-Up  of  Neglected  People 


TAMPAX  INCORPORATED  P-<>o-B 

New  Brunsw,ck,  N.  J. 

Please  send  me  in  plain  wrapper  the  new  trial  package 
°t  Tampax.  I  enclose  10c  (stamps  or  silver)  to  cover  cost 
of  mailing.  Size  is  checked  below: 


(      )    REGULAR 

Name 

(      )    SUPER 

(      )  JUNIOR 

AAAffiS 

City    .. 

Sure 

thought  at  first  she'd  call  her  "Tinker- 
as-well,"  but  decided  on  "Tinkertoo." 

She's  unmarried  and  lives  alone  in 
New  York.  Her  mother,  now  seventy- 
two,  is  in  Brighton,  England,  and  Miss 
Anderson  is  greatly  concerned  over  her. 
The  war  abroad  has  struck  deeply  at  her 
heart. 

"Why,"  she  asks,  "when  so  many 
things  have  been  discovered  by  so  many 
great  scientists — radium,  telephone,  mo- 
tion pictures — can't  we  find  the  secret 
of  living  together  peacefully  and  hap- 
pily?" 

She's  a  great  actress,  a  splendid 
woman,  a  name  not  to  be  forgotten  in 
theatrical  history. 

And  all  she  wants  of  life  now  are  the 
birds  and  sunshine  and  open  spaces  of 
California  and  work. 

Keep  Raining  All  the  Time! 

It  rained  that  day.  Poured,  to  be  ex- 
act. And  that's  why  Lee  Bowman  is  an 
actor  in  Hollywood.  No,  he  didn't  come 
sliding  in  on  a  rainbow  or  a  cloud  but 
if  it  hadn't  rained  and  Lee,  peering  from 
his  windows  at  a  drenched  New  York 
City,  hadn't  decided  not  to  go  back  to 
bed  but  get  out  and  hunt  a  job,  he 
might  never  have  landed  his  first  role, 
and  in  a  Broadway  play  at  that.  Lee 
reasoned  that  a  lot  of  job  hunting  actors 
would  be  tempted  to  roll  back  into  bed 
and  forget  it  all  for  the  day.  That's 
why  he  got  out. 

Lee  was  born  in  Cincinnati.  He  has 
that  city  and  a  terribly  fetching  mus- 
tache, in  common  with  Tyrone  Power. 

As  a  boy,  a  liddle  bittie  one,  he  was 
always  in  love.  He  met  her  at  dancing 
school  he  thinks,  and  her  name  was 
Patricia.  Looking  back  on  it,  he  won- 
ders if  maybe  it  wasn't  the  name  that 
sent  his  temperature  rising.  He  loved 
the  name  of  Patricia.  Anyway,  he  was 
sad  about  the  whole  thing  and  heart- 
broken when,  at  fourteen,  he  discovered 
he  was  being  shelved  for  another.  She's 
one  of  his  best  friends  now,  so,  of  course, 
it  turned  out  for  the  best. 

"I  think  I  was  pretty  much  of  a  louse 
as  a  kid,  anyway,"  he  says. 

Company  at  the  Bowman  manse  may 
not  have  thought  him  a  louse,  but,  boy, 
I'll  wager  they  thought  him  a  bore.  For 
when  two  or  more  people  were  gath- 
ered together,  there  was  Lee  in  the 
midst  of  them,  making  speeches.  Hav- 
ing descended  from  a  long  line  of  law- 
yers, judges  and  ministers,  his  parents 
merely  believed  this  was  an  offshoot  of 
his  judicial  inheritance  and  bore  it  as 
best  they  could.  Little  did  they  dream 
it  would  lead  to  acting  and  Hollywood. 
He  speechified  all  through  Franklin 
Grade  School  and  Walnut  Hills  High 
and  even  up  to  the  doors  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Cincinnati.  Lee  was  a  law 
student  there  when  he  decided  to  be- 
come an  actor.  So  he  gave  up  the  law 
and  enrolled  in  the  American  Academy 
of  Dramatic  Arts  in  New  York.  He  was 
on  his  way. 

Following  that  first  rainy-morning 
role,  Broadway  gave  him  a  chance  in 
the  Carnegie  Players  productions  of 
"Berkeley  Square"  and  "The  Old  Lady 
Shows  Her  Medals."  In  1936,  Paramount 
grabbed  him  for  "Internes  Can't  Take 
Money"  and  "I  Met  Him  in  Paris." 

He  was  being  goshawf  ul  handsome  in  a 
Viennese  uniform  over  on  the  "Florian" 
set  at  M-G-M  the  day  we  saw  him.  He 
was  crazy  about  a  new  radio  gadget  he 
had  in  his  car. 

Matrimonially  speaking,  he  couldn't 
be    more    eligible.     He    lives   with   his 


(Continued  from  page  19) 

mother  and  brother  in  Hollywood.  Eats 
like  a  horse,  smokes  too  much,  courts  all 
the  lovely  girls  in  town,  carries  his  ath- 
letic training  from  school  days  over  to 
leisure  days  in  Hollywood,  playing  a  lot 
of  tennis  and  golf  or  a  fast  game  of  bad- 
minton. 

His  eyes  are  brown  and  he's  terribly 
allergic  to  opera.  Will  lie  like  a  trouper 
to  get  out  of  going.  Hates  to  start  a 
picture  on  a  Saturday  night  around  six 
o'clock. 

Likes  a  whooper  dooper  good  time  on 
Saturday  nights.  He  thinks  chic  and  a 
pleasant  speaking  voice  and  behavior  in 
public  most  important  things  about 
women. 

He  learned  very  early  in  his  career 
that  Hollywood  is  a  slightly  peculiar 
town. 

He  brought  with  him  from  New 
York  several  beautifully  tailored  suits 
to  wear  in  his  first  picture.  But  no, 
they  looked  the  suits  over  and  said, 
"Not  right — get  all  new  ones  made." 

He  went  in  debt  to  do  it  but  he  did. 
The  best  tailors  in  town  sewed  like  mad 
on  Lee's  suits.  And  then  after  the  pic- 
ture he  met  a  director.  "Liked  you 
very  much  in  that  role,"  the  director 
said,  "and  by  the  way,  having  your 
clothes  a  little  too  big  that  way  was  a 
grand  comedy  touch.  Nothing  so  funny 
as  clothes  that  don't  fit." 

As  his  mother  wrote  him  last  summer 
while  on  a  vacation  to  Cincinnati,  "The 
town  is  all  excited  over  the  World 
Series  baseball.  I  do  hope  Cincinnati 
wins  the  blue  ribbon  this  season." 

Hollywood  wins  it  every  season,  Lee 
reasons. 

Gabby,  Gabby,  Little  Star! 

An  extrovert  Olivia  de  Havilland. 
Just  as  beautiful  and  twice  as  lively. 
Brown  eyes  that  grow  beeg  when  she 
talks — which  is  constantly.  Such  is  Ann 
Rutherford — or  Polly  Benedict  to  the 
"Hardy  Family"  fans. 

At  two  minutes  past  one  of  a  sunny 
winter's  day  in  Hollywood,  Ann  began 
talking.  At  one  minute  past  two  she 
had  never  ceased  for  one  second  and 
we'd  been  revived  twice  with  hot  cups 
of  tea  and  once  by  fanning. 

What  in  heaven's  name  do  they  do  to 
Ann  on  the  screen,  we  wondered?  She's 
so  much  more  beautiful  off.  Ann  had 
just  come  back  from  being  Queen  of 
the  Carolina  Cotton  Carnival  and  now 
we  know  once  and  for  all  what  the 
Governor  of  North  Carolina  said  to  the 
Governor  of  South  Carolina.  We  know 
he  said,  "Move  over,  brother,  and  let  me 
sit  next  to  Annie." 

And  those  "pet  mayors"  and  "cute 
governors" — as  Ann  calls  them,  down  in 
Dixie,  were  too  sweet.  "I  had  motor- 
cycle escorts  everywhere,  even  from  one 
state  to  another,"  she  says.  "Why,  I  just 
kept  going  through  red  light  signals  at 
home  all  the  time  when  I  first  got  back. 
I  was  so  used  to  escorts."  I  know — 
governors,  mayors,  college  boys,  Sigma 
Nus,  motorcycle  cops,  and  senators — 
"Oh,  those  lambie  senators" — who  gave 
her  a  dinner  in  the  Supreme  Court  of 
the  Senate  building.  "And  those  ador- 
able judges."  That's  when  I  weakly 
called  for  strong,  hot  tea. 

"At  the  banquets  I  made  up  all  my 
speeches,"  she  says,  "and  sometimes  I 
talked  for  twelve  minutes."  Then  her 
agent  heard  one  of  her  speeches  and 
signed  her  for  personal  appearances  and 
she  made  up  her  own  speeches  and 
changed  them  everywhere  she  went. 

She    ended   up   in  New   York — "Oh, 


those  wonderful  New  Yorkers" — and  got 
a  hurried  call  to  report  to  the  studio 
and  here  she'd  bought  all  those  new 
clothes  and  had  no  luggage  so  the  hotel 
people  —  "those  marvelous  porters"  — 
hurried  up  with  crates  and  boxes  and 
she  snatched  up  the  birthday  cake — still 
in  a  box — that  Mickey  Rooney  had  sent 
her  with  the  Music  Box  inside  that 
played  "Happy  birthday  to  you,"  and 
rushed  for  the  train,  and  the  boxes  kept 
getting  scattered  and  every  time  she 
moved  the  cake  played  "Happy  Birth- 
day to  You"  out  loud  and — we  called  for 
more  hot  tea. 

She  was  born  up  in  Toronto,  Canada, 
but  her  parents  moved  to  San  Francisco 
when  Ann  was  just  a  baby.  Her  father 
had  sung  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera  com- 
pany, so  the  theater  was  in  her  blood. 
She  played  parts  with  a  stock  company 
in  San  Francisco  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  When  they  moved  to  Los  Angeles, 
Ann,  who  was  fourteen,  marched  into  a 
radio  station,  unbeknownst  to  her 
mother,  and  demanded  to  know  why 
they  didn't  realize  she  was  a  wonderful 
actress. 

A  week  later  the  radio  station  called 
her.  She  had  a  job  with  an  evening 
serial.  She  did  everything  imaginable 
on  the  radio  for  two  years  and  then 
went  on  to  Republic  Studios  to  make 
pictures  with  Gene  Autry  and  John 
Wayne. 

"I  owe  everything  to  Lew  Ayres,"  she 
told  me.  "Everything.  He  was  out  at 
the  studio  at  that  time,  studying  direct- 
ing. He'd  given  up  acting.  And,  oh, 
how  he  helped  me." 

But  twelve  pictures  in  twelve  months 
were  too  much,  even  for  Ann.  "I  even 
had  eye  circles  under  my  circles,"  she 
says.  So  mother  made  her  give  up  and 
rest. 

She  slept  for  three  months.  And  then 
M-G-M  signed  her  for  the  Hardy  pic- 
tures. She's  recently  made,  "Those 
Glamour  Girls,"  and  "Dancing  Co-Ed" 
as  well,  and  she's  Scarlett's  sister, 
Careen,  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind." 

She  reads  everything,  has  a  mind 
quicker  than  a  trigger,  is  smarter  than 
two  whips,  owns  and  runs  her  own 
sailboat  all  alone,  lives  with  her  mother 
and  a  sister  who  divides  her  time  be- 
tween here  and  San  Francisco  for  radio 
work. 

You  never  see  Ann  at  night  clubs  or 
such.  Her  mother  accompanies  her 
everywhere.  She  has  family,  back- 
ground, brains  and  charm.  Her  boy 
friends  are  the  junior  writers  on  the  lot 
or  sons  of  stars,  like  Eddie  Arnold,  Jr. 
She's  talented  and  has  just  made  a 
statuette  of  a  horse  in  a  calico  sunbon- 
net.  The  straw  hats  some  horses  affect, 
prompted  the  bonnet  idea. 

Snoods  with  short  hair  are  unbecom- 
ing, so  "I  just  pin  on  a  lot  of  crepe  hair 
under  my  own  and  wear  a  long  snood. 
It's  much  more  becoming." 

Her  hair  is  softly  beautiful.  But  her 
mother  doesn't  like  the  way  they  dress 
it  for  the  screen.  "You  look  like  a  ham- 
merhead," she  says. 

"She  got  that  from  the  'Oz'  books," 
Ann  laughs. 

She's  religious  in  a  modern  applicable 
way  to  every  day  life.  She  always  at- 
tended Sunday  school  and  still  goes  to 
church. 

But  the  last  we  saw  of  her  she  was 
on  her  way  to  Mr.  Mayer's  office  to  see 
about  making  another  personal  appear- 
ance. 

"The  contact  is  so  wonderful,"  Ann 
says. 

The  blessed  saints  help  the  cute  may- 


78 


PHOTOPLAY 


ors  and  governors  along  the  way,  is  all 
we  have  to  say. 

The  Luck  of  the  Irish 

If  you  were  to  ask  us  who  we  think  is 
the  luckiest  guy  in  Hollywood  to  date, 
|!  we'd  say  Thomas  Mitchell  and  never  bat 
I  an   eyelash.     With   five   hits   in   a   row 
I  coming  up,  among  them,  "The  Hunch- 
back   of    Notre    Dame,"    the    father    of 
Scarlett    O'Hara    in    "Gone    with    the 
Wind"  and  the  father  in  "Swiss  Family 
Robinson,"  we'd  say  there  was  a  record 
|  you  couldn't  beat.    Only  we'd  take  back 
the   luck   part  of  it  for,  to  our  notion, 
Mitchell  is  just  about  the  finest  char- 
acter   actor    in    the    business,    and    you 
name  a  better  one  if  you  can  think  of 
one.    Or  think  of  one  with  a  cuter  Irish 
face  and  we'll  give  you  Lamarr's  tele- 
<  phone  number. 

His  smile  is  wide  and  deep  and  be- 
guiling, begorra.  It  reveals  a  bit  of  an 
imp  in  the  man  but  a  devilish  appeal- 
ing imp,  if  you  know  what  we  mean.  He 
.  has  a  bit  of  a  forelock  that  keeps  wan- 
dering down  over  his  forehead  into  his 
eyes  (the  way  it  did  in  "Mr.  Smith 
Goes  to  Washington")  that  gives  him 
that  little  boy  look.  Only  he  isn't  a  lit- 
tle boy.  He's  fortyish,  spry,  tense,  eager, 
and  thrilled  to  death  to  be  going  the 
places  he  should  go  in  Hollywood. 

It  wasn't  always  so.  After  he  made 
"The  Hurricane"  for  Sam  Goldwyn,  he 
thought  he  was  set.  Only  for  ten  months 
no  one  wanted  him.  Goldwyn  let  him 
go  at  Tommy's  request  and  then  came 
"Stagecoach"  with  Mitchell  turning  in  a 
performance  that  rocked  Goldwyn  back 
on  his  heels.  Since  then  he's  had  more 
pictures  to  do  than  he  can  find  time  for. 

He  thinks  acting  is  more  of  a  craft 
than  an  art  but  that's  probably  because 
he  was  a  newspaper  man  before  he  was 
an  actor.  He  began  the  business  with 
his  brother  who  was  managing  editor  of 
The  Newark  Journal.  His  father  had 
been  a  journalist,  too.  From  Newark 
Tommy  wandered  to  Baltimore  and 
Pittsburgh  papers  where  he  lasted  about 
twenty  minutes.  He  even  tried  Youngs- 
town,  Ohio,  but  it  was  no  go.  He  sold  a 
vaudeville  skit  and  himself  with  it  and 
went  on  the  stage. 

Mitchell  has  a  theory  that  things  hap- 
pen to  people  obliquely  rather  than  head 
on.  He  melted,  you  see,  from  writing 
for  papers  to  writing  for  the  stage,  and 
then  to  acting,  finally  melting  into  di- 
recting stage  plays  because  he  hap- 
pened to  be  around  when  someone  said 
how  do  you  think  we  should  play  this 
scene.    So  Tommy  said  how. 

He  has  a  trailer  dressing  room  that, 
like  Mary's  lamb,  goes  where  he  goes 
from  studio  to  studio.  And  because  he 
insists  on  freelancing,  the  trailer  travels 
considerably.  It  rocks  too  when  you 
move  and  people — well  we  did,  anyway 
— get  violently  seasick  for  the  moment. 

"What  have  they  done  to  you?"  we 
demanded  between  scenes  for  "Swiss 
Family  Robinson." 

He  looked  at  us  sheepishly.  "They 
curled  my  hair,"  he  said.  We  dropped 
the  subject. 

There  are  rumors  he's  difficult  on  sets. 
It's  a  great  big — it's  false.  He's  only  so 
lost  in  his  role,  so  afraid  the  director 
will  be  influenced  by  his,  Mitchell's,  own 
impatience  with  himself  and  shoot  the 
scene  before  it's  perfect,  he  nearly  dies. 
He  hasn't  relaxed  since  the  sinking  of 
the  Maine.    He  never  will. 

He  was  born  in  Elizabeth,  New  Jer- 
say  on  July  eleventh.  He  got  his  best 
stage  training  with  the  Ben  Greet  Play- 
ers traveling  about  doing  Shakespearean 
plays.  He  directed  plays  on  Broadway 
for  five  years.  But  it  was  when  he  was 
writing,  directing  and  acting  he  found 
he  had  no  one  to  argue  with  but  him- 
self. "And  when  an  Irishman  starts 
talking  to  himself,  it's  bad,"  he  says.    So 


he  came  to  Hollywood  and  made  "Lost 
Horizon"  for  Capra. 

When  a  little  boy  he  remembers  play- 
ing down  at  the  wharves  with  the  rest 
of  the  Elizabeth  kids.  But  he  was  pretty 
studious  on  the  whole. 

Thomas  Mitchell  is  a  warm  human 
sort  of  person  who  likes  people.  He's 
interested  in  what  they're  doing  and 
thinking — even  the  scrub  woman.  Noth- 
thing  is  more  intriguing  to  Mitchell  than 
his  fellow  man.  He  likes  to  gather  his 
friends  around  him  nights  when  he  isn't 
working  and  just  talk,  talk,  talk  into  the 
morning.  He's  a  home  lover  and  lives 
quite  alone  since  his  daughter's  mar- 
riage. He  hunted  for  days  before  he 
found  the  house  that  suited  him.  It's 
grey  stone,  a  liveable,  lovable  house  in 
the  Riviera  section.  He  loves  to  read 
but  worries  because  he  has  so  little  time 
for  it.  He  can't  drive  a  car  either.  The 
whole  business  of  it  annoys  him.  He's 
absent-minded  but  kind;  Irish  and 
tense;  an  actor  to  the  depth  of  his  soul. 
His  best  friend  married  his  ex-wife 
after  their  divorce  and  all  three  as 
friends,  lived  happily  ever  after. 

Page  Miss  Page,  Please 

We  have  a  horribly  strong  suspicion 
that  everything  and  everybody  in  this 
blooming  town  has  gone  normal.  Plain 
cozy  normal.  Take  Gale  Page,  for  in- 
stance. You'd  travel  far  and  you'd 
travel  wide  before  you'd  meet  anyone 
with  the  everyday  outlook  on  life  that 
belongs  to  Pagey.  She  looks  normal. 
Not  Hollywood  at  all.  Just  nice,  with 
her  face  shining  in  the  morning  (we 
had  coffee  with  her),  and  her  hair 
straight  like  a  poker,  pulled  back  from 
her  unglamorous  face,  with  two  combs. 
Her  household  is  like  everybody  else's. 
The  vacuum  cleaner  going  and  no  one 
able  to  locate  the  right  tablecloth  and 
her  little  boy,  just  eight,  coming  home 
from  school  and  saying  darned  if  he 
wanted  to  go  to  the  old  football  game 
anyway.  Just  like  one  of  the  "Four 
Daughters"  that  Gale  plays  on  the 
screen. 

She  is  another  of  those  tallish  girls  in 
vogue  these  days.  She's  five  feet  five, 
and  wears  glasses  over  her  brown  eyes. 
She  came  to  movies  from  radio  where 
she'd  created  quite  a  place  for  herself 
in  Chicago  as  a  singer.  She  used  to  get 
up  and  sing  over  the  air  at  seven-thirty 
every  morning.  But  she  got  better  and 
better  spots  and  finally  movies  tested 
her  and  Warners  brought  her  on  to  Hol- 
lywood for  "Crime  School." 

"Something  that  wasn't  a  part  of  me 
happened  to  me  during  that  first  pic- 
ture," she  said.  "I  couldn't  be  friendly 
somehow.  If  people  were  nice  and  said, 
'Hello,  honey,'  I  thought  to  myself,  they 
don't  mean  it.  This  is  Hollywood — no 
one  is  sincere.  If  they  ignored  me,  I 
was  crushed.  But  I  got  over  that  in  a 
hurry  and  I  think  Hollywood  is  a  grand 
place  to  live  in." 

She  lives  with  her  mother,  son  and 
two  nieces  who  have  come  here  for  a 
visit.    Gale  is  no  longer  married. 

She  was  born  Sally  Rutter  in  Spokane, 
Washington,  and  is  continually  running 
into  people  who  say,  "You  aren't  the 
Rutters  on  Fourteenth  Street?" 

They  are.  She  took  a  maternal  name 
when  she  went  on  the  air  up  in  Spokane. 
She  went  to  Chicago  and  its  ether  after 
marriage. 

Her  philosophy  of  life  is  sweet,  good 
and  simple.  She  studies  her  religious 
lessons  daily  along  with  four  hours  of 
piano  practice.  With  everyone  in  the 
house  taking  piano  lessons  at  the  same 
time,  it  sounds  like  a  conservatory  gone 
wild. 

She  can  get  raring  mad  every  so  often 
and  then  think  she's  wonderful  because 
she  apologizes  prettily  and  easily. 
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wall,  annoy  her.  She  loathes  gossip  and 
loves  doing  those  series  with  the  Lane 
sisters.    Her  latest  is  "Four  Wives." 

Her  dog,  Smoky,  adores  her  and  fol- 
lows her  about  like  Mary's  lamb.  Her 
uncle  is  Senator  Miles  Poindexter, 
former  U.  S.  Ambassador  to  Peru.  None 
of  her  family  was  the  least  theatrical 
and  even  Gale  doesn't  know  just  how  it 
all  came  about  for  her. 

She's  done  something  recently  that 
she's  sure  is  significant.  A  letter  hoarder 
for  years,  she  recently  went  through  the 
pile  and  destroyed  them  all.  Her 
diaries,  too.  Everything  that  linked  her 
to  the  past.  And  now  she  feels  a  new 
sense  of  freedom  to  go  on  with  the 
present  pictures  and  radio  (she's  doing 
both)  to  an  even  more  glorious  future. 

More  power  to  her.  say  we. 

In  Love 

"I'm  in  love,  I'm  in  love,  I'm  in  love." 

Her  beautiful  voice  carols  it,  her 
laughing  eyes  reveal  it,  her  being  radi- 
ates it.  For  the  first  time  in  her  whole 
life,  Helen  Gilbert  is  in  love.  In  love 
and  stardom  beckoning  just  ahead. 

It  happened  in  the  strangest  way. 
"When  one  door  closes,  another  opens," 
the  saying  goes,  and  so  it  was  with 
Helen.  Helen  and  her  husband,  Baka- 
leinikoff,  the  musician,  were  about  to  be 
divorced.  She  had  asked  a  studio  friend 
to  recommend  a  good  lawyer.  So  a 
meeting  was  arranged.  But  the  night 
before  the  appointed  meeting,  another 
friend  prevailed  upon  Helen  to  change 
lawyers. 

"Try  mine,"  she  urged.  "I  know  you'll 
like  him." 

So  Helen  switched  lawyers  at  the  last 
minute,  and  next  morning  when  she 
walked  into  his  office  they  looked  at  each 
other — just  once — and  knew  they  were 
in  love. 

Speaking  of  her  marriage,  she  told  me, 
"Mr.  Bakaleinikoff  and  I  had  never  been 
in  love.  We  had  our  music  in  common 
and  both  were  lonely.  He  was,  as  you 
know,  much  older  than  I,  but  we  both 
reasoned  companionship  would  be 
enough.  It  wasn't.  We  both  knew  it 
and  both  knew  divorce  was  the  only 
answer."  And  through  that  united  un- 
derstanding came  love  to  Helen. 

So  much  has  happened  to  this  Cin- 
derella girl  in  Hollywood  this  year. 
Only  a  short  while  ago  she  was  playing 
the  cello  in  the  M-G-M  studio  orchestra. 
She'd  been  there  two  years  before  any- 
one noticed  the  petite  loveliness  of  her, 
heard  the  melodious  tones  of  her  voice, 
and  noticed  the  twinkle  in  her  grey  eyes. 
All  this  noticing  brought  about  a  test 
that  resulted  in  the  role  of  the  dra- 
matic teacher  in  "Andy  Hardy  Gets 
Spring  Fever." 

Helen  was  a  hit.  From  "The  Secret  of 
Dr.  Kildare"  she  went  into  the  lead  of 
"Florian,"  where  her  flaxen  pigtails  and 
Viennese  costumes  set  off  her  fairness 
in  grand  style. 

It  was  inevitable  she  should  be  a 
musician.  Her  father,  Vaughn  Gilbert, 
was  a  music  publisher,  and  from  her 
earliest  childhood  Helen  was  sur- 
rounded with  musicians  and  composers. 
At  six  she  played  the  piano  like  a 
maestro.  A  wee  blonde  of  a  lady 
maestro.  But  inspired  by  a  concert 
given  by  Pablo  Casals,  Helen  turned 
from  the  piano  to  the  cello.  After  ex- 
tensive traveling  about  from  her  birth- 
place in  Warren,  Ohio,  the  family  set- 
tled down  in  Philadelphia  where,  at 
twelve,  Helen  was  awarded  a  scholar- 
ship at  the  Curtis  Institute  for  her  cello 
playing. 

Years  later,  after  a  concert  at  the 
Hollywood  Bowl,  Helen  stayed  in  cine- 
matown  for  radio  work.  Never  once 
did  movies  enter  her  mind.  Even  when 
she  was  a  part  of  them,  she  still  wasn't 
a  part  of  them  in  her  mind.     I  mean, 


after  she'd  joined  the  symphonic  organ- 
ization of  M-G-M  and  would  sit  there 
on  the  great  sound  stages,  the  only 
woman  musician  in  the  group,  and  play 
for  the  various  stars,  she  didn't  have  a 
single  yen  to  be  an  actress.  Her  life 
was  her  music.  It  was  quaint  to  see  her. 
So  small,  so  dainty,  among  all  those 
men,  playing  her  heart  out. 

Strange  how  things  happen,  isn't  it? 
So  many  girls  yearning  for  picture 
careers.  And  one  coming  to  Helen.  But 
Helen  is  different  because  none  of  her 
is  eaten  by  ambition.  The  most  notic- 
able  thing  about  her  is  her  un-actressy, 
un-moviestruck  attitude  toward  life, 
people,  love,  everything.  As  yet,  it  hasn't 
touched  her.  She  lives,  since  her  di- 
vorce, in  a  Hollywood  apartment  with 
her  cousin.  She  loves  to  shop,  and  buys 
too  many  hats  which  she  never  wears. 
She  speaks  Russian  fluently  and  even 
reads  it.  She  has  no  one  to  converse 
with  in  her  acquired  Russian  language 
now,  but  her  two  dogs,  her  cat,  three 
birds  and  the  aquarium. 

She  walks  pidgeon-toed,  has  a  pet 
freckle  under  her  left  eye,  adores  comb- 
ing her  hair  and  does  under  moments 
of  excitement,  regardless  of  place. 

Is  amused  at  herself  for  sleeping  with 
her  script  under  her  pillow.  She  knows 
her  lines  won't  really  soak  in  that  way. 
But — .  Try  to  get  her  inside  a  movie 
without  a  bag  of  popcorn;  just  try. 
She'll  chase  up  and  down  the  boulevard 
like  mad  until  she  finds  a  popcorn 
wagon.  She's  moody  like  most  Cancer 
people  and  is  still  friends  with  Miss 
Bakaleinikoff,  step-daughter  of  her 
former  husband,  who  is  two  years  older 
and  much  taller  than  her  step-mama. 

On  the  set  of  "Florian"  she  lost  the 
skirt  of  her  riding  suit,  just  two  minutes 
after  Fate  had  warned  her  to  go  back 
and  put  on  the  breeches. 

With  Fate  taking  a  hand  that  way, 
Helen  is  going  to  go  places.    I'm  for  her. 

Mad  Dogs  and  Englishmen 

Mr.  Sanders,  pronounced  Saunders, 
always  plays  his  hunches  and  sits  on  the 
exact  middle  of  his  spine.  It  leaves  a 
great  deal  of  Mr.  Sanders  unemployed 
while  sitting.  He's  six  feet  three,  and 
the  proportion  of  Mr.  Sanders  that 
doesn't  hit  the  chair  is,  I  should  say 
roughly,  about  six  feet.  He's  amazing 
and  I  may  as  well  say  first  as  last  I  think 
him  marvelous. 

My  dear  George  Sanders 
To  you  my  heart  wanders! 

For  one  thing,  he's  notoriously  unen- 
ergetic.  People  come  down  from  off  the 
hills  in  droves  to  marvel  over  Mr.  San- 
ders' unstimulated  inactivity,  especially 
in  the  midst  of  a  vital  scene  where  Mr. 
Sanders  is  about  to  be  stuck  up  with  two 
guns  and  Donald  MacBride.  We  sat  on 
the  set  of  "The  Saint's  Double  Trouble" 
(he's  The  Samt,  bless  his  heart)  and 
witnessed  something  the  likes  of  which 
we  have  never  seen  in  all  our  travels 
about  Hollywood.  The  scene  called  for 
Mr.  Sanders  to  open  a  peep  hole  when 
he  hears  a  rap  and  see  who  rappeth  on 
his  chamber  door.  Well,  the  lights  al- 
ways went  wrong,  or  Donald  MacBride 
slipped  or  something  happened.  But 
here's  the  point.  Instead  of  waiting 
tense  and  poised  for  the  knock  as  any 
actor  would,  Mr.  Sanders,  who  was  out 
of  camera  range,  sank  down  on  his  neck 
on  a  chair  and  slept  till  the  rap  came. 
Slept,  I  tell  you,  and  never  missed  a  cue. 

Aren't  the  English  wonderful?  So 
undisturbed  amidst  life's  turmoil.  They 
tell  me  that  even  as  a  lad,  when  he  fled 
Russia  with  the  Bolsheviki  snapping  at 
his  heels,  he  remained  calm  and  col- 
lected. He  and  his  father — an  English 
capitalist  in  Russia — escaped  across  a 
river,  leaping  from  one  cake  of  ice  to 
another,  like  Liza  in  "Uncle  Tom's 
Cabin." 


George  was  born  of  English  parentage 
in  St.  Petersburg,  Russia,  in  1906.  His 
father  was  a  rope  manufacturer  there, 
and  during  the  Revolution,  darned  if  he 
didn't  almost  get  hung  by  his  own  prod- 
uct. George's  English  mother,  now  con- 
sidered one  of  the  world's  finest  horti- 
culturists, had  forsaken  her  avocation 
to  be  with  her  husband. 

He  wasn't  brought  up  to  be  an  actor. 
He  had  gone  home  to  London  from 
South  America  (Georgie  gets  around) 
after  a  tobacco  venture  to  find  the  world 
in  a  slump.  His  uncle,  an  opera  singer, 
urged  George  to  cultivate  his  voice  and 
he  turned  out  to  be  a  pretty  good  bari- 
tone. One  night,  a  producer  heard 
George  singing  at  a  party  and  signed 
him  up  for  a  revue,  "Ballyhoo."  It  was 
a  good  little  spot. 

Besides  his  solo  George  was  part  of  a 
three-piece  piano  act.  He  was  not  the 
piano.  But  he  plays  one.  And  a  guitar 
and  a  saxophone.  After  "Ballyhoo"  he 
went  on  to  more  shows  and  then  English 
movies,  and  then  California — here  he 
came. 

The  way  he  came  simply  kills  me.  He 
acted  on  a  hunch.  Right  after  one  pic- 
ture was  finished,  with  several  assign- 
ments ahead,  he  had  a  feeling  he  should 
go  to  Hollywood.  He  left  next  day,  met 
Darryl  F.  Zanuck  (I've  #been  here  fif- 
teen years  and  can't  even  bow  to  him) 
got  a  fat  role  in  "Lloyds  of  London"  as 
the  husband  of  Madeleine  Carroll  and 
was  sensational.  But  here's  the  comic 
part.  With  no  agent  he  persuaded  Mr. 
Zanuck  to  buy  up  his  English  contract 
or  what  was  left  of  it  and  give  him  a 
new  one  over  here.  And  that,  people 
tell  me,  accounts  for  the  puzzled  look 
Mr.  Zanuck  sometimes  affects.  He's  try- 
ing to  figure  out  what  happened  and 
who  got  the  best  of  it — he  or  Sanders. 

George  has  a  swell  theory  about  the 
way  life  should  be  lived.  We  all  work 
too  hard,  he  believes.  Why  race  and 
tear  and  wear  ourselves  out?  Competi- 
tion is  good,  he  believes,  only  if  it's 
measured  by  law.  Like  a  race.  A  hun- 
dred foot  sprint  is  exciting  to  watch. 
The  distance  is  fixed.  But  if  it's 
stretched  out  longer  and  longer  it  gets 
to  be  a  bore.  So  can  it  be  with  work- 
too  much  of  it  in  too  big  doses. 

And  then  that  "life  of  contrast"  idea 
of  his.  It's  good.  He  wants  to  make 
enough  money  to  live  comfortably — not 
elaborately,  remember — and  then  devote 
his  life  to  living  by  contrast.  For  ex- 
ample, for  three  months  he'd  go  to  a 
ranch  far  off  and  go  to  bed  at  sunset, 
rise  at  sunrise,  neither  smoke  nor  drink, 
ride  for  hours,  and  revel  in  a  super- 
abundance of  health. 

Then  back  to  town  he'd  come,  climb 
into  white  tie  and  tails,  get  tighter  than 
two  boiled  owls  and  take  in  night  clubs 
for  weeks  on  end.  When  it  palled,  he'd 
go  back  to  the  ranch. 

He's  unmarried  and  you  tell  me  how 
that  handsome  one  escaped  and  I'll  tell 
you  Garbo's  middle  name.  His  eyes  are 
grey-green-hazel-blue.  It  depends  on 
you  and  your  mood.  He's  physically 
lazy  and  mentally  he's  ten  minutes 
ahead  of  the  parade. 

His  humor  is  sly,  his  smile  droll,  his 
bearing  well  bred.  He  was  a  meanie 
in  "Nurse  Edith  Cavell"  and  a  meanie 
in  "Rebecca."  He  made  "The  Saint  in 
London"  last  winter  in  England. 

With  one  shock  he  practically  plunged 
me  from  full  bloom  into  middle  years 
(the  sudden  transition  isn't  so  good — 
ask  any  doctor)  when  the  director  on 
the  set  said: 

"Come  on,  Sanders.  We're  ready  for 
the  scene." 

"Sorry  old  man,  but  I'm  busy,"  came 
back  Sanders.  One  doesn't  say  that  to 
directors.  One  doesn't  hold  up  produc- 
tions. I  shut  my  eyes  and  waited  for 
the  deluge.    Nothing  happened. 

Isn't  life  wonderful? 


£0 


PHOTOPLAY 


Categorically  Speaking 

Myrna  as  Seen  by  Bill  Powell 


(Continued  jrom  page  21) 


ject:  Intricate,  conventionalized  in  de- 
sign, delicate  in  treatment— yet  done  in 
clever  synthesized  colors  and  portray- 
ing, perhaps,  an  airplane  race. 

Now  when  it  comes  to  architecture: 
I  think  if  you  took  the  tallest,  newest 
skyscraper  in  New  York  and  put  a  sim- 
ple American  cottage  on  the  roof  for  a 
penthouse;  and  surrounded  the  cottage 
with  a  pretty  garden  and  had  some 
smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney  and 
a  Collie  watching  a  perambulator  on 
the  terrace  while  a  party  went  on  inside 
—that  would  suggest  Myrna  as  she  is. 
The  cottage  would  be  compact,  com- 
fortable, decorated  in  a  smart  but 
homey  manner.  People  living  in  it 
would  be  at  once  relaxed  and  exhila- 
rated. The  owner  would  give  no  in- 
tellectual salons,  nor,  of  course,  any 
rousting  slap-bang  brawls — but  there'd 
be  quite  a  lot  of  entertaining. 

It  would  be  a  gay  house,  romantic  as 
anything  and  dedicated  to  twin  ideals — 
good  living  and  having  fun. 

The  one  note  of  incongruity  inside 
this  dreamed-up  penthouse  would  be  a 
champagne  bath  waiting  in  a  tub. 

What  kind  of  a  flower  would  she  be? 


How  about  a  geranium  in  a  chromium 
pot?  Or  that  twelfth  American  Beauty 
.  .  .  you  remember,  "Here  are  eleven, 
the  twelfth  is  you."  Banal,  but  appro- 
priate. 

Animal?  A  Siamese  cat,  perhaps. 
Siamese  cats  are  interesting  animals. 
They're  rare  and  exotic  looking,  lov- 
able, sincere  in  their  affections,  faithful. 
When  they  want  something  they  yell 
until  they  get  it.  They're  shrewd  ani- 
mals, too,  immensely  fastidious,  nervous' 
underneath  an  outward  calm.  This 
Siamese  cat  should  be  named  Minnie, 
which  is  Myrna's  nickname. 

So  far  as  sports  are  concerned,  I  can't 
help  feeling  Myrna  is  somewhat  like  a 
group  of  the  International  Set  strenu- 
ously playing  house — but  she's  a  combi- 
nation of  sports,  and  so  I  might  add 
polite  ice  skating,  a  turn  at  those  nickel 
machines  that  light  up  and  make  scores, 
and  backgammon,  with  knitting  be- 
tween moves. 

Myrna,  like  any  truly  normal,  nice 
person  is  difficult  to  characterize  in  the 
abstract.  Her  qualities  are  ambition, 
sincerity  of  purpose,  an  interest  in 
laughter,  and  a  desire  to  lead  a  healthy, 


happy  life  in  her  own  family.  Intelli- 
gently, she  has  worked  things  out  so 
that  her  career  is  successful  and  her 
home  is  sound.  You  could  build  her  as 
an  exotic  siren  until  doomsday,  and  zhe 
could  even  play  the  role;  but  no  one 
who  knew  her  would  believe  it  for  one 
moment. 

Her  poise  is  fantastic.  It's  unbeliev- 
able that  anyone  could  work  as  hard  as 
she  does,  be  on  her  toes  always,  accom- 
plish things  with  dispatch  and  effi- 
ciency, buck  the  exhausting  nervous 
strain  of  stardom  and  still — through  it 
all — maintain  such  quiet,  assured  calm. 

I  think  the  secret  may  lie  in  the  fact 
that  she  combines  what  is  worth  surviv- 
ing in  the  old-fashioned  concept  with 
a  purely  modern,  realistic  set  of  ideas. 
She's  ineffably  American  in  that  re- 
spect. 

Her  charm  is  that  she  never  tries  too 
hard.  She  is  what  she  is;  her  freckles 
are  honest,  and  so  is  her  appraisal  of 
herself.  What  she  possesses,  she  ex- 
ploits. What  she  does  not  possess,  she 
does  not  claim  for  herself. 

That's  the  nicest  thing  I  can  say  about 
anyone. 


Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 


Danger  Signals 

DELIEVE  you  me.  Hollywood,  or  that 
part  of  it  known  as  the  big-name  group, 
is  worried  —  uneasy  —  frightened.  No 
matter  how  indifferent  some  top  rank- 
ing stars  seem,  they're  frightened.  It's 
in  their  every  word  and  question  and 
it's  revealed  so  openly  when  they  slip 
into  theaters  again  and  again  to  witness 
a  performance  or  even  a  part  of  one  by 
one  of  the  amazing  new  group  of  fear- 
less, hard-working,  sure-of-themselves 
youngsters  who  are  forging  ahead,  of- 
fering new  and  refreshing  appeal.  In 
the  history  of  Hollywood  there  has 
never  been  such  a  large  and  imposing 
number  of  talented  newcomers. 

A  certain  star,  slowly  but  surely  on 
the  downgrade  whether  she  realizes  it 
or  not,  has  followed,  for  example,  the 
mild  little  picture,  "Dancing  Co-ed"  all 
over  town  from  theater  to  theater  to 
study  and  watch  the  enchanting  fresh- 
ness of  Lana  Turner's  performance.  A 
new  dancing  and  dramatic  star  in  one. 
Seeing  in  Lana  the  young  star  she  once 
was  herself. 

Another  biggie  has  watched  Jane 
Bryan  over  and  over  in  "The  Old  Maid" 
and  was  first  among  those  to  enter  the 
theater  on  preview  night  when  "We  Are 
Not  Alone"  was  shown. 

"The  ghastly  part  of  it,"  a  director 
told  us  the  other  day,  "is  that  each  one 
of  these  big-name  stars  recognizes  his 
own  successor.  They  instinctively  know 
that  that  certain  boy  or  girl  will  shove 
them  into  oblivion;  that  their  roles  will 
one  day  belong  to  these  youthful  new- 
comers whose  mannerisms  and  moods 
have  not  grown  stale  in  the  public's 
mind.  It  must  be  like  a  knife  in  the 
heart,  but  they  always  know  who  it  will 
be." 

End  of  a  Love 

W  ELL.  Al's  back  again." 
Hollywood  merely  shook  its  head  and 
said  no  more,  knowing  each  one  under- 


(Continued  jrom  page  61) 

stood.  Only  a  week  before,  Jolson  had 
flown  off  to  New  York,  leaving  the  plane 
five  times  before  it  departed  to  kiss 
again  the  one  woman  he'd  loved  for 
eleven  years — his  wife,  Ruby  Keeler. 

Ruby  left  the  airport  to  appear  next 
day  in  a  Los  Angeles  court  for  the  pur- 
pose of  divorcing  Al  and  terminating 
Hollywood's  idea  of  a  perfect  marriage. 
Ruby  and  Al — Al  and  Ruby — they  were 
as  synonymous  to  movietown  as  love 
and  affection. 

Hollywood  could  only  guess  at  rea- 
sons. A  difference  in  ages  some  had  it, 
comparing  Al's  middle  age  to  Ruby's 
late  twenties.  Others  said  it  was  fam- 
ily, citing  Ruby's  almost  fanatical  de- 
votion to  her  mother  and  brother  and 
sisters;  the  beautiful  California  home 
near  hers  and  Al's  she  had  built  for 
them;  and  noticing  Ruby's  mother  ac- 
companied Al  and  his  wife  almost 
everywhere.  Some  even  hinted  Ruby 
had  found  a  new  and  younger  heart  in- 
terest, but  this  remained  only  an  un- 
founded rumor. 

Anyway,  regardless  of  reason — it's 
over.  Al  showered  a  small  fortune  on 
his  wife  as  settlement  and  agreed  she 
should  have  custody  of  their  adopted 
boy — Al,  Jr. 

But  that  didn't  end  matters  with  Al, 
his  friends  say.  A  cold,  he  claims,  drove 
him  back  from  New  York  after  a  short 
week  away. 

A  cold,  Al  says.  But  his  friends  say, 
it's  a  heartache — almost  as  big  as  the 
man  himself. 

Matrimonial  Mystery 

I  HE  mystery  of  the  month  revolves  it- 
self around  the  status  of  Merle  Oberon's 
marriage. 

Recently  the  English  star  arrived  in 
Hollywood  to  make  movies  without  her 
producer  husband,  Alexander  Korda. 

From  a  Burbank  airport  Mr.  Korda  is 
reported  to  have  replied  to  questioners, 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  between  us." 

From  Hollywood  Merle  is  reported  to 


have  replied  to  questioners,  "All  is  not 
smooth  but  I  can't  say  more." 

So  there  we  are  folks — take  your 
choice.  But  don't  say  we  didn't  warn 
you. 

That's  Right,  You're  Wrong: 

If  you  think  all  the  girls  in  town  chase 
Jimmy    Stewart   like   mad.      We   know 
one  up-and-coming  young  actress  who 
turned  Jimmy  down  after  two  dates 
said  he  was  too  career-conscious  .  .  . 

If  you  think  Mickey  Rooney  is  a  flip- 
pant brat  to  one  and  all  alike.  The  way 
he  says,  "Yes,  Mr.  Stone,"  and  "How 
are  you,  Mr.  Stone?"  to  Lewis  Stone  is 
the  acme  of  respectable  manners  .  .  . 

If  you  think  Bing  Crosby  tosses 
around  rolls  of  dough  because  he  owns 
a  racing  stable  that  doesn't  always  come 
out  on  top.  Bing  will  outwalk,  outthink 
and  outplay  anyone  to  escape  paying  a 
five  dollar  bet.    Tight,  some  calls  it.  .  .  . 

If  you  think  Jack  Benny  is  a  tight- 
fisted  fall  guy  off  the  radio  as  well  as  on. 
Jack  is  quietly  serious  and  has  a  bigger 
donation  list  than  anyone  in  town.  .  .  . 

If  you  think  the  Cary  Grant-Phyllis 
Brooks  romance  isn't  rapidly  developing 
into  one  of  those  Paulette  Goddard- 
Charles  Chaplin  things.  Are  they  or 
aren't  they,  is  the  question  .  .  . 

If  you  think  the  top  big  glamour  girls 
have  men  chasing  them  in  droves.  The 
gals,  in  fact,  aren't  above  phoning  lo- 
cal males  and  asking  prettily  to  be  taken 
places.    Would  you  have  the  nerve?  .  .  . 

If  you  think  Gable  a  constantly  ami- 
able and  a  good-cheer  worker.  He'll 
sulk  for  hours  or  sit  in  stern  silence  on 
a  set  until  the  scene  is  set  the  way  he 
wants  it.  And  he's  nearly  always 
right  .  .  . 

If  you  believe  that  all  Hollywood 
waitresses  are  out-of-town  beauties  who 
were  disappointed  in  a  movie  career. 
Few  of  them  are  even  fair,  all  are  seri- 
ous about  their  jobs,  and  scarcely  any  of 
them  care  a  fig  for  pictures.  They  have 
grief  enough  waiting  on  the  stars.  .  .  . 


n> 


MYSTE 


It  is  always  refreshing  and 
restful.  You  have  a  choice 
of  Peppermint,  Spearmint, 
Oralgum  and  3  flavors  of 
Beechies  (candy  coated), 
Peppermint,  Spearmint  and 
Pepsin.  Below  is  the  "flavor" 
town  of  Canajoharie,  N.  Y., 
famous  for  Beech-Nut 
quality  and  flavor. 


Beech-Nut 
Gum 


FEBRUARY,      I  940 


^COLD? 


9£i  Qtieat  for 

RELIEF  OF  COLD  SYMPTOMS 

Don't  trifle  wilh  a  Co/d.'  For  a  deep-seated 
cold.  Be  Wise — See  Your  Doctor. 

— but  for  the  first  symptoms;  a  "scratchy" 
throat  or  that  stuffed-up,  "grippy"  feeling, 
tolce  Alka-Seltzer  and  see  how  much  better 
it   makes  you  feel. 

Remembei — Alka-Seltzer  with  its  buffer- 
protected  pain  relieving  properties  can  bring 
welcome  effective  relief  from  the  misery  of 
cold-symptoms.   At  All  Drug  Stores. 


DON'T   LET 

JANGLED 
NERVES 

Wreck   Your    Life 

Bernarr  Macfadden's  new  book,  More 
Power  to  Your  Nerves,  contains  definite 
practical  help  for  those  suffering  from 
nervous  disorders.  Page  after  page  of 
this  remarkable  book  is  devoted  to  actual 
case-histories  taken  from  the  files  of  vari- 
ous Macfadden  health  resorts.  These  case- 
histories  give  you  the  symptoms  and  the 
detailed  treatments  employed  in  these 
nerve  cases.  Here  you  get  not  theory — 
not  experimentation — but  the  last  word 
in  modernized  physical  and  mental  hy- 
giene for  nervous  sufferers. 
Here  in  246  pages  of  intensively  interest- 
ing reading  you  discover  how  you  can 
gain  complete  control  over  your  nervous 
system.  How  you  can  banish  fear,  worry, 
anxiety.  How  you  can  mend  your  shat- 
tered nerves  and  once  again  enjoy  the 
thrill  of  living. 

More  Power  to  Your  Nerves  sells  for  only 
$2.00.  And  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with 
the  book,  merely  return  it  within  5  days 
and  we  will  refund  your  $2.00.  Send  for 
your   copy   today. 

MACFADDEN  BOOK  CO. 

Dept.  P-2 
205  E.  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


Number  One  Fan  at  Rudy  Vallee's  Victor  Hugo  open- 
ing— Alice    Faye,    who    got    her   start   with    his    band 


If  you  believe  the  rumor  that  Bob 
Taylor  and  Spencer  Tracy  are  feuding, 
with  Bob  jealous  over  Tracy's  roles. 
There  exists  between  them  as  fine  and 
loyal  a  friendship  as  you'd  find  any- 
where. .  .  . 

And  if  you  dare  think,  as  a  result, 
writers  out  here  don't  grow  white  over- 
night and  wish  they  were  miles  away — 
well  as  far  as  Vine  Street  anyway — 
you're  crazy. 

Cal's  Sight  of  the  Month: 

UARBO,  seated  at  the  counter  of  a  Bev- 
erly Hills'  health  food  store,  drinking 
garlic  juice  like  mad  with  Gaylord 
Hauser's  diamond  ring  flashing  on  her 
left  hand. 

Return  of  a  Soldier 

I  HE  setting  is  Perino's  restaurant  atop 
Sak's  Fifth  Avenue  in  Beverly  Hills. 
Charles  Boyer,  slimmer,  more  serious 
and  thoughtful  than  when  we  last  saw 
him,  enters  with  his  wife.  "We  shall 
wait  for  our  guests,"  we  hear  him  say 
to  the  waiter,  and  thirty  minutes  later 
the  Boyers  are  still  waiting.  One  can't 
help  but  think  of  the  grief  and  horror 
this  man  has  left  behind  all  those  thou- 
sands of  miles  away,  in  the  front  line 
trenches  of  France. 

Forty-five  minutes  later  the  Boyers 
are  still  waiting.  Then  when  one  feels 
even  he  can't  bear  it  any  longer,  they 
arrive — the  Boyers'  guests.  It's  George 
Raft  and  Norma  Shearer. 

"Sorry,"  says  Norma,  "but  we  had  to 
come  all  the  way  from  the  beach,  you 
know." 

Somehow,  behind  the  polite  and  gen- 
tle smile  of  Charles  Boyer  we  think  we 
catch  a  look  that  speaks  of  some  deep 
and  intangible  thing — something  that 
might  be  translated  into  the  words, 
"From  the  beach?  But  I've  come  all 
the  way  from  death." 

But  Boyer,  of  course,  doesn't  say  it. 
He  only  smiles  gently. 

Hollywood  Says: 

NO  two  people  in  all  Hollywood  tried 
to  work  out  their  marital  troubles  more 


earnestly  than  Chester  Morris  and  his 
wife  Sue.  After  several  reconciliations 
it  ended,  at  last,  in  divorce.  Mrs.  Morris 
maintains  custody  of  the  daughter  Cyn- 
thia, and  Chester,  of  the  son,  John 
Brooks,  the  second.  .  .  . 

Certain  stars  look  at  the  completely 
happy  marriage  of  Jon  Hall  and  Frances 
Langford  with  mingled  sighs  of  regret 
and  pleasure.  Now  the  pair  are  adding 
to  their  joy  by  adopting  a  baby.  .  .  . 

There  will  come  a  day  when  the 
romance  of  George  Raft  and  Norma 
Shearer  will  cool  and  George  will  go 
back  to  the  one  woman  he  really  loves 
—Virginia  Peine. 

On  the  Record 

flN  increasing  number  of  U.  S.  citizens 
are  getting  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  those 
round  black  discs  known  as  phonograph 
records.  If  you  like  the  new  filmusic, 
there's  no  better  way  of  taking  it  home 
with  you  for  keeps  than  on  one  of  the 
recent  recordings. 

For  proof,  get  a  copy  of  Decca's  "Wiz- 
ard of  Oz"  album.  Between  two  nice 
bright  covers  you'll  find  eight  Oz  tunes 
sung  by  Judy  Garland  in  that  pleasant 
manner  which  brought  thousands  to  the 
box  office.  "Over  the  Rainbow,"  "We're 
Off  to  See  the  Wizard,"  and  all  the  rest 
sound  as  if  they  came  off  the  glorified 
sound  track  of  M-G-M's  super  fairy 
tale.     (Decca  Album  74) 

Paramount's  "Victor  Herbert"  prom- 
ises to  be  one  of  the  season's  top  musi- 
cals. Which  means,  of  course,  that  you'll 
be  hearing  a  lot  of  Herbert's  tunes.  Best 
recording  effort  in  that  direction  so  far 
is  a  "Victor  Herbert  Album."  Ten  of 
his  best  songs  are  dressed  up  by  a  star- 
studded  musical  group — Bing  Crosby, 
Frances  Langford,  Florence  George  and 
Victor  Young's  orchestra.  High  lights 
are  Bing's  "When  You're  Away"  and 
Frances'  "A  Kiss  in  the  Dark."  (Decca 
Album  72) 

The  soothsayers  of  Tin  Pan  Alley  re- 
port that  the  songs  from  "Gulliver's 
Travels"  will  make  the  winter  brighter. 
Glenn  Miller,  now  pushing  his  way  into 
the  front  rank  of  baton-wavers,  uncov- 
ers the  reason  why  with  a  record  of 
"Faithful    Forever"    and    "Bluebirds   in 


the  Moonlight."  (Bluebird  B-10465) 
With  a  band  not  so  good,  Romantic 
Pianist  Eddy  Duchin  tries  the  other 
half  of  the  score:  "I  Hear  a  Dream"  and 
"It's  a  Hap,  Hap,  Happy  Day."  (Colum- 
bia 35259) 

There's  nothing  like  a  new  discovery 
to  add  to  the  joy  of  platter-turning. 
This  time  it's  a  gal  from  Dixie,  Dinah 
Shore  by  name,  who  should  end  up  be- 
hind a  sound  track.  She  makes  "Who 
Told  You  I  Cared,"  from  Warners'  "Kid 
Nightingale,"  big  time.  Its  companion 
is  "I  Like  to  Recognize  the  Tune," 
which  you  probably  do  already.  (Blue- 
bird B-10454) 

It  looks  as  if  "Gulliver"  will  have  to 
fight  it  out  with  "Pinocchio."  Disney's 
"Jiminy  Cricket"  and  "Monstro  the 
Whale"  are  now  song  titles,  with  Ted 
Weems  &  Co.  putting  them  on  wax  for 
posterity.     (Decca  2793) 

Then  there's  the  Yes  Dance  Professor 
— Kay  Kyser,  a  recent  proud  alumnus 
of  RKO,  where  he  made  "That's  Right, 
You're  Wrong."  Kay  and  the  boys  on 
the  bandstand  have  recorded  "The  An- 
swer Is  Love"  and  "Happy  Birthday  to 
Love,"  the  picture's  two  hit  songs. 
(Columbia  35238) 

With  a  well-timed  holiday  spirit,  vig- 
orous crooner  Dick  Powell  has  collab- 
orated with  the  Foursome  to  produce  a 
New  Year's  special.  The  first  side  has 
"Hail,  Hail,  the  Gang's  All  Here"  and 
"For  He's  a  Jolly  Good  Fellow."  To 
back  that,  Dick,  thinking  of  Holly- 
wood's snow-banked  streets,  no  doubt, 
performs  "Jingle  Bells."      (Decca  2760) 

House  Pet 

Just  before  he  went  to  New  York, 
Fred  Astaire  received  a  bull  mastiff 
puppy,  a  present  from  Douglas  Fair- 
banks, Sr.  Three  weeks  later,  Fred  re- 
turned to  Hollywood  again.  When  he 
opened  his  front  door,  he  was  greeted 
by  a  young  horse  who  knocked  Fred 
flatter  than  the  proverbial  pancake. 
When  he  had  recovered  his  composure, 
Fred  took  another  look  at  his  pet.  He 
just  couldn't  believe  that  a  dog  could 
grow  so  fast  in  such  a  short  time.  Fred 
rushed  to  the  phone,  called  Doug  and 
told  him  of  the  experience.  "That  dog 
gets  bigger  every  time  I  wink  my  eyes," 
Fred  exclaimed. 

"Well,  you  might  as  well  get  used  to 
it,"  warned  Doug.  "He  still  has  ten 
months  of  growing  to  do." 

"I  asked  for  a  house  pet,"  cracked 
Fred  resignedly.  "But  I  didn't  think  I'd 
have  to  keep  him  in  a  hangar!" 

Sister  Story 

A  COROLLARY  to  the  Brian  Aherne- 
Joan  Fontaine  marriage  of  which  the 
public  isn't  aware  is  a  rather  pitiful 
little  story  about  Joan  and  her  lovely 
older  sister,  Olivia  de  Havilland. 

Olivia,  as  you  know,  became  famous., 
first.  Then  Joan,  appearing  in  a  Henry 
Duffy  play,  was  "discovered"  and  given 
a  contract  at  RKO.  Joan,  too,  is  beau- 
tiful and  talented  and  she  wanted  to 
succeed  on  her  own.  She  wanted  this 
so  much  she  insisted  that  none  of  her 
publicity  mention  her  relationship  to 
Olivia.  She  hated  the  idea  of  being, 
merely,  "Olivia  de  Havilland's  sister." 

As  a  result,  the  two,  very  nearly  the 
same  age  and,  before  Joan's  discovery, 
inseparable  chums,  stayed  apart  as 
much  as  it  was  humanly  possible  to  do. 
True,  they  lived  in  the  same  house,  but 
seldom  during  the  three  years  after 
Joan  came  into  the  limelight  did  they 
appear  in  public  together,  even  for  in- 
formal and  personal  "double  dates" 
such  as  sisters  usually  enjoy.  That  is, 
they  didn't  until  just  recently.  Then 
Joan  decided  that  it  wasn't  worth  it — 
to  deny  this  precious  relationship  for 
the  sake  of  ambition.     She  decided  to 


82 


PHOTOPLAY 


abandon  the  secrecy;  to  go  about  with 
Olivia  whenever  the  opportunity  arose. 
She  hoped  it  would  be  often,  to  make 
up  for  the  good  times  she  had  denied 
them. 

And  then  Brian  Aherne  came  along 
and  swept  Joan  into  matrimony.  Theirs 
was  a  beautiful  romance,  the  kind  you 
read  about  in  books.  Joan  is  wonder- 
fully happy.  But  still,  there  is  one  tiny 
fly  in  the  ointment — the  thought  of  the 
gay  companionship  she  and  Olivia 
missed  during  those  three  years — the 
thought  that  it  can  never  be  replaced, 
now  that  Joan  is  a  Mrs.  and  embarking 
on  a  new  life. 

Change  of  Mind 

IVlAYBE  we  shouldn't  tell  this  one  on 
Bob  Taylor,  but  it  seems  much  too  good 
to  keep.  As  everyone  knows,  he  and 
Barbara  Stanwyck  had  to  change  their 
honeymoon  plans  and  go  to  Mexico  in- 
stead of  to  Europe,  what  with  the  war 
going  on.  Well,  came  time  to  start  home. 
Bob,  having  neglected  to  arrange  for 
tickets  until  the  last  minute — they  were 
having  such  a  swell  time — found  that  all 
through  passage  by  plane  from  Mexico 
City  was  booked  solidly  for  weeks,  so 
they  took  a  more  roundabout  route 
through  Texas.  But  Bob  had  learned 
his  lesson,  and  immediately,  upon  ar- 
riving in  Dallas,  he  made  tracks  for  the 
ticket  offices  of  the  airport,  where  he 
was  elated  to  find  just  two  seats  left 
on  the  big  American  Airliner  leaving 
next  morning  for  the  West  Coast.  So  he 
certainly  was  not  expecting  to  be  roused 
from  sleep  in  the  wee  small  hours  by  an 
apologetic  passenger  agent  and  be  told 
that  they  couldn't  take  the  morning 
plane  after  all — their  seats  had  been 
sold  by  mistake  to  a  couple  who  boarded 
the  plane  at  Nashville.  To  say  that  Bob 
was  irked  is  putting  it  mildly.  He'd 
do  something  about  it  himself,  he  told 
the  agent.  Only  give  him  the  name  of 
the  couple  who  had  purchased  the  seats 
and  he'd  come  down  to  the  plane  and 
explain  things.  To  which  the  passenger 
agent  is  said  to  have  answered  with  a 
chuckle:  "Okay,  but  I  don't  think  it  will 
do  you  much  good.  The  name  of  the 
couple  who  bought  your  seats  happens 
to  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Louis  B.  Mayer!" 
(In  case  you  don't  know,  Mr.  Mayer  just 
happens  to  be  Bob's  boss!)  P.  S.  They 
took  the  later  plane. 

Long-term  Idol 

No  wonder  M-G-M  is  doing  all  in  its 
power  to  bring  Joan  Crawford  back  to 
the  top  of  the  ladder  again.  Joan  has 
proven  over  and  over  she's  the  idol  and 
inspiration  of  hundreds  of  girls  seeking 
to  climb  to  the  top  through  disappoint- 
ments and  obstacles. 

When  Joan  appeared  on  the  Screen 
Guild  Air  show  given  at  Earl  Carroll's 
night  spot,  every  dancer  and  chorus  girl 
in  the  place  (one  who  had  over  ten 
thousand  still  pictures  of  Joan)  gathered 
to  meet  and  greet  their  idol. 

You  can  imagine  their  delight  when 
Joan  graciously  accepted  their  invita- 
tion to  pose  with  them. 

The  Joke's  on  Taylor 

I  HE  "new"  Nelson  Eddy  is  certainly  in 
rare  form  these  days.  The  first  day  of 
shooting  on  his  current  picture,  Nelson 
was  given  one  of  those  swanky  portable 
dressing  rooms.  While  everyone  on  the 
set  waited.  Nelson  went  to  make  his 
first  change.  Suddenly  the  great  voice 
of  Eddy  boomed  out,  laughing  as  no 
one  had  ever  heard  him  laugh  before. 
The  door  of  the  portable  swung  open 
and  he  stood  there,  holding  something 
behind  his  back. 

"Who  was  the  last  person  to  have  this 
dressing  room?"  he  gaily  inquired. 


"It  was  Robert  Taylor,"  a  prop  man 
volunteered. 

"Oh  yeah?"  cracked  the  unpredictable 
Eddy.  "Well,  he  forgot  to  take  this!" 
From  behind  his  back,  Nelson  held  up 
a  dainty  brassiere! 

Lonesome  Lady 

WHAT  has  happened  to  Ginger  Rogers? 
That  is  the  question  everyone  in  Holly- 
wood is  asking  everyone  in  Hollywood. 
Months  go  by  and  Ginger  is  never  seen 
at  a  night  spot.  She  never  gives  parties 
herself  and  on  rare  occasions  when  she 
attends  one  she  sits  like  a  little  mouse 
in  the  corner.  When  Jack  Oakie  gave 
a  surprise  birthday  party  for  his  Venita, 
much  to  his  surprise  Ginger  accepted 
the  invitation.  Jack,  who  has  known 
Ginger  since  they  were  struggling 
youngsters  together,  dragged  out  one  of 
his  earlier  scrap  books  to  show  Ginger 
their  early-day  pictures.  Ginger  seemed 
to  enjoy  seeing  them.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  she  announced  that  she  had  to  go 
home.  And  off  she  went  alone,  driving 
her  own  car  and  looking  as  forlorn  as 
a  lost  orphan. 

Family  Affair 

IN  every  nook  and  corner  there  is  an 
untold  story  in  Hollywood.  It  isn't  news 
that  Mickey  Rooney  is  the  hottest  thing 
on  the  M-G-M  lot.  And  it  was  an- 
nounced recently  that  Mickey's  father, 
a  former  burlesque  comedian  named 
Joe  Yule  has  also  been  put  under  con- 
tract. But  the  topper  to  the  story  is 
this.  In  the  upstairs  accounting  office 
of  M-G-M  is  an  employee  who  answers 
to  the  name  of  Mr.  Panky.  He  is  mar- 
ried to  Nell  Panky,  who  just  happens  to 
be  Mickey's  own  mother.  The  depart- 
ment where  Panky  works  is  the  one 
that  hands  out  the  weekly  check — col- 
lected by  Joe  Yule!  And  they  say 
drama  is  dead  in  Hollywood. 

Spencer  Edison 

HOLLYWOOD  is  watching  with  sym- 
pathetic interest  Spencer  Tracy's  eager- 
ness over  his  newest  assignment  to  play 
Thomas  A.  Edison. 

"He'll  play  him  to  the  hilt,"  a  writer 
remarked,  "for  Spence  will  love  him." 

And  Hollywood  understands,  for 
Tracy's  own  child  was  born  deaf  and  this 
same  handicap  of  the  great  inventor  will 
strike   deep    into   Spencer's  soul. 


Farewell 

nLL  Hollywood  was  shocked  by  the 
sudden  death  of  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Sr. 
Although  he  had  made  few  pictures  of  j 
late  years,  his  interest  in  the  industry 
was  as  keen  as  it  was  in  the  days  when 
he  was  thrilling  audiences  with  his  per- 
formances in  such  films  as  "The  Three 
Musketeers,"  "Robin  Hood"  and  "The 
Mark  of  Zorro,"  and  his  death  is  a  per- 
sonal loss  to  his  hosts  of  friends  in  the 
film  colony.  To  Mrs.  Fairbanks  and  to 
Doug,  Jr.,  Cal  extends  condolences  on 
behalf  of  Photoplay. 

Historical  Note 

EVER  since  that  "March  of  Time"  re- 
lease called  "The  Movies  March  On," 
we've  been  getting  inquiries  about  the 
film  library  which  furnished  not  only 
the  setting  for  the  short  but  the  fasci- 
nating "clips"  of  old-time  movies  which 
it  featured.  So — we  set  New  York  oper- 
ative number  999  on  the  job,  and  here's 
his  report: 

Behind  the  story  of  the  library,  which 
is  a  feature  of  the  new  Museum  of  Mod- 
ern Art,  is  the  story  of  Iris  Barry  and 
John  Abbott.  The  former  is  a  comely 
lady  who  left  England  in  1927,  on  twelve 
hours'  notice,  to  write  about  Hollywood 
for  the  London  Daily  Mail.  She  knew 
her  movies  pretty  well — back  home, 
she'd  had  long  discussions  about  them 
with  a  funny  litle  girl  called  Elsa  Lan- 
chester  and  a  bashful  young  actor 
named  Charles  Laughton.  So  well  did 
she  like  America — and  a  certain  young 
Wall  Street  man  named  John  Abbott — 
that  she  returned  in  1930  to  settle  down 
here  permanently  as  Mrs.  Abbott.  To- 
gether, they  drew  up  plans  for  develop- 
ing a  film  library  as  part  of  the  Museum 
and  got  a  grant  from  the  Rockefeller 
Foundation.  By  1935,  Iris  was  appointed 
Curator  and  Abbott,  Director. 

Today,  Iris  is  in  charge  of  some 
6,000,000  feet  of  film,  all  important  relics 
of  the  cinematic  past.  She's  been  known 
to  spend  weeks  looking  for  a  single  film 
to  add  to  the  collections.  Then  she  in- 
spects her  newest  finds,  arranges  them 
into  programs  showing  the  successive 
stages  of  movie  history,  and  writes  pro- 
gram notes  as  a  guide  for  students  of 
motion  picture  art  and  technique. 

And  what  do  the  Abbotts  do  in  their 
spare  time?  Oh,  they  go  to  the  movies. 
"You  see,"  Iris  explains,  "I'm  just  a 
good  movie  fan  gone  wrong!" 


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*  HARVEST-Marcel  Pagnol 

HERE  is  a  picture  which  attains  power 
and  majesty  from  its  pure  simplicity. 
It  tells  of  a  farmer  (Gabriel  Gabrio) 
who  will  not  desert  his  land  when  the 
other  villagers  have  felt  the  lure  of  the 
town  and  richer  ground.  He  becomes  a 
hermit,  until  comes  a  woman  (Orane 
Demazis)  who  feels  with  him  the  tug 
of  the  land.  Together  they  bring  back 
the  farm  to  its  former  abundance,  and  in 
doing  so  regain  their  self  respect  and 
happiness.  Typical  aspects  of  French 
peasant  life  have  their  place  here — the 
village  fair,  the  friendly  talks  over  a 
bottle  of  wine,  the  sweat  of  honest  la- 
bor, the  rich  provincial  humor.  It  is  a 
rare  treat  to  find  such  depth  of  spirit 
and  soundness  of  characterization  as 
this  film  offers. 

•  TWO  THOROUGHBREDS-RKO-Radio 

I  HIS  studio  has  a  habit  of  taking  sim- 
ple, unpretentious  stories  and  turning 
them  into  little  pictures  that  you  will 
remember  long  after  epics  are  forgotten. 
This  time  a  boy  named  Jimmy  Lydon 
gathers  honors  to  himself  as  an  orphan 
who  finds  a  foal  and  later  has  to  choose 
between  his  love  for  the  horse  and  his 
honor — because  he  finds  out  people  who 
have  befriended  him  are  the  rightful 
owners.  There  is  fine  writing  and  beau- 
tiful acting  here.  Joan  Brodel  and  J. 
M.  Kerrigan  are  in  support. 

THE  BIG  GUY-Universal 

I  HIS  has  both  power  and  keen  emo- 
tional appeal,  which  save  it  from  being 
just  another  prison  picture.  Jackie 
Cooper  works  in  a  garage  and  invents  a 
new  design  for  a  motor.  Convicts, 
through  Jonathan  Hale,  arrange  to  have 
Jackie  drive  them  after  an  escape  and 
they  use  Victor  McLaglen,  the  warden, 
as  a  shield.  Young  Cooper  gets  into  all 
sorts  of  serious  trouble  as  the  result  of 
this,  as  you  can  imagine.  He  and  Mc- 
Laglen work  very  well  together. 

THE  CISCO  KID  AND  THE  LADY- 
20th  Century-Fox 

JUST  at  first  you  may  be  disconcerted 
by  the  fact  that  the  Cisco  Kid  is  no 
longer  Warner  Baxter,  but  Cesar  Ro- 
mero. Cesar  steps  into  Baxter's  boots 
with  grace  and  humor,  however,  do- 
ing an  excellent  spot  of  acting.  It's 
too  bad  the  picture  itself  isn't  anything 
to  talk  about;  the  Kid  and  his  band  save 
a  mine  for  an  orphan  child.  Gloria  Ann 
White  is  a  pleasant  child  and  Virginia 
Field  is  terrific  as  the  dance-hall  girl. 

THAT'S  RIGHT-YOU'RE  WRONG- 
RKO-Radio 

I  HEY  brought  Kay  Kyser  and  his  band 
out  to  do  a  picture,  and  everyone  said 
it  was  bound  to  be  a  weak  number. 
When  it  was  finished  the  studio  thought 
they  had  one  of  the  big  hits  of  the  year. 
It  might  just  possibly  be.  Kyser's  Col- 
lege of  Musical  Knowledge  is  featured, 
his  personality  is  very  screenable,  and 
the  story  holds  together.  It  deals  with 
the  problem  of  a  band  leader  brought  to 
Hollywood  for  the  movies;  his  group 
goes  grand  on  him  and  so  he  goes  grand 
on  them.  Adolphe  Menjou  plays  the 
producer,  May  Robson  is  fine  as  Kay's 
grandmother  and  you'll  especially  like 
Ginny  Simms,  who  sings. 

ir  DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN— Universal 

MaRLENE  DIETRICH  comes  back  to 
Hollywood  and  pictures  with  a  bang. 
Joe  Pasternak  has  produced  a  Western 
thriller,  not  to  end  all  Westerns  but  to 


(Continued  from  page  63) 

give  them  something  to  aim  at,  for  it's 
a  honey.  Much  of  the  action  takes  place 
in  the  town  saloon,  where  Brian  Don- 
levy  and  his  gang  of  murderers  hold 
out,  aided  by  the  honky-tonk  queen. 
When  Brian  shoots  the  sheriff  the  mayor 
appoints  the  town  drunk,  Charles  Win- 
ninger,  to  take  office;  Winninger  sends 
for  Tom  Destry,  Jr.,  famous  son  of  a 
famous  father,  played  by  Jimmy  Stew- 
art. Jimmy  refuses  to  tote  guns,  thus 
becoming  a  laughing  stock  until  he  sets 
out  to  clean  up  the  town  by  different 
methods.  Marlene,  dressed  and  looking 
something  like  a  slim  Mae  West,  has  a 
classic  fight  with  Una  Merkel  and  falls 
in  love  with  Jimmy.  Others  in  the  cast 
are  Irene  Hervey  and  Mischa  Auer. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS-Paramount 

MERE'S  Pagliacci  in  a  kind  of  drawn- 
out  Laugh-Clown-Laugh  story,  with 
Pat  O'Brien  playing  the  lugubrious  fun- 
nyman. He  slips  up  on  his  responsibil- 
ities and  as  a  result  his  wife,  a  bareback 
rider,  dies.  To  the  gutter  goes  Pat,  un- 
til twenty  years  later  he  meets  his 
daughter,  Olympe  Bradna.  The  film  has 
good  pathos  until  it  goes  too  far,  which 
may  be  said  of  the  last  half.  Roland 
Young  and  Reginald  Gardiner  help. 

CAFE  HOSTESS— Columbia 

I  HIS  rather  sordid  little  story  concerns 
Ann  Dvorak,  a  cafe  "B"-girl  who  is  far 
too  nice  for  her  job  of  dancing  with  out- 
of-town-businessmen  and  lifting  their 
wallets.  Preston  Foster,  a  sailor  who's 
been  around  some,  you  bet,  catches  her 
when  she  tries  her  sweet  little  tricks  on 
him.  There's  a  lot  of  action,  a  fine 
brawl,  and  Wynne  Gibson  in  addition. 

TOWER  OF  LONDON-Universal 

DRRRR— those  15th  Century  English- 
men! It's  amazing  that  Britain  survives 
today.  Imagine  Basil  Rathbone  as  the 
unscrupulous  prince  who's  busy  killing 
off  everyone  who  stands  between  him 
and  the  throne;  then  think  of  what  fun 
he'd  have  with  all  the  torture  devices 
of  the  old  prison  tower — and  you'll  have 
some  idea  of  how  gruesome  this  thing 
really  is.  It's  first-rate  mellerdrammer, 
though,  and  it's  got  Ian  Hunter,  Bar- 
bara O'Neil,  Vincent  Price  and  scores  of 
others  in  the  cast.    All  do  good  work. 

THE  HONEYMOON'S  OVER-20th  Century-Fox 

NlCE  to  see  Stu  Erwin  sorta  back  in  the 
movies  again.  He's  teamed  with  Mar- 
jorie  Weaver  in  this  unassuming  but 
brisk  and  often  amusing  film.  The  two 
of  them,  newlyweds,  go  into  debt  try- 
ing to  keep  up  with  the  country-club 
set.  The  various  tribulations  set  forth 
may  be  recognizable  to  some  of  you. 
Patric  Knowles,  June  Gale,  E.  E.  Clive 
and  others  work  away  for  dear  life  in 
supporting  roles. 

THE  COVERED  TRAILER-Republic 

I  HE  Higgins  family  decide  to  take  a 
trip  to  South  America  on  Pa's  insurance 
money.  Then  Ma  tells  the  agent  Pa  is 
only  forty-four,  instead  of  forty-five, 
and  so  he  can't  get  his  dough  for  an- 
other year.  To  save  face  with  the  neigh- 
bors, the  family  go  with  Grandpa  in  his 
trailer  for  a  fishing  trip.  The  boat  they'd 
intended  to  take  burns,  with  all  lives 
lost,  and  Pa's  bank  assistant,  thinking 
he's  dead,  takes  $100,000  and  pretends 
Pa  did  it.  That's  the  setup,  and  out  of 
it  the  Higgins  family  make  the  best  of 
the  series  so  far.  The  Gleasons  and  the 
usual  cast  carry  on. 


LEGION  OF  THE  LAWLESS-RKO-Radio 

IOU  know,  these  George  O'Brien  pic- 
tures, although  they  never  seem  to  get 
around  to  the  big  city  theaters,  have  an 
enormous  following.  This  one  is  a 
honey,  full  of  pace  and  excitement. 
There's  the  usual  business  about  a  law- 
less town  and  a  horde  of  vigilantes  and 
a  pretty  girl  (Virginia  Vale  in  this  case) 
and  George  fixing  everything  up  in 
short  order.  Herbert  Hayward,  Hugh 
Southern  and  others  help. 

JOE  AND  ETHEL  TURP  CALL 
ON  THE  PRESIDENT— M-G-M 

HERE'S  the  first  of  another  series.  If 
you  read  Damon  Runyon's  column 
you'll  recognize  Joe  Turp  and  his 
wife  Ethel.  The  idea  is  that  Joe  and 
Ethel  are  pretty  mad  because  their 
mailman,  beloved  on  that  beat  for  years, 
has  been  fired— so  they  go  directly  to 
the  President  to  protest.  Mr.  Big  is  in 
a  mood  to  listen,  and  he  does;  and  that's 
the  picture.  Be  warned  that  after  the 
unique  idea  has  had  a  chance  to  soak 
in,  you'll  yawn  a  little.  Ann  Sothern  is 
Ethel,  William  Gargan,  Joe,  and  Lewis 
Stone  is  the  President.  He's  always  so 
good.     Annie  Sothern  is  swell,  too. 

CITY  IN  DARKNESS— 20th  Century-Fox 

nE  are  going  to  have  a  form  review  of 
the  Chan  series  printed,  they  pop  up  so 
often.  Then  we  could  just  fill  in  the 
blanks  with  "Good"  or  "Fair"  and  what 
city  the  piece  has  as  its  locale.  This  one 
happens  in  Paris  during  the  blackouts, 
is  only  fair,  and  shows  Chan  dealing 
with  a  spy  ring.  Sidney  Toler  as  Chan, 
Lynn  Bari  and  the  rest  are  as  usual. 

*  DAY-TIME  WIFE— 20th  Century-Fox 

I  HIS  is  nothing  to  make  you  stay  awake 
nights  after  seeing  it,  but  Tyrone  Power 
is  at  his  youthful  best  in  light  come- 
dies and  it's  all  very  refreshing  after 
"Suez"  and  "The  Rains  Came,"  and  all. 
Spirited  Linda  Darnell  has  the  plum 
part  of  Ty's  wife;  in  the  picture,  though, 
it's  not  all  plush  and  profile  on  account 
of  Ty  not  having  very  good  morals  and 
on  account  of  Wendy  Barrie,  his  secre- 
tary. Of  course,  it's  just  the  old  secre- 
tary-wife-husband triangle,  with  Binnie 
Barnes  the  wise  older  woman  who  sets 
Linda  on  the  right  path.  This  leads  to 
Warren  William  and  complications. 
Gregory  Ratoff  directed  and  you'll  have 
a  pleasant  evening  at  it. 

NICK  CARTER,  MASTER  DETECTIVE 
—M-G-M 

— or,  The  Case  of  the  Missing  Rocket- 
Ship  Blueprints.  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer 
makes  no  effort  to  disguise  the  fact  that 
this  is  a  dime  novel,  brought  to  the 
screen.  Rita  Johnson  is  cast  as  the 
heroine  who  gets  the  all-important 
plane  into  the  air  after  a  gun  battle  in 
the  desert,  and  Walter  Pidgeon  is  the 
intrepid  Nick,  who  finds  those  blue- 
prints X-rayed  on  a  spy's  back.  Henry 
Hull,  Addison  Richards,  Donald  Meek 
and  lots  of  others  busily  make  obstacles 
for  Nick  to  surmount. 

REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT— Paramsunt 

tVEN  Fred  MacMurray  and  Barbara 
Stanwyck  can't  pull  this  out  of  the 
average  class.  It's  the  familiar  tale  of 
the  young  District  Attorney  and  way- 
ward girl.  When  he  exposes  her  to  a 
good  old-fashioned  Christmas  back 
home  in  Indiana  with  Mother,  Beulah 
Bondi,  and  spinster  aunt,  Elizabeth  Pat- 
terson, the  to-be-expected  reform  takes 
place.  Plenty  of  sweetness  and  light, 
but  you're  not  likely  to  remember  the 
night  you  saw  this. 


84 


PHOTOPLAY 


Brief  Reviews 


COWBOY  QUARTERBACK,  THE— Warners 
Bert  Wheeler's  first  solo  without  the  late   Bob 

Woolsev  is  a  dated  story  of  a  hiek  football  player 
who  gets  into  bin  time.  Gamblers  try  a  frame-up 
and  it  looks  bad  until  Herts  girl,  Marie  Wilson, 
conies  along.  Gloria  Dickson  help-  a  little.    I  Vov.) 

DANCING  CO-ED— M-G-M 

When  Lee  Bowman,  movie  dancer,  finds  he  will 

need  a  new  partner,  publicity  agent  Roscoe  Karns 
tosses  a  co-ed  contest,  l.ana  Turner,  a  Hroadway 
hooter,  turns  college  girl  tor  the  stunt;  Richard 
Carlson,  newshound  for  the  school  paper,  starts  an 
investigation.  There's  a  surprise  ending  when  Ann 
Rutherford  enters  the  contest.  Artie  Shaw  gets  hot 
with    his  clarinet.    (.Nov.) 

if  DAY  THE  BOOKIES  WEPT,  THE— 
RKO-Radio 
Good  comedy,  with  Joe  Penner  at  his  best.  He's 
a  cab  driver  in  love  with  Betty  Grable.  His  pals 
send  him  to  buy  a  horse  and,  of  course  he  gets 
stuck.  But  when  Betty  discovers  the  old  nag  loves 
liquor — do  they  have  fun!  And  so  will  you.  {Dec.) 

DISPUTED  PASSAGE— Paramount 

A  forceful  melodrama  dealing  with  the  struggle 
of  a  young  doctor  (John  Howard)  to  choose  be- 
tween science  and  love  tot  Dorothy  1. amour.  Akim 
Tamiroff  plays  ,m  older  physician  who  ruins  the 
romantic  setup.  When  Dottie  inarches  off  to  China 
and  Howard  follows,  Tamiroff  iiui-t  decide  whether 
to  stick  to  his  guns  or  -  (Dei  .1 

*DUST  BE  MY  DESTINY— Warners 

A  depressing,  although  gripping  study  of  social 
problems,  with  John  Garfield  again  imprisoned 
unjustly.  As  a  result,  he  hates  everything  except 
1'riscilla  Lane.  But.  finally,  out  ot  tragedy  comes 
readjustment.  Garfield  turns  in  the  performance 
you've  come  to  expect  of  him.  I  Vov.) 

*  DRUMS  ALONG  THE  MOHAWK— 20th 
Century-Fox 
Claudette  Colbert  and  Henry  Fonda  are  at  their 
best  in  this  saga  of  the  heroism  of  up-state  New 
York  pioneers  in  their  fights  against  the  Indians. 
Edna  May  Oliver  is  superb  in  tin-  role  of  the  widow 
who  takes  Uank  and  his  bride  in  when  the 
Mohawks  burn  their  home.  Well  worth  seeing.  (Jan.) 

if  END  OF  A  DAY— Juno  Films 

Poignant  drama,  this  French  film  dealing  with  a 
group  of  aged  Thespians  living  111  the  memories  of 
past  triumphs  and  failures.  The  tine  cast  is  headed 
bv  Victor  Francen,  Louis  Jouvet  and  Michel  Simon. 
(Jan.) 

if  ESPIONAGE  AGENT— Warners 

Full  of  thrills,  and  sufficiently  timely  to  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end.  Joel  McCrea  is  the  Nemesis 
of  spies.  He  marries  one  (Brenda  Marshall)  and 
when  what  she's  done  catches  up  with  her,  Joel 
resigns  his  post  to  help  her  run  down  the  ringleader. 
George  Bancroft,  Jeffrey  Lynn  and  others  com- 
plete the  cast.  (Dec.) 

if  ETERNALLY  YOURS— Wangers-U.A. 

You'll  like  this  story  in  which  Loretta  Young 
marries  master  magician  David  Xiven  and  becomes 
his  associate  in  a  magic  act.  However,  David's 
femme  fans  are  too  fond  of  him,  so  Loretta  does  a 
disappearing  act  that  is  a  dilly;  divorces  David 
and  marries  Broderick  Crawford;  but  David  won't 
give  up.  Billie  Burke,  ZaSu  Pitts  and  Raymond 
Walburn  rustle  up  a  brace  of  laughs.  (Nov.) 

EVERYBODY'S  HOBBY— Warners 

A  new  family-cycle  picture — with  stamp-col- 
lector Irene  Rich  the  mother  of  a  family  of  hobby- 
ists. Daughter  Jean  Sharon  collects  photograph 
records;  brother  Jackie  Moran  is  an  amateur  radio 
bug;  father  Henry  O'Neill  is  a  camera  fiend.  Fun 
for  juveniles.  (Nov.) 

EVERYTHING'S  ON  ICE— RKO-Radio 

Little  Irene  Dare  zips  across  ice  like  a  miniature 
Henie  in  this  amusing,  but  unimportant,  film. 
Fourtiusher  Roscoe  Karns  takes  his  nieces  Irene 
and  Lynne  Roberts  to  Florida  where  he  lives  in 
high  style,  hoping  to  marry  off  Lynne.  Of  course, 
he  chooses  another  fourflusher.   (Nov.) 

FAST  AND  FURIOUS— M-G-M 

A  murder  mystery  built  around  a  beauty  pageant, 
with  bathing  beauties,  a  lion-taming  act  and  villains 
bumping  people  off.  Ann  Sothern  plays  Franchot 
Tone's  gum-chewing  wife.  Lee  Bowman,  Ruth 
Hussey  and  sundry  beauties  co-operate.   (Dec.) 


if  FIFTH  AVENUE  GIRL— RKO-Radio 

Ginger  Rogers  has  another  hit,  and  it's  as  cute  as 
punch.  A  man  who  is  being  ignored  by  his  wife 
pretends  romance  with  a  pretty  down-at-the-heels 
girl  to  make  his  wife  jealous.  You  can  imagine  the 
complications,  especially  when  the  man  is  Walter 
Connolly,  the  wife  is  Verree  Teasdale  and  the 
innocent  peak  of  the  isosceles  is  Ginger.  (Nov.) 

FIGHT  FOR  PEACE,  THE— Warwick- 
Monogram 
A  medley  of  authentic  newsreels  and  graphic 
cartoons  issued  for  the  purpose  of  promoting 
anti-war  sentiment.  Its  fragmentary  record  of 
dying  monarchies  and  flourishing  dictatorships, 
from  the  cause  of  the  First  World  War,  up  to  the 
eve  of  the  present  conflict  is  well  worth  seeing.  (Dec.) 


if  FIRST   LOVE— Universal 


(Continued  from  page  6) 


Cinderella;  her  Prince  Charming  is  new  Bob  Stack; 
the  servants,  her  collective  Fairy  Godmother. 
Leatrice  Joy,  as  her  screwy  aunt;  Helen  Parrish,  as 
the  meany  cousin;  Eugene  Pallette,  as  the  uncle 
land  good),  and  Kathleen  Howard,  as  the  eccentric 
schoolmarm  add  to  the  film's  liveliness.    (Jan.) 

FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND  HOW  THEY 
GREW— Columbia 

Maybe  you  loved  the  Peppers  when  you  were 
six,  but  this  is  a  bit  thick  for  adults.  Edith  Fellows, 
Clarence  Rolb  and  Dorothy  Peterson  follow  the 
script  dutifully.  All  the  Little  Pep  pen  are  so 
virtuous,  and  this  has  the  expected  effect  on  a 
meanie  when  he  is  quarantined  in  their  house.  (Dec.) 

FLYING  DEUCES,  THE— RKO-Radio 

Laurel  and  Hardy  are  up  to  their  old  tricks — this 
time  as  enlistees  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  It's  all  slap- 
stick.   Jean  Parker  and  Reggie  Gardiner  add  to  the 


FULL  CONFESSION— RKO-Radio 

Victor  McLaglen,  in  another  "Informer"  role, 
plays  a  criminal  who  thinks  he  is  expiring,  con- 
fesses a  murder  to  priest  Joseph  Callcia.  then  re- 
covers. It's  Calleia's  job  to  make  him  confess 
to  the  law.  Sally  Eilers  has  a  small  role.   (Nov.) 

GIRL  FROM  RIO— Monogram 

An  indifferent  production,  in  which  Movita  is 
forced  to  leave  Rio  on  the  eve  of  her  debut  as  a 
singer,  in  order  to  help  her  brother  out  oi  a  jam. 
She  gets  a  job  in  a  night  club  and  hunts  down  the 
real  meanie.  Warren  Hull  and  Alan  Baldwin 
contribute.    (Nov.) 

if  GOLDEN  BOY— Columbia 

Clifford  Odet's  famous  play  introduces  William 
Holden  as  the  emotionally  unstable  musician  who 
forsakes  a  career  in  the  arts  for  one  in  the  prize 
ring.  Hi'  is  caught  up  by  unscrupulous  racketeers 
who  shove  him  to  eventual  downfall.  Barbara 
Stanwyck,  Adolphe  Menjou  and  others  help  the 
definite  "A"  mood  of  the  production  with  their 
work.   It's  excellent  drama.   (Nov.) 

HAWAIIAN  NIGHTS— Universal 

A  happy  little  story,  this.  Johnny  Downs  plays 
the  son  of  a  hotel  owner  who  loses  his  job  when  he 
organizes  a  band.  He  takes  his  musical  lads  to 
Hawaii  and  makes  a  success  of  his  father's  rival. 
Comes  romance  in  the  person  of  Constance  Moore. 
Matty  Malneck's  orchestra  is  swell.  (Nov.) 

HERE  I  AM  A  STRANGER— 20th  Century- 
Fox 

Richard  Greene  and  Richard  Dix  combine 
talents  here  and  both  are  good.  Greene,  raised 
by  his  mother  and  stepfather,  meets  his  real  father. 
The  piece  is  the  emotional  adjustment  of  the  two. 
Gladys  George  plays  the  mother.  (Dec.) 

HERO  FOR  A  DAY— Universal 

Football  time  is  here.  Charley  Grapewin,  ex- 
football  star  and  now  a  night  watchman,  is  used 
for  a  publicity  stunt  by  his  alma  mater.  He  be- 
comes a    male    "Apple    Annie."    Meanwhile,    Dick 


*  HOLLYWOOD  CAVALCADE— 20th 

Century-Fox 

A  gay  history  of  movieland,  told  in  terms  of 
drama  and  slapstick,  rainbowed  by  Technicolor 
and  gorgeously  acted  throughout.  A  would-be  di- 
rector, Don  Ameche,  discovers  a  would-be  star, 
Alice  Faye,  and  brings  her  to  Hollywood.  She  falls 
in  love  with  him,  but  marries  Alan  Curtis.  The 
tangle  of  their  love  serves  as  a  plot  on  which  to 
hand  such  milestones  as  the  Keystone  Kops  and 
Sennett  Bathing  Beauties.   See  it.   (Dec.) 

*  HONEYMOON  IN  BALI— Paramount 
This  has  color  and  glamour,  and  Fred  MacMur- 

ray  and  Madeleine  Carroll  on  a  South  Sea  Island. 
You  see,  Madeleine  is  a  business  woman  content 
with  her  unromantic  lot  until  earthy  Mr.  Mac- 
Murray  comes  along.  Then  Sex,  a  la  Tropics, 
intrudes.  You'll  like  Helen  Broderick  and  little 
Carolyn   Lee,   too.    (Dec.) 

HOUSEKEEPER'S  DAUGHTER,  THE— 
Roach-U.A. 

A  rich  boy  who  turns  reporter  accidentally  un- 
covers a  gangster  murder.  Joan  Bennett  is  his 
housekeeper's  offspring  and  despite  the  fact  she  is 
a  reformed  gangland  moll,  she  gets  the  hero. 
Adolphe  Menjou  and  John  Hubbard  try  hard. 
(Dec.) 

if  INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY— Warners 
Smash-bang  entertainment  in  which  Pat  O'Brien 

i-  ea-t  a-  a  cocky  racing  driver  who  wants  to  help 
his  kid  brother,  John  Pavne,  at  the  racing  game,  but 
gets  mad  at  him  when  he  falls  for  Ann  Sheridan, 
There's  an  accidental  killing  when  Pat  gets  drunk, 
and  some  wonderful  racing  shots.    (Jan.) 

IRISH  LUCK— Monogram 

Here  we  have  Frankie  Darro  playing  a  bellhop 
whose  father  is  mysteriously  slain.  Frankie  sets  out 
to  discover  the  murderer.  He's  quite  engaging  and 
Mantan  More-land,  a  colored  fellow,  turns  in  an 
interesting    performance.    (Nov.) 

if  INTERMEZZO,  A  LOVE  STORY— 
Selznick  International 
This  is  art  in  the  cinema.  It's  a  love  interlude  in 
the  lives  of  concert  pianist  Ingrid  Bergman  (new 
to  our  screen  and  strangely  compelling)  and 
violinist  Leslie  Howard.  Edna  Best  plays  the  wile 
whom  Leslie  leaves  for  his  romantic  idyl  with 
Ingrid.  There's  charm  to  the  story.  (Dec.) 


if  JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON— M-G-M 

This  series  gets  better  with  each  new  chapter. 
Mickey  Rooney  finds  himself  in  difficulties  when  he 
is  too  cocksure  of  winning  a  cash  prize  for  an  essay. 
But  financial  disaster  is  averted  when  he  finds  the 
missing  daughter  of  his  father's  client.  Martha 
O'Driscoll,  a  new  character,  is  good,  and  you  know 
what  to  expect  from  Mickey  and  Lewis  Stone.  (Jan.) 

KATIA— Mayer-Burstyn 

There's  little  dramatic  punch  in  this  story  which 
traces  the  devotion  of  Czar  Alexander  II  (John 
Loder)  for  his  mistress,  the  Princess  Kalia  (Dan- 
ielle Darricux),  who  finally  becomes  his  wife;  haw- 
ever  pictorially  speaking,  this  French  film  is  beauti- 
ful. Marie  Helene  Daste,  as  the  ailing  Czarina, 
dominates  every  scene  she  is  in.   (Dec.) 

KID  NIGHTINGALE— Warner 

This  singing  John  Payne  really  looks  promising. 
Here  he's  a  prize  fighter  who  warbles  when  he  isn't 
fighting.  Walter  Catlett,  fight  manager,  takes  him 
in  hand  and  leads  him  at  last  to  a  chance  at  the 
championship.  Jane  Wyman  furnishes  the  romantic 
interest.  Action  flies  along  at  a  fancy  pace.  (Dec.) 

LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS— Paramount 

Another  Ilopalong  Cassidy,  in  which  Bill  Boyd  is 
assigned  to  deliver  cattle  in  South  America,  and  un- 
covers two  murders  en  route.  There's  romance  in 
the  person  of  Steffi  Duna.  Sidney  Blaekmer  and 
Pedro  de  Cordoba  help  a  lot.    (Jan.) 

LITTLE  ACCIDENT— Universal 

Baby  Sandy's  awfully  cute,  but  not  cute  enough 
to  carry  this.  Hugh  Herbert  is  cast  as  a  baby- 
columnist  of  a  newspaper  and  finds  Sandy  aban- 
doned in  his  office.  This  leads  to  a  contest,  in  which 
Sandy  is  entered.    (Jan.) 

MAN  THEY  COULD  NOT  HANG,  THE— 
Columbia 
Boris  Karloff,  a  mad  scientist  who  can  bring  the 
dead  back  to  life,  is  interrupted  in  the  midst  of  an 
experiment;  the  police  think  his  victim  is  dead 
and  convict  Karloff  of  murder.  He  sets  out  to  kill 
the  judge,  jury  and  district  attorney.  Roger 
Pryor,  Lorna  Gray  and  Robert  Wilcox  try  to 
cope  with  it  all.   (Nov.) 

if  MARX  BROTHERS  AT  THE  CIRCUS— 
M-G-M 
The  Marx  Brothers  team  up  with  a  whole 
menagerie  this  time  when  they  come  to  the  rescue 
of  Kenny  Baker,  who  is  about  to  lose  his  circus  and 
pretty  Florence  Rice  to  the  villainous  Fritz  Feld. 
Harpo  and  Chico  give  their  usual  funny  solo-. 
There  are  plenty  of  circus  acts,  camels,  elephants 
and  a  lovely  gorilla.  (Nov.) 

MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN— RKO-Radio 

If  you  like  a  homey  film,  this  is  your  dish,  Jean 
Hersholt  plays  the  village  practitioner  who  heals 
with  word  as  well  as  pill.  In  the  first  of  this  series. 
he's  trying  to  establish  a  hospital  in  the  town. 
Marcia  Mae  Jones,  Jackie  Moran,  Dorothy  Lovett, 
Robert  Baldwin  and  Paul  Harvey  support.    (Jan.) 

if  MR.  SMITH  GOES  TO  WASHINGTON— 
Columbia 
This  is  a  kind  of  "Mr.  Deeds,"  in  which  lanky 
Jimmy  Stewart  ambles  about  Washington  like  a 
streamlined  version  of  Lincoln.  He  gets  mixed  up 
in  dirty  politics,  but  sticks  to  his  ideals  through  the 
urgings  of  his  hard-boiled  secretary,  Jean  Arthur. 
There's  a  rousing  climax  in  the  Senate.  Edward 
Arnold  and  Claude  Rains  are  the  political  villains. 
The  entire  cast  contribute  fine  performances,  but 
it's  Capra's  direction  that  makes  this.  (Nov  ) 

MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE— Monogram 
Based  on  a  Colorado  prison  riot  of  1929,  Charles 
Bickford  plays  a  priest  who  sacrifices  self  for  un- 
fortunate criminals.  Dennis  Moore  and  Barton 
MacLane  do  especially  good  work.    (Jan.) 

if  NINOTCHKA— M-G-M 

Greta  Garbo  brings  a  smile  to  her  face  and  a  rare 
buoyancy  to  her  step  in  the  role  of  a  lieutenant  in 
the  Russian  army  who  is  sent  to  Paris  to  find  out 
why  the  sale  of  government-owned  jewels  has 
not  been  consummated.  The  attractive  Melvyn 
Douglas  convinces  her  that  love  is  more  important 
than  the  benefit  of  the  masses.  The  sophistication  of 
Ina  Claire  is  a  perfect  foil  for  the  amusing  per- 
formance Garbo  turns  in.  (Nov.) 

if  NURSE  EDITH  CAVELL— RKO-Radio 

Remember  the  execution  of  Edith  Cavell,  the 
English  nurse  who  started  an  undercover  system  of 
helping  wounded  Allies  to  safety  during  the  World 
War?  As  that  nurse,  Anna  Neaglc  turns  in  a  per- 
formance worthy  of  Academy  Award  attention. 
Edna  May  Oliver,  ZaSu  Pitts  and  May  Robson 
contribute   fine   work,   too.    (Nov.) 

$1,000  A  TOUCHDOWN— Paramount 

There's  no  sense  to  this,  but  it's  funny.  Martha 
Raye's  broke,  sells  her  house  to  keep  the  college 
open,  discovers  Joe  E.  Brown,  descendant  of  a  long 
line  of  actors,  so  she  turns  the  place  into  a  dramatic 
school,  starts  a  football  team  and  puts  claustro- 
phobic Joe  in  it.  Guess  who  wins.  (Dec.) 

ON  YOUR  TOES— Warners 

Broadway's  musical  suffers  as  filmfare.  Eddie 
Albert  plays  the  hoofer  who  writes  a  great  American 
Ballet,  joins  up  with  a  traveling  Russian  company 
and  falls  for  the  premiere  danscusc,  Zorina.  The 
ballets  are  delightful.    (Jan.) 

OUR  NEIGHBORS.   THE  CARTERS— 
Paramount 


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answer     must     be 

mailed     before 
Feb.    15,    1940. 

The  judges  will 
award  all  prizes 
on      the      basis     of 


Kl.lllti 


md 


neatness  of 
y.  Decisions 
he  judges  will 
inal.   Duplicate 


First,  $100;  Second,  $50; 
Third,  $25;  Fourth,  $15,       j 
and  10  Prizes  of  $1  |£ 

Complete  and  Name  Three  Pictures 

Look  at  the  three  pictures  shown 
above.  They  are  "scrambled"  cut- 
outs of  the  likenesses  of  three  well- 
known  film  stars.  After  studying  the 
heads,  faces  and  chins  of  the  sec- 
tional pieces,  cut  them  out  and  re- 
arrange the  cut-outs  so  as  to  com- 
plete your  three  pictures.  Then 
write  in  the  name  of  the  screen 
actor  under  each  picture.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it!  Next,  and  very  im- 
portant, fill  out  the  coupon  and  mail 
with   your  contest   answer  promptly! 

Every  render  of  this  magazine 
may  compete  in  this  contest  anil 
every  contestant  has  an  equal 
chance  to  enjoy  the  thrill  and  glory 
of  winning  one  of  the  many  cash 
prizes.  It's  fun  and  entertaining  to 
participate  in  this  puzzle  game. 
to° — tot  you  and  every  member  of 
the   family. 

!  CONTESTANT'S  COUPON  ! 

:  Hollywood  Stars  Contest,  Dept.  P.  - 
;  2206    Arch    St.,    Phila..    Pa.  - 

■  Enclosed  are  the  movie  star  out-outs  re-  - 
.  arranged  to  complete  three  pictures,  to-  5 
.  gether   with   each   star's   name.  Z 


EXTRACASHF0RY0UR 
EXTRA  TIME! 

It's  surprising  how  far  a  little 
effort  will  go.  Just  drop  us  a 
penny  post  card  with  your  name 
and  address  on  it  and  we'll  show 
you  how  to  pick  up  some  of  the 
spare  dollars  you've  been  let- 
ting slip  through  your  fingers. 
You  can  set  up  your  own  busi- 
ness with  one  of  the  largest  pub- 
lishing companies  without  in- 
vesting a  single  cent. 

MACFADDEN  PUBLICATIONS,  INC. 
205  E.  42nd  St.,        New  York  City 


gether.  Frank  Craven  and  Fay  Bainter  carry  the 
burden  of  the  story.  Edmund  Lowe,  Genevieve 
robin  and  others  carry  on. 

PACK  UP  YOUR  TROUBLES— 20th 
Century-Fox 
Time:  The  last  World  War.  Place:  France.  Plot: 
The    Ritz    Brothers,   a   vaudeville   team,   unable   to 
not   bookings  because  of  their  German   name,  join 
the    army.    In    France    they    team    up    with    Jane 

Withers,  whose  father,  Joseph   Schildkraut,   is  a 

spy,  There's  bombing  and  blasting — but  little 
entertainment  value  here.  (Dec.) 

PRIDE  OF  THE  BLUEGRASS— Warners 

This  is  the  story  of  a  blind  horse,  but  added  to  the 
pathos  there's  laughter  and  warm  sentimentality. 
Edith  Fellows,  James  McCallion  and  Granville 
Bates  are  the  troupers. 

*  PRIVATE  LIVES  OF  ELIZABETH  AND 

ESSEX,  THE— Warners 

You  may  feel  that  this  is  lacking  in  the  fire  that 
Queen  Elizabeth's  lusty  to-do  with  Lord  Essex 
might  have  inspired,  but  Bette  Davis,  as  the  evil- 
tempered,  enamored-of-power  Queen  delights  in 
her  role,  and  Errol  Flynn,  as  Essex,  is  magnificent 
to  look  upon.  The  grandeur  of  that  court,  the  vital 
color  of  a  nation  not  yet  effete  called  for  Techni- 
color. Donald  Crisp,  Olivia  de  Havilland,  Vin- 
cent Price.  Henry  Daniell  and  Alan  Hale  add  to  the 
liigli  quality  of  the  production.  (Dec.) 

*  RAINS  CAME,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

Louis  Bromfield's  story  of  a  group  of  people  caught 
in  the  flood  and  earthquake  of  India;  the  effect 
upon  each  when  disaster,  disease  and  death  touch 
them,  is  transferred  to  the  screen  with  compelling 
fidelity.  Tyrone  Power,  Myrna  Loy  and  George 
Brent  give  the  top  performances  of  their  careers; 
with  Maria  Ouspenskaya,  H.  B.  Warner,  Josepb 
Schildkraut  and  Brenda  Joyce  following  close  on 
their  heels.   (Nov.) 

REMEMBER?— M-G-M 

This  has  sparkling  moments — but  the  trio, 
Robert  Taylor,  Greer  Garson,  Lew  Ayres,  deserves 
more.  Bob  is  an  advertising  genius  who  steals  Greer 
away  from  her  fiance,  Lew.  They  marry,  fight, 
divorce,  but  Lew  doses  them  up  with  a  drug  that 
makes  them  forget.  Whereupon  the  piece  becomes 
a  bedroom  farce.    (Jan.) 

RENO— RKO-Radio 

Intended  to  be  an  epic  of  Reno  when  it  was  a 
silver  mining  town,  Richard  Dix  brings  this  up  to 
date  by  thinking  up  the  "  Easy  Divorce"  plan.  His 
wife,  Gail  Patrick,  takes  advantage  of  it,  as  does  his 
daughter,  Anita  Louise.   Picture  lacks  pace.    (Jan.) 

RETURN  OF  DR.  X.,  THE— Warners 

Wow!  what  a  murder  mystery — and  witli  Hum- 
phrey Bogart  thrown  in  as  further  nightmare 
material.  Wayne  Morris,  reporter,  finds  actress 
Lya  Lys  murdered.  She  turns  up  later  to  sue  bis 
paper.  Another  person  is  found  murdered  by  the 
same  sort  of  wound,  and  no  evidence  of  blood. 
Then  Humphrey,  as  Dr.  Xavier,  turns  out  to  have 
been  electrocuted  two  years  ago.  Bool  (Nov.) 

RIO— Universal 

The  story  of  what  happens  to  the  trusted  wife  of 
a  French  convict  has  Victor  McLaglen  as  the 
friend  of  Basil  Rathbone,  who  is  the  French 
capitalist  under  conviction.  Sigrid  Gurie  is  the 
wife,  and  Robert  Cummings  the  young  American 
she  falls  for  in  Rio.  There's  a  good  escape  sequence 
and  some  bloody  killing.   (Dec.) 


ROARING  TWENTIES,  THE— Warners 

Those  mad,  prosperous.  Prohibition  Twentiesl 
The  story  starts  when  World  War  veteran  Jimmy 
Cagney  looks  up  a  girl  who  lias  been  writing  to 
him  and  discovers  she  is  Priscilla  Lane.  Circum- 
stances draw  him  into  the  liquor  racket,  take  him 
through  the  market  crash,  and  into  the  depression 
when  Priscilla  finds  happiness  with  his  buddy, 
Jeffrey  Lynn.  Gladys  George,  Frank  McIIugh  and 
Humphrey  Bogart  have  supporting  roles.  {Dec.) 

RULERS  OF  THE  SEA— Paramount 

A  rousting  story  of  the  first  Atlantic  crossing  in  a 
steam-driven  boat,  with  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr. 
playing  the  young  mate  who  has  faith  in  steam. 
Will  Fyffe  is  superb  as  the  Scotch  inventor  of 
steam  motors.  George  Bancroft  plays  a  die-hard 
sailing  skipper,  and  Margaret  Locicwood  is  ap- 
pealing. (Dec.) 

SCANDAL  SHEET— Columbia 

This  is  completely  wacky.  Otto  Kruger  is  a  news- 
paper publisher  with  a  secret  son  (Eddie  Norris);  a 
girl  friend  (Ona  Munson);  and  a  penchant  for  homi- 
cide. He  kills  off  one  of  His  employees  to  get  records 
of  Norris'  birth.    {Jan.) 

SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE,  THE— M-G-M 

Lew  Ayres  is  still  the  young  assistant  doctor, 
assigned  this  time  to  find  out  what's  the  matter  with 
Helen  Gilbert,  an  heiress.  When  Lionel  Barrymore 
collapses  (for  the  sake  of  the  plot)  Lew  pretends  lie's 
more  interested  in  the  heiress'  millions  than  in  his 
work,  so  his  chief  will  take  a  rest.  Laraine  Day  is 
still  the  young  doctor's  sweetheart.    (Jan.) 

SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING— Warners 
A  piece  about  prison  and  convicts — and  a  par- 
ticularly exciting  jail  break.  Ronald  Reagan  plays 
G-Man;  Eddie  Foy  offers  comedy,  and  Margot 
Stevenson  furnishes  romance.    (Jan.) 

STAR  MAKER.  THE— Paramount 

Bing  Crosby's  newest  vehicle  is  no  bargain,  darn 
it!  It's  the  story  of  Gus  Edwards,  kiddie  impresario. 
Bing  plays  the  poor  songwriter  who  marries  Louise 
Campbell,  refuses  to  take  an  ordinary  job  and  con- 
ceives the  idea  of  offering  children  to  the  public 
as  entertainment.  This  introduces  songstress  Linda 
Ware;  Walter  Damrosch  leads  a  symphony 
orchestra;  Bing  sings;  Ned  Sparks  and  Laura 
Hope  Crews  contribute  comedy.  (Nov.) 

STOP,    LOOK   AND    LOVE— 20th   Century- 
Fox 

"Marrying  daughter  off"  is  cleverly  exploited 
here.  Minna  Gombell  plays  the  mother  who, 
married  to  William  Frawley,  expends  her  energy  to 
find  a  husband  for  daughter  Jean  Rogers.  Jean 
finds  Bob  Kellard,  but  Mama  almost  ruins  the 
{Nov.) 


SUED  FOR  LIBEL— RKO-Radio 

A  murder  picture  with  a  new  twist.  Morgan  Con- 
way is  acquitted  of  murder.  Reporter  Linda  Hayes 
pulls  a  trick  on  a  rival  pressman  by  telling  him  the 
verdict's  "guilty."  Kent  Taylor  dramatizes  the 
thing  on  the  air  and  Conway  sues.  Linda  and  Kent 
dig  into  his  past  and  find  he's  plenty  guilty.    (Jan.) 

THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE— Mayer-Burstyn 

A  strong  dose  of  propaganda — a  World  War 
veteran  is  convinced  that  his  comrades  have  not 
died  in  vain.  When  the  call  to  arms  comes  again,  lie 
turns  to  the  War  dead.  They  arise,  mutilated  and 
bloody  and  accuse  the  world  of  breaking  its  pledge 
for  peace.    Victor  Francen  is  splendid.    (Jan.) 


THOSE  HIGH  GREY  WALLS— Columbia 

This  is  a  psychological  study  of  a  fear  trauma. 
Walter  Connolly  is  sent  to  prison  for  doctoring  a 
wounded  convict.  And  it's  the  prison  physician, 
Onslow  Stevens,  who  lias  the  fear  complex.  Con- 
nolly gives  his  usual  fine  performance.    {Jan.) 

THREE  SONS— RKO-Radio 

It's  the  story  of  a  man  whose  consuming  interest 
in  life  is  his  department  store,  and  who  wants 
his  boys  to  follow  in  his  footsteps.  Only  they 
don't.  There  isn't  much  to  keep  you  fascinated. 
Edward  Ellis  plays  the  father,  Kent  Taylor, 
Robert  Stanton  and  Dick  Hogan  the  offspring 
(Dec.) 

THUNDER  AFLOAT— M-G-M 

Captain  Wally  Beery  lives  on  a  tugboat  with  his 
daughter,  Virginia  Grey,  until  a  Boche  sub  puts 
them  off  and  sinks  the  tug.  Beery  joins  the  Navy 
so  lie  can  get  revenge  but  iiis  former  rival,  Chester 
Morris,  is  now  his  superior  officer  and  Beery  doesn't 
take  kindly  to  discipline.  So  he  takes  his  sub-chaser 
off  on  a  solo  hunt  for  the  enemy.  It's  a  personal 
battle  between   Beery  and  the  subs.   (Nov.) 

TORCHY  PLAYS  WITH  DYNAMITE— 
Warners 
Jane  Wyman  takes  Glenda  Farrell's  place  in  this 
romantic  finale  of  the  Torcliy  Blane  series,  when  she 
walks  off  witli  detective  Allen  Jenkins.  There's 
prison  stuff,  arid  a  chase.  Tom  Kennedy  and  Bruce 
MacFarlane  trot  along  witli  the  story.  (Nov.) 

20,000  MEN  A  YEAR— 20th  Century-Fox 

Not  a  story  of  Sing  Sing,  but  of  how  Uncle  Sam 
is  training  young  men  to  fly.  Randy  Scott  plays  a 
washed-up  professional  pilot  who  takes  a  job  as 
flying  instructor,  rescues  some  lost  flyers  and  shares 
the  fade-out  with  Margaret  Lindsay.    (Jan.) 

TWO  BRIGHT  BOYS— Universal 

Freddie  Bartholomew  and  Melville  Cooper,  son 
and  father,  live  by  their  wits,  get  in  the  clutches  of 
Alan  Dinehart,  who  uses  them  to  make  a  grab  at 
oil  lands  owned  by  Jackie  Cooper  and  his  mother, 
Dorothy  Peterson.  The  boys  do  nice  jobs.   (Dec.) 

UNDER-PUP,  THE— Universal 

Cinema  history  is  made  in  this  witli  the  discovery 
of  a  new  singing  star — eleven-year-old  Gloria  Jean. 
The  story  is  u  simple  one:  A  poor  girl  wins  a 
contest  and  is  taken  to  a  rich  girls'  camp.  All  the 
pampered  darlings  snoot  Gloria — except  little 
Virginia  Weidler,  but  Gloria  works  out  her  prob- 
lems  with  the  aid  of  Billy  Gilbert,  Kenneth  Brown 
and  Billy  Lenhart.  Nan  Grey  and  Robert  Cum- 
mings supply  romance.  See  this.  (Nov.) 

*  WHAT  A  LIFE— Paramount 

An  amusing  picture  in  which  Jackie  Cooper,  an 
adolescent  trying  to  make  adjustments  peculiar  to 
his  particular  age,  walks  away  with  a  difficult 
assignment.  Betty  Field,  Cooper's  sweetheart; 
James  Corner,  his  rival;  John  Howard  and  Kath- 
leen Lockhart  all  deliver  good  performances.  (Dec.) 

WOMEN,  THE— M-G-M 

Clare  Boothe's  Broadway  success  is  an  un- 
compromising story  of  the  eternal  battle  of 
women  for  males  and  money.  Norma  Shearer  is 
excellent  as  the  devoted  mother  and  wife,  and 
Joan  Crawford  is  in  there  slugging  as  the  hard- 
bitten clerk  who  uses  every  wile  to  catch  Norma's 
husband.  The  fat  part  fell  to  Roz  Russell  and  she 
made  capital  of  it.  Mary  Boland  and  Joan  Fon- 
taine are  grand.   Both  sexes  will  have  fun.   (Nov.) 


Categorically  Speaking 

Bill  as  Seen  by  Myrna  Loy 


ings  that  are  there  today — that  might 
be  Bill.  Sometimes  he  is  like  a  wind- 
ing street  lined  with  old  book  shops 
and  art  galleries,  but  with  a  chrome 
pavement. 

What  Drink? 

A  potent  looking  cocktail  in  a  tall, 
narrow  glass  of  fine  crystal.  The  stuff 
would  be  just  as  potent  as  you  thought 
it  would  be,  too. 

Tree? 

Trimmed  cypress,  extremely  decora- 
tive; because  of  its  position  in  the  gar- 
den or  for  some  other  reason,  it  would 
serve  a  practical  purpose.  I  think  it 
would  unexpectedly  poke  its  roots  up 
in  the  middle  of  the  lawn,  furthermore. 

Bird? 

A  shiny  black  parrot  with  something 
to  say,  possessing  a  fund  of  very  funny 
and  not  always  conservative  anecdotes. 
He'd  be  a  very  wise  bird,  and  he'd  have 
one  drooping  eyelid  and  bright,  cynical 
eyes.  He'd  be  so  amusing  he'd  earn  his 
seeds,  but  even  so  he'd  worry  a  lot 
about  the  coming  winter,  possibly  even 
going  so  far  as  to  store  up  a  lot  of  crack- 
ers against  the  improbable  day  when  no 


(Continued  from  page  20) 

one  would  feed  him  any  longer.  And 
he'd  have  a  platinum  cage,  in  which  he 
would  lead  a  fastidious  life,  observing 
what  went  on  around  him  and  making 
spectacular  comments. 

Literature? 

"Conversation  Piece,"  by  Noel  Cow- 
ard; much  of  Saki,  some  of  Oscar 
Wilde's  epigrams;  lately,  the  Book  of 
Job,  it  would  seem;  a  work  on  econom- 
ics, some  Schopenhauer,  and  a  history 
of  acting. 

Sport  or  Game? 

Something  performed  indoors,  cer- 
tainly, since  Bill  loathes  exercise.  Con- 
tract bridge  played  lying  down,  with 
automatic  thingummies  to  shuffle  and 
deal;  table  tennis  with  a  proxie  for  Bill. 

Magazine? 

He's  the  annual  issue  of  Bond  Street 
fashion  plates,  or  a  copy  of  next  week's 
New  Yorker  with  an  etching  for  a  cover 
and  the  financial  news  on  the  frontis- 
piece, in  bold  face  type.  There'd  be  a 
great  many  smoking-room  stories,  re- 
markable for  their  humor;  an  essay  on 
patience;  the  script  of  a  good  play  and 
the  recipes  for  ten  new  cocktails. 


Jewel? 

A  dark  opal,  maybe,  with  a  mystic 
star  or  symbol  inexplicably  planted  in  it. 
Possibly  scientists  would  work  years 
trying  to  decipher  the  meaning  of  the 
symbol,  only  to  discover  that  it  was 
ancient  Tibetan  for  "I  got  rhythm." 

Shoes? 

Handmade  velvet  house  slippers, 
lined  with  fur — but  the  soles  and  heels 
would  be  serviceable. 

Flower? 

A  carnation  for  the  buttonhole,  in 
deep  red,  chemically  treated  so  as  not 

to  wilt. 

Animal? 

If  you  can  possibly  imagine  a  race 
horse  sitting  in  the  attitude  of  "The 
Thinker,"  with  a  Nubian  slave  fanning 
him.  .  .  . 

Two  of  the  most  important  things 
about  Bill  Powell  are  his  ability  as  an 
actor,  and  his  sense  of  humor,  which  is 
unfailing,  often  biting,  always  objective. 
With  all  the  outward  manifestations  of 
a  lazy,  luxurious  person,  he  is  essen- 
tially a  vital,  superbly  intelligent  man. 


86 


PHOTOPLAY 


Casts  of  Current  Pictures 


"BIG  GUY,  THE"— Universal.— Screen  play 

by  Lester  Cole.  Origin. il  story  l>y  Wallace  Sullivan 
and  Ricluinl  K.  Polimar.  Directed  by  Artluir 
Lubin.  Cast:  BUI  Whitlo.k.  \ictor  Mcl.aglcn; 
Jimmy  llulchins.  Jackie  Cooper:  \t,irv  Whillo.k. 
On, i  Muiwm;  ./,.,.«  I.a.cson,  Peggy  Moran;  />i'/>/>.v, 
Fd  Brophv;  7mA'  Lang,  Jonathan  Hair;  Laws,,,,. 
Russell  Hicks;  District  Attorney,  Wallace  Clark. 

"CAFE  HOSTESS"— Columbia.— Screen  play 
by  Harold  Shumate.  From  a  story  by  Tay  Garnett. 
Directed  l>y  Sidney  Salkow,  Cast:  Dan  Walters, 
Preston  Foster;  Jo,  Ann  Dvorak;  Eddie  Morgan, 
Douglas  Kuwlfv;  Annie,  Wynne  Gibson;  Steve 
Mason,  Arthur  I'.oft;  Budge,  Bruce  Bennett;  S,oilv 
Eddie  AeutT;  .1/,  Bradley  Pane;  Triiks,  Linda 
Winters;  Daisy,  Beatrice  Blinn;  Willie,  Dick 
Wessel;  Nellie,  Peggy  Shannon. 

"CISCO    KID    AND    THE    LADY,    THE" 
20m    Ci:n aiKv-Kox. — Screen    play    by     Frances 

llyland.  Original  story  by  Stanley  Rauh.  Sug- 
v  the  character  "The  Cisco  Kid"  created 
by  O.  Henry.  Directed  by  Herbert  I.  Leeds.  Cast: 
(  isio  Kiit,  Cesar  Romero;  Julie  I.awson,  Marjorie 
Weaver;  Gordito,  Chris-Pin  Martin;  Tommy  Bales, 
George  Montgomery;  Jim  Harbison,  Robert  Barrat; 
lliltie  Graham,  Virginia  Field;  'J'easdale,  Harry 
Green;  Haliv,  Gloria  Ann  White;  Stevens,  John 
Beach;  Walton,  Ward  Bond;  />r,iAr.  J.  Anthony 
Hughes;  Pop  Saunders,  James  Burke;  Sheriff, 
I  Lory  llavden;  Sirgeanl,  James  Flavin;  Ma 
Saunders,  Ruth  Warren. 


"CITY  IN  DARKNESS'— 20ui  Ceniukv- 
FOX.  -Screen  play  by  Robert  Ellis  and  Helen 
Logan.  Based  on  a  play  by  C.ina  Klaus  and  Ladis- 
latis  Fodor.  Based  on  the  character  "Charlie 
Chan"  created  by  Earl  Derr  Biggers.  Directed  by 
Herbert  1.  Leeds.  Cast:  Charlie  than,  Sidney 
Toler;  Marie  Dubon,  Lynn  Bari;  Tony  Madero, 
Richard  Clarke;  Marcel,  Harold  Huber;  Antoine, 
1'edro  de  Cordoba;  (  hailolle  Ronnell,  Dorothy  Tree; 
!'oli,e,  C.  Henry  Gordon;  Pclrolf,  Douglas 
Dumbriile;   Belcscu.   Noel   Madison;   Louis  Sanlelle. 


Ambiicourt;  C,i/>- 


"COVERED  TRAILER.  THE"— Republic— 

Screen  play  by  Jack  Townley.  From  the  original 
Story  by  Jack  Townley  and  M.  Coates  Webster. 
Directed  by  Gus  Meins.  Cast:  Jo,-  Iliggins,  James 
l.leason;  Lil  Iliggins,  Lucile  Gleasoii;  Sidney  Ilig- 
gins,  Russell  Gleason;  Grandpa,  Harry  Davenport; 
Hetty  Iliggins,  Mary  Belli  Hughe-;  Tommy  Iliggins, 
Tommy  Ryan:  Bill,  Maurice  Murphy;  M7iio;e 
Jones,  Maude  Eburne;  Sheriff,  Spencer  Charters; 
(Wo.  Tom  Kennedy;  Beamish,  Hobart  Cavanaugh; 
(  artwrighl.  Pierre  Watkin;  Police  (  hief.  Frank  Dae; 
Doctor,  Richard  Tucker;  Baltimore,  Willie  Best; 
Wells,  Walter  Fenner. 


"DAY-TIME  WIFE"— 20ni  Centuky-Fox.— 
Screen  play  by  Art  Arthur  and  Robert  Harari. 
From  the  story  by  Rex  Taylor.  Directed  by 
Gregory  Ratotf.  Cast:  Ken  Norton,  Tyrone  Power; 
Jane,  Linda  Darnell;  Bernard  Dexter,  Warren 
William;  Blanche,  Binnie  Barnes;  Kitty,  Wendy 
Karrie;  Miss  Applegale,  Joan  Davis;  Mrs.  Dexter, 
Joan  Valerie;  Coco,  Leonid  Kinskey;  Melbourne, 
Mildred  Gover;  Miss  Briggs,  Renie  Riano. 


"DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN  "—Universal.— 
Screen  play  by  Felix  Jackson,  Gertrude  Purcell  and 
Henry  Myers.  From  the  novel  by  Max  Brand. 
Directed  by  George  Marshall.  Cast:  Frenchy, 
Marlene  Dietrich;  Thomas  J.  Destry,  Jr.,  James 
Stewart;  Wash  Dimsdale.  Charles  Winninger;  Boris 
Callahan.  Mischa  Auer;  Kent,  Brian  Donlevy; 
Janice  Tyndall.  Irene  Hervey ;  Lily  Bell  (  allahan.Vn.i 
Merkel;  Gyp  Watson,  Allen  Jenkins;  Bugs  Watson, 
Warren  Hymer;  Loupgerou,  Billv  Gilbert;  Hiram  J. 
Slade,  Samuel  S.  Hinds;  Lem  Claggelt,  Tom  Fadden; 
Jack  Tvndall,  Jack  Carson;  Clara,  Lillian  Yarboe; 
Eli  Whitney  Claggelt,  Dickie  Jones;  "Sister"  Clag- 
gelt, Ann  Todd. 

"FOCR  WIVES"— Warners.— Screen  play  by 
Julius  J.  and  Philip  G.  Epstein.  From  the  original 
story  by  Maurice  Hanline.  Directed  by  Michael 
Curtiz.  Cast:  Adam  Letup,  Claude  Rains;  Ann 
Lemp  Borden.  Priscilla  Lane;  Kay  Lemp,  Rosemary 
Lane;  Thea  Lemp  Crcrwley,  Lola  Lane;  Emma  Lemp 
Talbot.  Gale  Page;  Felix  Diet:,  Jeffrey  Lynn;  Aunt 
Etta.  May  Robson;  Ben  Crowley,  Frank  McHugh; 
Ernest  Talbot,  Dick  Foran;  Dr.  Clinton  Forrest.  Jr., 
Eddie  Albert;  Dr.  Clinton  Forrest,  Sr.,  Henry 
O'Neill;  Mrs.  Ridgefield,  Vera  Lewis;  Frank,  John 
Qualen. 

"GERONIMO!"  — Paramount.  — Screen  play 
by  Paul  H.  Sloane.  Directed  by  Paul  Sloane.  Cast: 
Capl.  Starrell,  Preston  Foster;  Alice  Hamilton,  Ellen 
Drew;  Sneezer,  Andy  Devine;  Rufus  Gillespie,  Gene 
Lockhart;  Lt.  John  Steele,  Jr..  William  Henry; 
General  Steele.  Ralph  Morgan;  Mrs.  Steele,  Mar- 
jorie Gateson;  Daisy  Devine,  Kitty  Kelly;  Geronimo, 
Chief  Thundercloud. 


"GONE    WITH     THE     WIND"— M-G-M.— 

Screen  play  by  Sidney  Howard.  Based  on  the  novel 
by  Margaret  Mitchell.  Directed  by  Victor  Fleming. 
Cast:  Brent  Tarleton,  George  Reeves;  Stuart  Turlc- 
lon,  Fred  Crane;  Scarlett  U'Hara,  Vivien  Leigh; 
Mammy,  Hattie  McDaniel;  Big  Sam,  Everett 
Brown;  Elijah,  Zack  Williams;  Gerald  O'Hara, 
Thomas  Mitchell;  Pork,  Oscar  Polk;  Ellen  O'Hara, 
Barbara  O'Neil;  Jonas  Wilkerson,  Victor  Jory; 
Snellen  O'Hara,  Evelyn  Keyes;  Carreen  O'Hara, 
Ann  Rutherford;  Prissy,  Butterfly  McQueen;  John 
Wilkes,  Howard  Hickman;  India  Wilkes,  Alicia 
Rhett;  Ashley  Wilkes,  Leslie  Howard;  Melanie 
Hamilton,  Olivia  de  Havilland;  Charles  Hamilton, 
Rand  Brooks;  Frank  Kennedy,  Carroll  Nye; 
Catkleen  Calvert.  Marcella  Martin;  Rhett  Butler. 
Clark  Gable;  Aunt  "  Fitly  pal"  Hamilton,  Laura 
Hope  Crews;  Doctor  Meade,  Harry  Davenport;  Mrs. 
Meade.  Leona  Roberts;  Mrs.  Merriwether,  Jane 
Danvell;    Rene    Ficard,    Albert    Morin;    May  belle 


Merriwether,  Mary  Anderson;  Fuunv  Elsing,  Terry 
Shero;  ( )/,/  Levi.  William  McClain;  I'ncle  Peter, 
Eddie  Anders,,,.;  Phil  Meade,  Jackie  Moran; 
Rcmmisienl  Soldier,  Cliff  Edwards  Bell,  Walling, 
Ona  Munson;  Sergeant,  Ed  Chandler;  Wounded 
Soldier,  George  Hackathomc;  (.nivalis,  cut  Soldier. 
Roscoe  Atcs;  Dying  Soldier,  John  Arledge;  Amputa- 
tion Case.  Eric  Linden;  Commanding  Officer,  Tom 
Tyler;  Mounted  Officer,  William  Bakcwell;  Bar- 
lender,  Lee  Phelps;  Vankec  Deserter,  Paul  Hurst; 
Carpet-bagger's  Friend.  Ernest  Whitman;  Returning 
I eleran,  William  Sterling;  Hungry  Soldier,  Louis 
Jean  Heydt;  Emmy  Slallery,  Isabel  Jewell;  Yankee 
Major,  Robert  Elliott;  Poker-playing  Captains, 
George  Meeker  and  Wallis  Clark;  Corporal,  Irving 


Business  Man,  Olin  I  lowland;  Two  Renegades, 
Yakima  Canutt  and  Blue  Washington;  Tom,  A 
Yankee  Captain,  Ward  Bond;  Bonnie  Blue  Puller, 
Cammie  King;  Beau  Wilkes,  Mickey  Kuhn; 
Bonnie's  Nurse,  Lillian  Kemble  Cooper. 

"GREAT  VICTOR  HERBERT,  THE"  — 
Paramount. — Screen  play  by  Russel  Crouse  and 

Robert  Lively.  Based  on  a  story  by  Andrew  L. 
Stone  and  Robert  Lively.  Directed  by  Andrew 
Stone.  Cast:  John  Ramsey,  Allan  Jones;  Louise 
Hall,  Mary  Martin;  Victor  Herbert,  Walter  Con- 
nolly-; Dr.  Richard  Moore,  Lee  Bowman;  Peggy, 
Susanna  Foster;  Marie,  Judith  Barrett;  Barney 
Harris,  Jerome  Cowan;  Warner  Bryant,  John 
Garrick. 

"GREEN  HELL"— Universal.— Original  story 
and  screen  play  by  Frances  Marion.  Added  dialogue 
by  Harry  Hervey.  Directed  by  James  Whale.  Cast: 
Keith  Brandon,  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr.;  Stephanie 
Richardson,  Joan  Bennett;  Scott,  John  Howard;  Dr. 
Iintl  I.oren.  Alan  Hale;  Jim  "'Tex''  Morgan.  George 
Bancroft;  David  Richardson,  Vincent  Price;  For- 
rester, George  Sanders;  Graham,  Gene  Garrick; 
Gracco,  Francis  McDonald;  Mala,  Ray  Mala; 
Santos,  Peter  Bronte. 

"GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS"  —  Paramount.— 

From  the  classic  by  Jonathan  Swift.  Produced  by 
Max  Fleischer.  Directed  by  Dave  Fleischer.  Sing- 
ing voice  of  the  Prime  by  Lanny  Ross;  Singing  voice 
of  the  Prin,  ess  by  Jessica  Dragouette;  Voice  of 
Gulliver  by  Sam  Parker;  Speaking  an,,'  of  the  Prin- 
cess by  Lovey  Warren;  Speaking  vol,  e  „l  the  Prince 
by  Cal  Howard;  Voice  of  Gabby  by  Pinto  Colvig. 

"HARVEST"— A     MARCEL    PaGNOL    PRODUC- 

i  ion. —Released  in  the  United  States  by  The 
French  Cinema  Center,  Inc.  Screen  play  by  Jean 
Giono.  From  the  novel  "The  Song  of  the  World" 
by  the  same  author.  Directed  by  Marcel  Pugnol. 
Cast:  Panturle,  Gabriel  Gabrio;  Gauberl.  Edouard 
Delmont;  Gedemus,  Fernandel;  Arsule,  Orane 
Demazis;  The  Sergeant,  Le  Vigan;  The  Gendarme, 
Rollan;  L'Amoureux,  Henri  Potipon;  Alphonsine, 
Odette  Roger;  M.  Aslruc,  Paul  Dullac. 

"HIS  GIRL  FRIDAY"— Columbia.— Screen 
play  by  Charles  Lederer.  From  the  play  "The 
Front  Page"  by  Ben  Hecht  and  Charles  Mac- 
Arthur.  Directed  by  Howard  Hawks.  Cast:  Walter 
Burns,  Cary  Grant;  Ilildv  Johnson,  Rosalind 
Russell;  Bruce  Baldwin,  Ralph  Bellamy;  Sheriff 
llartwell.  Gene  Lockhart;  Murphy,  Porter  Hall; 
Bensinger,  Ernest  Truex;  Endicotl,  Cliff  Edwards; 
Mayor,  Clarence  Kolb;  McCure,  Roscoe  Karns; 
Wilson,  Frank  Jenks;  Sanders,  Regis  Toomey; 
Louie,  Abner  Biberman;  Duffy.  Frank  Orth;  Earl 
Williams.  John  Qualen;  Mollie  M  alloy,  Helen 
Mack;  Mrs.  Baldwin,  Alma  Kruger;  Silas  /•'. 
l'inkus,  Billy  Gilbert. 

"HONEYMOON'S  OVER,  THE"— 20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox.— Screen  play  by  Hamilton  MacFadden, 
Clay  Adams  and  Leonard  Hoffman.  Based  on  the 
play  "Six  Cylinder  Love"  by  William  Anthony  Mc- 
Guire.  Directed  by  Eugene  Forde.  Cast:  Donald, 
Stuart  Erwin;  Belly,  Marjorie  Weaver;  Pal,  Patric 
Knowles;  Walker,  Russell  Hicks;  Donroy,  Jack 
Carson;  Butler  field,  Hobart  Cavanaugh;  Peggy, 
June  Gale;  Colonel  Shelby,  E.  E.  CUve;  Annie.  Renie 
Riano;  Winston;  Harrison  Greene;  Mrs.  Winslow 
Lelah  Tyler;  Burton,  Harry  Hayden;  Thin  Man, 
Frank  McGlynn,  Sr.;  Higginsby,  Chester  Clute; 
Kellogg,   Robert  Greig;   Crane,  William   Davidson. 


IN  DESPERATION 

"I  got  out  of  the  car,  walked  to 
the  rear,  examined  the  pistol  to  see 
if  it  was  loaded.  .  .  ."  In  despera- 
tion he  faced  eternity.  .  .  .  what 
had  led  him  to  this  ghastly  situa- 
tion? .  .  .  False  standards!  False 
standards  which  have  led  many — 
perhaps  you  among  them — to 
cheat  themselves  out  of  the  finest 
things  of  life.  There  is  something 
worth  thinking  about  in  this  arrest- 
ing story,  GOD  KEPT  ME  FROM 
SUICIDE,  by  Joel  Rand  in  the  Jan- 
uary issue  of  the  nonsectarian 
magazine 

YOUR   FAITH 

At  Your  Newsdealer's 
A    MACFADDEN    PUBLICATION 


"JOE  AND  ETHEL  Tl'RP  CALL  ON  THE 
PRESIDENT"— M-G-M.— Screen  play  by  Mel- 
ville Baker.  Ba-ed  on  a  story  by  Damon  Runyon. 
Directed  by  Robert  B.  Sinclair.  Cast:  Ethel  Ttirp, 
Ann  Sothern;  President,  Lewis  Stone;  J". 
William  Gargan;  Jim,  Walter  Brennan;  Killy 
Crusper,  Marsha  Hunt;  Johnny  Crusper,  Tom  Neal; 
Henry  Crusper,  James  Bush;  Fred  Crusper,  Don 
Costello ;  Ira  n,  ine  La  Vaughn,  Muriel  Hutchison; 
Parker,  Jack  Norton;  Mike  O'Brien,  Aldrich 
Bowker. 

"LEGION      OF      THE      LAWLESS"— RKO- 

RaDIO. — Screen  play  by  Doris  Schroeder.  From  an 
original  story  by  Berne  Giler.  Directed  by  David 
Howard.  Cast:  Jeff  Toland,  George  O'Brien;  Ellen 
Ives,  Virginia  Vale;  Les  Harper,  Norman  Willis; 
Doctor  Denton,  Herbert  Hayward;  Late  Barton, 
Eddie  Waller;  Edwin,  Billy  Benedict;  Holmes,  Bud 
(Kborne;  Borden,  Monte  Montague;  Hem 
Hugh  Southern;  Little  Lafe,  Delmar  Watson;  Ben 
l.eighlon,  Slim  Whitaker;  Mrs.  Barton,  Mary  Field; 
Walls  Lane,  Jack  Payne;  Mexican,  Martin  Garral- 
aga;  Hastings,  Wilfred  Lucas;  Bartender,  Dick 
Cramer. 

"LIGHT  THAT  FAILED,  THE"— PARA- 
MOUNT.—Screen  play  by  Robert  Carson.  Based  on 
a  novel  by  Rudvard  Kipling.  Directed  by  William 
A.  Wellman.  Cast:  Dick  lleldar,  Ronald"  Colman; 
Torpenhow,  Walter  Huston;  Maisie,  Muriel 
Angelus;  Bessie,  Ida  Lupino;  The  Nilghai,  Dudley 
Digges;  Beelon,  Ernest  Cossart;  Madame  Burnt, 
Ferikc  Boros. 

"NICK   CARTER,   MASTER  DETECTIVE" 

— M-G-M. — Screen  play  by  Bertram  Millliauscr. 
Based  on  the  story  by  Bertram  Millhauser  and  Hal 
Buckley.  Directed  by  Jacques  Tourneur.  Cast: 
Nick  Curler,  Walter  Chalmers,  Walter  Pidgeon;  Lou 
Farnsby,  Rita  Johnson;  John  A.  Keller.  Henry 
Hull;  Dr.  Frank/on,  Stanley  C.  Ridges;  Bartholo- 
mew, Donald  Meek;  Hiram  Slreeler,  Addison 
Richards;  J.  Lester  Hammil,  Henry  Victor;  /',,., 
Krebs,  Milburn  Stone;  Otto  King,  Martin  Kosleck; 
Pete,  Frank  Favlen;  Bee  catcher.  Sterling  Holloway; 
(  lit)  Parsons,  Wally  Mayer;  Benny,  Edger  Deering. 

"NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS,  THE"— Paramouni  — 

Original  screen  play  by  Donald  Ogden  Stewart. 
D-rected  by  Lewis  Milestone.  Cast:  Dan  O'Farrell. 
Pat  O'Brien;  Alyce  O'Farrell.  Olympe  Br.uln.i; 
Barry  'Trimble,  Roland  Young;  Michael  I'urdkin, 
Reginald  Gardiner;  Sammy  Kayn,  George  E. 
Stone;  Taxi  Driver.  Frank  Sully;  Doorman.  Ru-s 
Powell;  Actor,  D'Arcy  Corrigan. 

"OF  MICE  AND  MEN"— Hal  Roach-Untied 
Am  isis. — Screen  play  by  Eugene  Solow.  From  the 
novel  by  John  Steinbeck.  Directed  by  Lewis  Mile- 
stone. Cast:  George,  Burgess  Meredith;  Lennie, 
Lon  Chaney,  Jr.;  Mae,  Betty  Field;  Slim,  Charles 
Bickford;  Canity,  Roman  Bohnen;  Curley,  Bob 
Steele;  Willi.  Noah  Beery,  Jr.;  Jackson,  Oscar 
O'Slie.i;  Carlson,  Granville  Bates;  Crooks,  Leigh 
Whippet. 


"REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT"— Par 
— Original  screen  play  by  Preston  Sturges.  Directed 
by  Mitchell  Leisen.  Cast:  Lee  Leundcr,  Barbara 
Stanwyck;  Jink  Sargent,  Fred  MacMurray;  Mrs. 
Sargent,  Beulah  Bondi;  Aunt  Emma,  Elizabeth 
Patterson;  Francis  X.  O'Leary.  Willard  Robertson; 
Willie,  Sterling  Holloway;  Rufus,  "SnowHake"; 
"Fat"  Mike,  Tom  Kennedy. 


"THAT'S  RIGHT  —  YOU'RE  WRONG"— 
RKO-Radio. — Screen  play  by  William  Conselman 
and  James  V.  Kern.  From  the  story  by  David 
Butler  and  William  Conselman.  Directed  by  David 
Butler.  Cast:  Kay,  Kay  Kyser;  Slacey  Delmore, 
Adolphe  Menjou;  Grandma,  May  Robson;  Sandra 
Sand,  Lucille  Ball;  Chuck  Deems,  Dennis  O'Keef,-; 
Tom  Village,  Edward  Everett  Horton;  Mai  Stamp. 
Roscoe  Karns;  J.  D.  Forbes,  Moroni  Olsen;  D wight 
Cook,  Hobart  Cavanaugh;  Ginny,  Ginny  Simms; 
Harry,  Harry  Babbitt;  Ish,  Ish  Kabibble;  Miss 
Cosgrave,  Dorothy  Lovett;  Miss  Brighton,  Lillian 
West;  Thomas,  Denis  Tankard. 


"TOWER    OF     LONDON"  —  Universal  ,— 

<  Iriginal  screen  play  by  Robert  N.  Lee.  Directed  bv 
Rowland  V.  Lee.  Cast:  Richard  III.  Basil  Rath- 
bone;  Mord,  Boris  Karloff;  Elyzabelh,  Barbara 
O'Neil;  Edward  IV,  Ian  Hunter;  Lady  Alice  Bar- 
ton, Nan  Grey;  Duke  of  Clarence,  Vincent  Price; 
John  Wyatl,  John  Sutton;  Hastings,  Leo  G.  Carroll; 
Henry  17,  Miles  Mander;  Beacon,  Lionel  Belmorc; 
Anne  Neville,  Rose  Hobart;  Isobel,  Frances  Robin- 
son; Henry  Tudor,  Ralph  Forbes;  Edward,  Prince  of 
Wales,  G.  P.  Huntley;  Tom  Clink.  Ernest  Cossart; 
Prince  Edward.  Ronald  Sinclair;  Prince  Ri.hanl, 
John  Herbert-Bond. 

"TWO  THOROUGHBREDS"  —  RKO-RaD to. 

— Screen  play  by  Joseph  A.  Fields  and  Arthur 
Ceasar.  Based  on  the  original  story  "Sunset''  by 
Joseph  A.  Fields.  Directed  by  Jack  Hively.  Cast; 
David  Carey,  Jimmie  Lydon;  II  'endy  Conwa  v,  J,, an 
Brodel;  Jack  Lenihan,  J.  M.  Kerrigan;  Thai  Carey. 
Arthur  Hohl;  Hildy  Carey,  Marjorie  Main;  Bill 
Conway,  Selmer  Jackson;  Doc  Purdy,  Spencei 
Charters;  Mr.  Recces.  Frank  M.  Thomas;  Mr. 
Peal,;  Frank  Darien;  Fiukc.  Paul  Fix;  Ran, her.  Ed 
Neff;  Ranch  Foreman.  Al  Ferguson;  Cowboy,  Jack 
Perrin;  Tnuk  Driers,  Larry  Blake  and  Bob  Perry. 


"WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE"— Wakneks  S,  ,,■,,, 
play  by  James  Hilton  and  Milton  Kriins.  From  the 
novel  bv  Limes  Hilton.  Directed  bv  Edmund 
Colliding.  Cast:  Dr.  David  Xc.comc,  Paul  Muni; 
I.eni.  Jane    Bryan;  Jcssi,,,,   I<  1. ,r.i    Robson;  Gerald, 

Raymond  Severn;  Su  an,  Una  O'Con ;  r 

Henry   Daniell;    Wajoi    Millman,  Montagu   Love; 

.S'i>    William    CUntOck,    J. line-    Slepheusoii ;     Sll    ,.:.;■ 
Loikhead,    St, ,nl, '\     Logan;    Judge.   Cecil    Kellawav; 

Archdeacon,  Alan  Napier;  Archdeacon's  Wife,  Ely 

Malyon;   Pommy  Baker,  Douglas  Scott ;  / ', 
Crauford    Kent;   Mrs.  Falters,,,,.  May   Be.itt-.;    1/,. 
Jones,     Billy      Be  van;     Pol,,,      lushclor.     Holmes 
Herbert;     Cliarley,      |,,hn      Powers;     George,     Colin 
Kenny;  Mrs.  Raymond,  Ethel  Griffies. 


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Every  smart  girl  can  possess  that  wide- 
eyed,  limpid  loveliness  that  adds  so  much 
to  charm.The  secret  is  KURLASH,  the  dainty 
eyelash  curler.  It  curls  back  lashes  from 
your  eyes  in  a  half -minute  jiffy  —  minus 
heat,  cosmetics  or  practice.  Makes  eyes 
appear    brighter,    larger,   lovelier.    $1.00 

k  KURLENE,  the  scientific  oily-base 
am,  keeps  company  with 
Kurlash!  Stroked  on  lashes  and 
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UBjyall  ut  your  ,->. 

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Sk„, 

FEBRUARY 


940 


87 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


(Continual  from  page  /) 

Remember  —  for    the    name    of    the 
store    nearest    you     that    carries    the 
gifts   you   crove,  please  write  to: 
Frances   Hughes,    Photoplay, 
122   East  42nd   St.,  New  York  City 


12.  BATHING  BEAUTY 

All  you  need  to  be  a  bathing  beauty 
is  to  let  Hollywood  Bath-O-Bubbles 
churn  you  up  a  foaming,  sparkling, 
bubbling  bath  that  will  make  a  new 
woman  of  you  in  a  twink.  In  you  go 
a  tired  hag,  and  out  you  come  rested, 
relaxed,  and  smelling  like  a  rose.  A 
ten-cent  package  will  whisk  up 
enough  foam  for  one  completely  in- 
vigorating bath;  or  you  can  make  it 
3  for  25c  or  8  for  50c.  Some  buy  a 
handsome  box  of  20  for  $1.00  and 
then  use  the  box  for  trinkets  later  on. 
What's  yours? 


13.  THANK  YOU,  GENTLEMEN 

The  "gents"  were  first  to  sport  Gru- 
en's  Veri-Thin  wrist  watches.  But 
soon  the  girls  began  to  assert  their 
rights  and  Gruen  began  to  fool 
around  with  wheel-trains,  for  that's 
what  they  had  to  rearrange  com- 
pletely, before  they  could  Veri-Thin 
their  ladies'  watches.  They  did  it, 
however,  and  added  pink  faces  too. 
Victorian  ovals  in  copper-colored 
frames, — and  that's  the  well-timed 
history  of  "The  Mannequin" — 15- 
jewels  at  $33.75,  and  no  excuse  for 
missing  your  train! 


14.  SONG  OF  INDIA 

The  Hindu  sari  done  for  the  south  by 
Echo  (Edgar  C.  Hyman)  into  a  filmy 
chiffon  scarf  embossed  with  gold.  In 
black,  it  brings  out  the  slinky  siren 
in  you.  In  pink  or  white,  you'll  have 
a  sweet  and  simple  season.  You 
can  switch  from  Maharanee  to  nun 
or  simple  peasant  maid  and  make  it 
double  for  an  evening  wrap  besides, 
on  sultry  southern  nights.  Around 
$6.00! 


15.  "BABUSHKA" 

"Babushka,"  you  know,  is  Russian  for 
"your  little  grandmother."  But  if  this 
bit  of  fluff  looks  anything  like  an  old 
lady's  hat  to  you,  we'll  eat  our  Ba- 
bushka, and  yours  too!  The  younger 
generation  skates  in  Babushkas,  slides 
in  them,  skis  in  them,  hikes  in  them. 
What  about  you?  They  come  in  cor- 
duroy rimmed  with  mouton;  in  red  ve! 
vet  dripping  with  mink  tails;  or  in  black 
velvet  with  snowy  bunny,  all  at  around 
$2.00  each.    How  many  please? 


16.  ROAMING  WITH  "ROVER1' 

Taking  a  train?  A  boat?  A  plane? 
No  matter!  Wherever  you  go,  take 
Mendel-Drucker's  "Rover"  with  you. 
It'll  take  six  dresses  on  hangers, 
shoes  galore  in  a  special  shoe-sec- 
tion; and  there's  a  tremendous  Talon- 
fastened  pocket  besides,  for  all  the 
little  things  that  rattle  around. 
"Rover"  is  yours  for  a  grand  get- 
away, in  natty  Bermuda  brown 
striped  tweed,  elegantly  lined  in 
brown  moire,  for  $20.00! 


17.  THREE  SILENT  MESSENGERS 

For  "Silent  Messengers,"  these  three 
Lentheric  bouquets  (Tweed,  Miracle, 
A  Bientot  or  Shanghai),  pack  a 
powerful  message  of  sweetness.  You 
can  scent  yourself  with  one;  your 
bureau  drawers  with  another;  and 
your  bed  linens  and  closets  with  the 
third.  Lentheric  calls  this  the  "Bal 
Masque  Presentation,"  and  does  it 
up  proud  in  a  brand  new  bandbox 
of  turquoise  and  gold — a  pretty  pick- 
up for  any  dressing  table.  Under 
$2.00. 


18.  THE  WORLD  GOES  WITH  YOU 

Why  leave  the  world  you  know  and 
love  behind  you  when  you  travel? 
Zenith's  Long  Distance  Portable  will 
pluck  it  for  you  out  of  the  air  with 
the  new  Wavemagnet  that  works  like 
magic  when  all  else  fails — in  planes 
— in  boats — in  motor  cars.  Such  a 
self-sufficient  little  radio,  too,  that 
works  on  batteries  when  you  travel, 
or  plugs  into  A.C.  or  D.C.  current  at 
home.  No  aerials  needed;  no  ground 
wires  either.  All  you  do  need,  in  fact, 
is  around  $30.00  and  the  world  goes 
with  you  on  your  travels,  neatly  con- 
densed into  a  striped  tweed  case. 

19.  LADY  INTO  TIGRESS 

How  would  you  like  a  passionate 
perfume  that  leaves  them  panting  in 
the  aisles?  It's  Faberge's  new  "Tig- 
ress," a  siren-scent  if  ever  there  was 
one,  sister  to  the  naughty  "Aphro- 
dysia"  that  in  the  language  of  the 
boys  themselves  just  "burns  them 
up! "  Even  the  streamlined  flacons 
have  tawny,  tiger-striped  velvet  tops. 
This  is  the  perfume  that  gets — and 
holds — your  man,  at  $2.00  for  the 
purse-size  flacon,  or  $33.00  for  four 
ounces  of  liquid  fire!  Eau  de  Cologne 
from  $1.50  up. 

20.  FLOWERS  OR  FRIENDS? 

•Have  you  tried  flowers  for  your  din- 
ner table,  only  to  have  your  husband 
scream,  "Take  those  d — ■  things  off. 
How  do  you  expect  anyone  to  see 
oyer  them!"  To  keep  the  family 
peace,  Norton  designed  a  center- 
piece that  will  silence  husbands  for- 
ever— a  low  glass  log  with  a  tube  of 
water  running  through  it,  and  six  lit- 
tle niches  for  short-stemmed  flowers. 
The  initial  investment  is  $7.50,  but 
the  upkeep  is  practically  nothing.  A 
few  pennies  worth  of  flowers  hand- 
somely decorate  your  table  without 
in  the  least  obscuring  your  friends. 

21.  WANT  A  NEW  FACE? 

Hampden's  Powd'r-Base  will  give  it 
to  you  in  a  handy  stick  that  you  ruo 
over  the  features  you  want  to  play 
up  or  down  and — presto! — you've 
brought  out  a  cheek  bone,  reduced  a 
jowl  or  minimized  a  biggish  nose. 
It's  as  easy  as  that  because  darker 
foundations  conceal  features  by  mak- 
ing them  less  noticeable;  while 
lighter  shades  highlight  and  empha- 
size what  you've  got.  You've  never 
known  a  better  base  for  powder, 
either,  or  a  more  satisfactory  rouge 
in  just  as  handy  a  little  stick.  25c, 
50c  or  $1.00  each,  depending  on  size. 

22.  MASON-DIXON  DUET 

Criterion  makes  belts  and  Ritter 
makes  bags,  and  between  them  they 
hatched  an  intriguing  bag-and-belt 
duet  to  spice  your  southern  ward- 
robe. The  plot  involves  seven  lucky 
colors — Chip  red,  Click  coral,  Chance 
blue,  Charm  turquoise,  Casino  rose, 
Clover  green  and  Coin  gold  suede, 
whipped  into  a  zipper  pouch  with* 
soft,  sash-handle,  and  a  matching 
belt  with  deftly  draped  bow.  The 
bag's  a  winner  at  $3.00;  the  belt 
comes  in  at  half  the  price,  $1.50. 

23.  BUILD-UP  FROM  BOWS 

Here's  a' handsome  hide-away  for  bows — 
a  Bali  bra  that  whittles  your  middle  down 
to  a  new  low,  and  raises  and  rounds 
what  you've  got  above  it  into  a  new 
high.  The  bow  serves  to  separate — a 
frivolous  insert  of  net  that's  as  decorative 
as  it  is  devoted  to  its  duty.  A  lot  of  up- 
lift for  very  little  cash — $1.00  in  broad- 
cloth; $1.50  in  satin  or  lace. 

24.  WHO'LL  BUY  THESE  VIOLETS? 

Who  wouldn't,  to  take  down  south 
and  wear  with  low-cut  evening 
gowns!  A  bib,  a  bracelet  and  ear- 
rings, dripping  with  lovely,  lush  vio- 
lets and  snow-white  berries  draped 
from  an  acetate  chain.  The  bib, 
$3.00;  the  bracelet,  $2.00;  the  ear- 
rings, $2.00! 


Watch  for  Photoplay's 


Penny  Wise  fashion 


PH  OTOPLAY 


■1 
2V  . 


Now  It  Becomes  A  Simple  Matter  To 


Your  Figure  The  Smart  Hollywood  Way 


NOW  you  can  take  off  excess  fat  and  stream- 
line your  figure  the  smart  Hollywood  way. 
For  in  that  splendid  book  Streamline  Your  Figure 
you  will  discover  new  ways  to  mold  your  body 
into  alluring  proportions  in  the  privacy  of  your 
own  boudoir.    The  author  of  this  amazing  book 


Sylvia  of  Hollywood 

If  you  want  results  ...  if  you  want  to  lose  10 
to  15  pounds  of  excess  fat  a  month — -get  your 
copy  of  Streamline  Your  Figure  at  once.  For  in 
this  great  book  Sylvia  of  Hollywood  gives  you 
definite  instruction  on  how  to  get  a  glamorous  fig- 
ure .  .  .  the  Hollywood  way.  In  Streamline 
Your  Figure  the  author  tells  you  how  to  develop 
beautiful  legs  .  .  .  how  to  get  the  fat  off  your 
knees  .  .  .  how  to  acquire  a  flat  stomach  .  .  . 
how  to  reduce  the  rear  of  your  hips  .  .  .  how  to 
get  rid  of  the  bulges  on  the  sides  of  your  hips  .  .  . 
how  to  get  rid  of  that  "Old  Woman's  Bump" 
.  .  .  how  to  trim  fat  off  your  face  .  .  .  how  to 
get  rid  of  a  double  chin  .  .  .  how  to  streamline 
your  face  .  .  .  how  to  drop  ten  years  off  your 
walk  .  .  .  how  to  have  your  baby  and  still  re- 


tain your  figure.  But  this  is  not  all  that  is  con- 
tained in  Streamline  Your  Figure.  The  pages  of 
this  amazing  book  are  just  packed  to  the  brim 
with  definite  instructions  designed  to  make  you 
more  beautiful  than  ever. 

Ugly  Fat  Disappears 

In  Streamline  Your  Figure  Madame  Sylvia  tells 
you  how  to  make  ugly  fat  disappear  from  any  part 
of  your  body.  If  you're  fat  all  over,  heed 
Madame  Sylvia's  advice.  Acquire  a  slim,  alluring 
figure.  If  you're  fat  in  spots,  let  Madame  Sylvia 
explain  how  to  make  those  stubborn  fat  spots 
vanish.  Remember  this:  you  can't  be  the  stun- 
ning movie-star  type  unless  you  take  steps  to  ac- 
quire a  glamorous  figure.  Do  something  about 
your  figure  now — send  for  your  copy  of  Madame 
Sylvia's  amazing  book  Streamline  Your  Figure. 

No  Apparatus  Necessary 

You  can  carry  out  Sylvia  of  Hollywood's  simple, 
easy-to-follow  instructions  in  the  privacy  of  your 
boudoir  without  the  aid  of  any  special  equipment 
or  apparatus  whatsoever.  The  32  full  page  illus- 
trations contained  in  Streamline  Your  Figure 
make  it  easy  for  you  to  acquire  an  alluring  Hol- 
lywood figure.  The  price  of  this  beautiful  cloth 
bound  book  is  only  $1  at  all  booksellers.  Or,  if  it 
is  more  convenient,  mail  coupon  below  with  SI 
and  we  will  send  you  a  copy  of  Streamlim 
Figure  postpaid.  Get  your  copy  of  this  outstand- 
ing book  TODAY. 


••***•***•••*•****•****••*******■*•**•**  ****■*-*-** 


MACFADDEN  BOOK  CO. 

205  East  42nd  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Send  me,   postage  prepaid,   the  book   St 
by  Sylvia  of  Hollywood.     I  enclose  #1.00. 


Dept.  P  2 
„,    Figure, 


•  ••••*••••••****•**•***••*••***•*****••**•*•*** 


*«    j4*Y 


* 


, 


*%H  ^:: 


At  left:  ACTUAL  COLOR  PHOTO- 
GRAPH. James  Callis,  North  Car- 
olina farmer,  shows  Miss  Agnes 
Williams  —  from  a  near-by  farm 
— a  tobacco  plant  in  flower,  from 
the  fine  crop  he  has  raised  by 
U.  S.  Government  methods. 


^wmm 


"UNCLE  SAM'S 


new  ideas  helped  make 
tobacco  better  than  ever 

...and  Luckies  bought  the  top-notch  grades!" 
says  Luther  Herring,  12  years  a  tobacco  buyer! 

Q.  "You  say  Uncle  Sam  helped  tobacco  farmers?" 

MR.  HERRING:  "Yes.  Even  though  crops  vary 
with  weather,  U.  S.  Government  methods  have  made 
tobacco  better  than  ever  during  the  past  few  years." 

Q.  "And  Luckies  get  this  better  tobacco?" 

MR.  H:  "Luckies  buy  the  finer  grades,  and  always  did 

Q.  "That's  a  strong  statement." 

MR.  H:  "Well,  I  see  first  hand  that  they  buy  the 
prettier  lots  of  tobacco  on  the  warehouse  floor.  In 
fact,  that's  why  Luckies  are  the  2-to-l  favorite  with 
independent  tobacco  men.  And  that's  why  I've 
smoked  them  myself  for  21  years." 

Try  Luckies  for  a  week.  You'll  find  they're 
easy  on  your  throat— because  the  "Toasting"  ' 
process  takes  out  certain  harsh  throat  irritants 
found  in  all  tobacco.  You'll  also  find  out  why — 

WITH  MEN  WHO  KNOW  TOBACCO  BEST— ITS 
LUCKIES  2  TO  1 


I 


I 


» 


**    V 


"TK 


MARCH 


J 


OLIVIA  DE  HAVILLAND 
By  Paul  Hesse 


>OK-LENGTH 
OVIE  NOVEL 


It  All  Game  True    complete 

By  LOUIS  BROMFIELD         ,N  THIS  ISSUE 


Eight  Years  of  Research 

Actual  tests  conducted  on  all  types  of  people  in 
several  industrial  plants  over  8  years  revealed  this 
astonishing  truth:  That  those  who  gargled  Listerine 
Antiseptic  twice  daily  had  fewer  colds  and  milder 
colds  than  non-users,  and  fewer  sore  throats. 

Kills  "Secondary  Invaders" 
This  impressive  record  is  explained,  we  believe, 
by  Listerine  Antiseptic's  germ-killing  action  ...  its 
ability  to  kill  threatening  "secondary  invaders"  — 
germs  that  live  in  the  mouth  and  throat  and  are 
largely  responsible,  many  authorities  say,  for  the 
bothersome  aspects  of  a  cold. 

Reductions  Ranging  to  96.7% 

When  you  gargle  with  Listerine  Antiseptic,  that 
cool  amber  liquid  reaches  way  back  on  throat  sur- 
faces and  kills  millions  of  the  "secondary  invaders" 
— not  all  cf  them,  mind  you,  but  so  many  that  any 

BEFORE 


NOTE  HOW  LISTERINE 
REDUCED  GERMS! 

The  two  drawings  at  left  illustrate  height  of 
range  in  germ  reductions  on  mouth  and 
throat  surfaces  in  test  cases  before  and 
after  gargling  Listerine  Antiseptic.  Fifteen 
minutes  after  gargling,  germ  reductions  up 
to  9<5.7%  were  noted;  and  even  one  hour 
after,  germs  were  still  reduced  as  much 
as  80%. 


major  invasion   of  the  delicate   membrane   is    often 
halted  and  infection  thereby  checked. 

Even  15  minutes  after  Listerine  gargle,  tests  have 
shown  bacterial  reductions  on  mouth  and  throat  sur- 
faces ranging  to  96.7%.  Up  to  80%  an  hour  afterward. 

In  view  of  this  evidence,  don't  you  think  it's  a  sensi- 
ble precaution  against  colds  to  gargle  with  Listerine 
Antiseptic  systematically  twice  a  day  and  oftener  when 
you  feel  a  cold  getting  started? 
Lambfrt  Pharmacal  Company,  St.  Louis,  Missouri 


IT  TAKES  A  LOT  TO 
MAKE  ME  LOVE  A  MAN 

In  The  Face  Of  All 
I  Know  About  Them!" 


The  world's  most  famous  doctor  rips  the  veil 
from  hidden  lives  of  those  bitter  women 
who  know  men  too  well  —  yet  must  some- 
how find  love  in  the  midst  of  terror,  toi 
and  disillusionment.  Revealed  in  this  deeply 
moving  story  of  two  sisters  and  a  doctor 
who  defied  an  age-old  code  to  find  the  love 
their  spartan  calling  would  deny  them! 


T    CAROLE       ■  -| 

Lombard 

A    -m    BRIAN 

Aherne 


THE  AUTHOR  OF 'THE  CITADEL' 

Writes  His  Greatest  Drama  of  the 
World's  Most  Dramatic  Profession! 

Only  a  doctor  could  tell  this  startling,  "off- 
duty"  story  of  the  cloistered,  repressed 
world  of  nurses . . .  Only  the  author  of  "The 
Citadel"  could  tell  it  so  vividly,  absorbingly 
that  three  great  stars  reach  new  dramatic 
heights  in  its  portrayal. 


Shirley 


mammi-mttmi'umm^^ 


From  the  Brilliant  New  Novel  by 

A.J.  CRONIN        flp 

ITEBRENDA  FORBESPETER  CUSHING     1 
GEORGE  STEVENS 

f  Product, on...RKO  RADIO  PICTURE     H 

.  .  P.  J.  Wolfson  .  . .  Rowlond  Leigh        _J 


With  JUUtn  mm.™.....  • •  -  -  „    _„  eTEvENS 

Produced  and  Directed  b, ?»«6"™£»„cTUIK 

Screen  Ploy  by  Fred  Gu.ol  .  .  ■  ?■  J  Wolt. 


MARCH  ,      I  940 


FREDASTAIPE 
ELEANOR  POWELL 


PHOTOPLAY 


y 


°'  MOTIOH  *** 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN 

EXECUTIVE    EDITOR 


HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL 

ART   EDITOR 


RUTH  WATERBURY 

EDITOR 


FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 


On  ihe  Cover — Olivia  de  Havilland,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse  t\0M*mi  Lmfm      /"/*  0       \4*01*t0  C 

HIGHLIGHTS    OF    THIS    ISSUE  .^^\!  i^      .   ,,       .    L   , 

MANY  a  great  film  becomes  a  vital  force  in  the  lives 
of  the  people  who  see  it— but  more  impressively 
so  in  the  lives  of  the  people  who  make  it. 

Matinee  Madness Lillian  Day  14                           "Gone    with    the    Wind"    has    changed    the    life    and 

Our  favonte  teenster  returns-with  a  big  Broadway  adventure  deep|y    inf|uenced    the    personality    of   the    lovely    girl    on 

Play  Truth  and  Consequences  with  Ronald  Colman       .        .        Katharine  Hartley  16                       our  cover,  Olivia  de  Havilland.    She  has  told  me  about  it. 

Could  you  believe  a  simple  game  could  be  so  informative?  Her  interpretation  of  Melanie  surprised  even  those  of  us 

The  Third  Mrs.  William  Powell Ruth  Waterbury  18                      who  admired  her  handling  of  the  many  anemic  roles  that 

Love  still  finds  a  way,  even  in  Hollywood  ■                       preceded  this  difficult  assignment.    In  the  quiet  of  your 

Exposing  Hollywood's  Red  Menace Morton  Thompson  19                      study,   Melanie  is  a   believable  saint;   but  how  easily,   in 

Never  say  Dies  in  the  film  colony!  the  harsh  perspective  of  the  silver  sheet,  could  she  have 

Round-Up  of  Familiar  Faces Sara  Hamilton  and  Wilbur  Morse,  Jr.  20                      become  too  good  to  be  true!    The  danger  was  amazingly 

Eight  good  troupers  get  the  good  breaks  they  deserve  avoided;  Melanie  as  she  was  portrayed  was  never  cloy- 

My  Friend  Fred! George  (Murph)  Murphy  22                      '"91  in  fact,  she  was  strangely  inspiring.    "Doing  Melanie 

as  told  to  Jerry  Asher  has  changed   my  whole  viewpoint,"   Olivia   de  Havilland 

All  about  Astaire,  the  editor's  despair  told  me.    "I  face  so  many  issues  in  my  life  with  the  same 

It  All  Came  True Louis  Bromfield  23                      question    I    had   to   ask   myself  on   the   set:   'How   would 

Photoplay's  Movie  Book  of  the  Month  (somewhat  condensed)  complete  Melanie  act  in  a  situation  like  this?'"     Faith  and   great 

in  this  issue!  kindness  escape  us  in  our  hurried  life;  somehow  they  did 

Joan  Bennett's  Year  Book Kay  Proctor  38                      not  escape  Melanie! 

An  intimate  peek  at  some  very  frank  star  ratings  A  career  is   changed   by  such  a   vital  force   (and   let's 

The  Grapes  of  Wrath 44                      hope  that  this  unexpectedly   promising   one  will   be  fos- 

Sneak-preview  of  the  film  from  John  Steinbeck' s  gripping  novel  tered  by  Warner  Brothers),  perhaps  a  vista  is  changed — 

Photoplay  Fashions Gwenn  Walters  49                      and  then  a9ain-  as  !n  the  case  of  Margaret  Mitchell,  some- 

A  wardrobe  for  women  of  the  world  (with  that  little-girl  look!)  times   a    whole    life    is   changed! 

Swiss  Family  Hollywood Gene  Towne  and  Graham  Baker  64                       ,„  Las+  MaY  Mis,s  Mi+ch1e"  wrote  me  these  startling  lines: 

"D"  stands  for  Donaldson,  Doghouse— and  Dynamite!  It   has    been    almost   three   years   since     Gone   with   the 

Wind'  was  published  and,  with  the  exception  of  letters, 

The  Camera  Speaks: —  I  have  not  written  a  line  since  then.    I  sometimes  wonder 

Will  We  Let  It  Happen  Again? 42                      jf  I  will  ever  have  the  opportunity  to  do  any  more  writ- 

Presenting  a  case  history  of  movie  morals  »ig-       When  she  dropped  into  my  New  York  office  one 

t~  .  ,~    .  .0  typically  hot  June  afternoon,  I  had  the  rare  opportunity 

Eti-Quiz 48  7f,        '.         ,  ,  .      ,         . '     -         ,  .  rr  ,' 

Even  the  stars  nod— when  good  manners  call  for  the  deepest  bow!  ot  nearmg.   trom  this  charmingly  sott-spoken   woman  the 

story  of  the  change  which  her  success  had  brought  to  her 
NEWS,     VIEWS    AND     REVIEWS  and   her  husband,   John    Marsh.      Although   they   hadn't 

moved  from  their  modest  home,  there  was  even  then  that 
Boos  and  Bouquets 4  prodigious  mail,  those  constantly  mounting  details  of  four- 
Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures 6                      teen  foreign  language  editions,  the  tremendous  demands 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury         9  made  by  visitors  from  all  over  the  world.     "Often  I  was 

„r    ,-,  ..      C4    ,.  i,  .  «, , .         „ ,  glad,"   she  told    me,    "to   get   four   hours  sleep   a    night. 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade       46  ?..  , ,        .,        •   .        •    r     n      l  l     ij 

Well,  when  the  picture  is  finally  shown  we  should  get  some 
Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 59  rest." 

The  Shadow  Stage 62  When  you  look  behind  the  scenes  of  a   great  movie, 

Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars Frances  Hughes       66  you  find  human  beings  struggling  for  personal  happiness, 

each  according  to  his  lights,  but  whether  for  money  or  for 

Choose  the  Best  Picture  of  1939 83  soul-satisfaction,  always  for  some  semblance  of  peace. 

How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 89  ^ 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 92  C  it^iTQ^X^ 

VOL  LIV.,  No.  3,  MARCH,  1940  U1W 

Published  Monthly  by  Maciadden  Publications,  Inc.,  333  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  111.  •  Bernarr  Macfadden,  President  •  Irene  T.  Kennedy,  Treasurer  •  Wesley  F.  Pape,  Secretary  •  General  Offices, 
205  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.  •  Editorial  and  Advertising  Offices,  Chanin  Building,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Curtis  Harrison,  Advertising  Manager  •  Charles  H.  Shattuck,  Manager,  Chicago 
Office  •  London  Agent  Atlas  Publishing  and  Distributing  Company,  Ltd.,  18  Bride  Lane,  London,  E.  C.  4  •  Yearly  Subscription:  $2.50  in  the  United  States,  $3.00  in  U.  S.  Possessions  and  Territories,  also 
Cuba,  Mexico,  Haiti,  Dominican  Republic,  Spain  and  Possessions,  and  Central  and  South  American  countries  excepting  British  Honduras,  British,  Dutch  and  French  Guiana.  $2.50  in  Canada  and  New- 
foundland. All  other  countries  $5.00.  Remittances  should  be  made  by  check,  or  postal,  or  express  money  order  •  CAUTION — Do  not  subscribe  through  persons  unknown  to  you  •  While  manuscripts,  photo- 
graphs and  drawings  are  submitted  at  the  owners'  risk,  every  effort  will  be  made  by  this  organization  to  return  those  found  unavailable  if  accompanied  by  sufficient  1st  class  postage,  and  explicit  name  and 
address.  But  we  will  not  be  responsible    for    any  losses    of  such    matter.  Entered    as  second-class  matter  April  24    1912.  at  the  post-office  at  Chicago,  111.,  under  the  act  of  March  3,  1879.  Copyright,  1940,  by 

Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  de  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


HOWTHE 
TELEPHONES  ARE 
RINGING 

-to  tell  of  Tampax 


No  wonder  Tampax  is  trav- 
eling fast  and  Tampax 
users  growing.  In  addition  to 
the  new  converts  to  Tampax, 
many  part-time  users  have  now  become 
whole-time  users,  in  view  of  the  new  Super 
Tampax  size,  50%  more  absorbent  than 
Regular  Tampax. 

Perfected  by  a  physician,  Tampax  is  worn 
internally  for  monthly  sanitary  protection. 
The  wearer  is  not  conscious  of  it,  but  can  keep 
up  her  regular  activities  without  fear  of  any 
chafing,  wrinkling  or  showing  of  a  "line." 
No  odor  can  form;  no  disposal  problems 
Tampax  is  made  of  pure  surgical  cotton 
hygienically  sealed  in  individual  containers 
so  neat  and  ingenious  your  hands  never 
touch  the  Tampax  at  all!    Comfortable 
efficient,  compact  to  carry  in  your  purse, 
Three  sizes:  Regular,  Super  and  Junior 
At  drug  stores  and  notion  counters:  Intro 
ductory  size  20tf;  but 
large  economy  pack- 
age saves  up  to  25%. 

Accepted  /or  Advertising  by 
the  Journal  of  the  American 
Medical  Association. 


P-30-A 


TAMPAX  INCORPORATED 
New  Brunswick,  N.  J. 

Please  send  me  in  plain  wrapper  the  new  trial  package 
of  Tampax.  I  enclose  10c  (stamps  or  silver)  to  cover  cost 
of  mailing.  Size  is  checked  below: 
(      )    REGULAR  (      )    SUPER  (      )  JUNIOR 

Name 


Address. 
Gty 


BOOS     AND 

BOUQUETS 


GOING  TO  WASHINGTON 

OO  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington"! 
Probably  a  number  of  Mr.  Smiths  have 
gone  to  Washington,  along  with  many 
others  from  various  parts  of  the  coun- 
try. But  among  them  there  has  never 
been  one  who  was  so  totally  ignorant  of 
what  it  was  all  about.  No  young  man 
who  has  been  a  leader  of  boys  in  his 
community,  and  consequently  possessed 
of  at  least  average  intelligence,  could 
possibly  be  so  ignorant  about  govern- 
mental affairs.  Neither  would  it  be 
necessary  for  him  to  have  secretarial 
coaching  from  the  gallery.  Sure,  we 
understand  that  this  was  supposed  to 
be  comedy.  It  turned  out  to  be  more 
ridiculous  than  comical,  and  also  more 
or  less  distasteful  to  anyone  who  has 
some  respect  for  the  average  American 
citizen. 

The  doings  of  the  Senate,  the  opera- 
tions of  political  machines  and  political 


bosses,  and  the  ethics  of  newspaper  men 
also  come  in  for  their  share  of  over- 
drawn comedy.  No  one  questions  the 
existence  of  political  machines  and 
bosses.  There  are  far  too  many  of  them 
for  the  good  of  the  country.  Yet  one  is 
reluctant  to  believe  that  the  whole  thing 
is  so  ridiculously  rotten  as  depicted.  Not 
that  we  expect  our  pictures  to  be  true  to 
fact,  but  at  a  time  like  this  there  is  lit- 
tle to  be  gained  by  holding  the  whole 
body  up  for  ridicule.  If  we  need  re- 
form, let  each  of  us  start  in  his  own 
community  and  be  a  little  more  con- 
cerned about  who  goes  to  Washington. 
Harl  Zimmerman, 
Salina,  Kans. 


DREAM  GIRL 

HE  have  a  son  who,  I  believe,  can  claim 
the  record  of  being  the  most  enthusias- 
tic fan  of  Sandra  Henville.     He  is  two 


years  of  age.  We  have  the  November 
Photoplay  which  has  the  picture  of 
Sandy  on  page  forty-eight.  We  keep 
this  edition  in  among  our  other  maga- 
zines, but  every  time  David  wants  a 
book  he  gets  the  November  issue  and 
turns  to  Sandy's  picture.  He  kisses  it, 
talks  to  it,  and  will  sometimes  just  sit 
and  look  at  it.  He  very  seldom  touches 
the  other  books — he  is  interested  in 
Sandy,  a  great  actress. 

Frank  Di  Vito, 
Pitcairn,  Pa. 


A  BOO  FOR  BESS 

uHALK  me  up  as  saying  that  the  worst 
performance  of  the  year  should  be  cred- 
ited to  Bette  Davis  for  her  role  in  "The 
Private  Lives  of  Elizabeth  and  Essex." 
To  say  that  she  acted  to  the  point  of 
insanity  is  putting  it  mildly.  Never  be- 
fore have  I  heard  such  uncomplimentary 


PHOTOPLAY 


remarks   made    by    one   film    audience. 

Since  when  was  Queen  Bess  so  af- 
flicted that  she  had  no  control  over  her 
head  and  hands?  Those  mannerisms 
Davis  thrust  upon  us  in  the  picture  were 
so  unbearable  as  to  almost  drive  the 
audience  into  hysterics. 

I  am  a  forty-nine-year-old  woman, 
as  was  Queen  Bess,  and  I  defy  anybody 
to  say  that  a  person  of  that  age  could 
be  such  a  decrepit  old  fossil  as  the 
screen  presented! 

So  Bette  Davis  is  an  "Oscar"  winner, 
is  she?  Well,  how  about  reversing  the 
idea  this  year  and  giving  a  little  "Oscar" 
to  everyone  who  had  the  sheer  courage 
to  sit  and  witness  such  a  nightmare  of 
a  queen? 

Mrs.  Ann  Bryson, 
Des  Moines,  la. 

AWARD  "PREVIEW" 

nS  an  ardent  movie  patron,  I  suggest 
the  following  films,  in  order,  as  "The 
Ten  Best  Pictures  of  1939"  (all  of  them 
having  been  generally  released  between 
November  1, 1938,  and  October  31. 1939) : 

1.  "Dark  Victory,"  because  of  its  in- 
tense suspense,  sustained  interest,  and 
Bette  Davis'  brilliant  acting. 

2.  "Five  Came  Back,"  for  its  excellent 
characterizations  in  all  major  roles  and 
its  dramatic  originality. 

3.  "Only  Angels  Have  Wings,"  for  its 
inherent  interest  and  Thomas  Mitchell's 
realistic  performance. 

4.  "Stagecoach,"  for  its  superb  direc- 
tion of  every  character  and  scene  in- 
volved and  its  mounting  suspense. 

5.  "Blind  Alley,"  because  of  its  dra- 
matic situation,  originality  of  plot,  and 
Chester  Morris'  fine  portrayal. 

6.  "The  Dawn  Patrol,"  for  its  realis- 
tic suspense  and  fine  direction. 

7.  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington," 
for  James  Stewart's  Academy  Award 
acting,  its  direction,  and  its  American- 
ism. 

8.  "Pygmalion,"  because  of  its  human 
interest  and  Leslie  Howard's  sterling 
characterization. 

9.  "The  Old  Maid,"  for  Bette  Davis' 
fine  performance  and  its  sustained  in- 
terest. 

10.  "The  Story  of  Vernon  and  Irene 
Castle,"  because  of  its  aliveness. 

Richard  Stoll, 

Marion,  O. 

HOW  WAS  OUR  FEBRUARY  COVER? 

I  AM  writing  to  tell  you  how  much  we, 
in  far-away  England,  appreciate  Photo- 
play. 

It  might  interest  you  and  your  Amer- 
ican readers  to  know  that,  since  the  out- 
break of  hostilities  in  Europe,  we  have 
—  apart  from  trade  papers  —  only  two 
movie  magazines  in  this  country!  They 
are  meagre  weeklies,  all  our  other 
screen  books  having  been  either  amal- 
gamated or  discontinued  "for  the  dura- 
tion," and  whenever  one  of  your  grand 
Photoplays  appears  there  is  a  general 
rush  to  obtain  copies! 

Photoplay  has  long  been  my  favorite 
magazine,  and  I  consider  it  to  be  the  best 
twenty-five  cents'  worth  of  intelligent 
movie  news  in  the  world.  It  will  be  a 
wonderful  consolation  to  all  British 
movie  fans,  in  these  troubled  times,  to 
know  that  this  magazine  will  continue 
to  uphold  its  high  traditions  for  years 
to  come. 

In  conclusion,  I  have  a  request:  Could 
you  please  print  another  colored  photo 
of  Clark  Gable  on  your  front  cover 
again  soon?  I  still  treasure  your  last 
one  dearly! 

Joyce  B.  Clegg, 
Rochdale,  Lanes.,  England 

OPEN  LETTER 

ear  Miss  Holcombe: 

Your  letter,  dear  Dorothy,  has  all  the 


D 


earmarks  of  having  been  written  by  a 
tall,  big-boned  brunette.  How  you  black 
heads  envy  the  dainty  blonde! 

If  Kay  Francis  were  as  good  an  ac- 
tress as  Carole  Lombard,  she  would  be 
playing  leads  instead  of  second  leads. 
The  public  knows  fine  acting  and  ap- 
preciates it,  showing  their  appreciation 
by  making  a  star— their  disapproval,  by 
breaking  one. 

You  say  Miss  Lombard  lacked  chic  in 
dress  in  "In  Name  Only."  Would  it 
ever  occur  to  you  that  a  designer  was 
engaged  by  the  studio  to  dress  the  two 
women  according  to  their  separate 
roles?  Therefore,  Miss  Francis  wore 
slinky,  seductive  clothes.  She  portrayed 
one  of  the  filthy  rich  with  nothing  on 
her  mind  but  how  to  make  herself  at- 
tractive to  men.  Miss  Lombard  was 
kept  very  busy  earning  a  living  for  her 
small  daughter  and  herself. 

Miss  Lombard  is  not  only  a  very  good 
actress,  but  she  has  an  unusual  beauty 
which  comes  from  within,  as  well  as 
physical  charm  and  attractiveness. 

Miss  Francis  should  be  an  experienced 
actress — she's  had  plenty  of  experience. 
Barbara  Knox, 
Slingerlands,  N.  Y. 

GOLDEN  WESTERNER 

MOTION  picture  producers  spend 
thousands  on  imported  matinee  idols 
with  handsome  faces  and  brawny  phy- 
siques. That's  all  right,  but  there  is  one 
good  actor  who  is  handsomely  rugged 
(with  the  best  physique  of  all)  and  has 
the  personality  that  is  demanded  of  a 
great  star,  yet  he  has  been  galloping 
through  horse  operas  for  years.  He  is 
well-known  only  to  children  and  neigh- 
borhood theaters,  and  his  pictures  are 
not  classified  as  A  productions. 

The  person  I  am  referring  to  is  George 
O'Brien.  Come  on,  some  wise  producer! 
Get  busy  and  find  a  suitable  story  for 
this  talented  player  and,  in  due  time,  he 
will  become  the  sensation  of  the  nation! 
Don  Kaiser, 
Leesburg,  Ind. 

ANY  DAY  NOW 

MAY  a  faithful  reader  of  your  maga- 
zine enter  a  plea  for  his  favorite  actor — 
Tom  Neal? 

I  have  watched  for  pictures  of  Mr. 
Neal  in  your  magazine,  but  in  vain.  Mr. 
Neal  is  rapidly  forging  to  the  front  out 
at  Metro,  and  I  would  enjoy  an  inter- 
view with  him  and  a  picture  or  two  of 
him  in  your  magazine. 

Bill  Moore, 
Oak  Grove,  La. 

YOUNG  BEERY'S  THE  BERRIES 

nE'S  a  chip  off  the  old  block— and  I 
do  mean  Noah  Beery,  Jr.  Yessiree,  he's 
been  the  one  bright  spot  in  many  a 
weary  Western  and  insignificant  B  pro- 
duction (that  is,  if  B  pictures  can  be 
called  productions!).  It  was  not  until 
his  expert  handling  of  a  supporting  role 
in  "Only  Angels  Have  Wings"  that  he 
graduated  with  appropriate  flying  colors 
from  the  protective  eye  of  the  neigh- 
borhoods to  BIG  TIME! 

A  swell  guy,  this  young  Beery.  He 
accomplishes  the  highly  intricate  feat 
of  reminding  movie-goers  of  both  his 
father  and  his  uncle.  There's  much  of 
both  Noah,  Sr.  and  Wally  reflected  in 
the  screen  personality  of  Noah,  Jr.  He 
takes  to  the  screen  like  a  duck  to  water, 
and  the  fans  take  to  him  just  as  nat- 
urally. 

Confidentially,  if  you  hear  any  whis- 
pering in  the  side  lines,  it's  just  the 
elder  Beery's  urging  Noah,  Jr.  not  to 
crowd  ...  to  take  it  easy.  After  all, 
son,  there  must  be  plenty  of  room  at 
the  top  for  three  Beerys! 

Helen  E.  Nigra, 
San  Francisco,  Calif. 


vvls  GRIT  in  your  face  powder 
robbinq  you  of  your  loveliness  ? 


// 


Unpopularity  doesn't  just  happen!  And  no  Right  in  your  own  teeth  you  have  a  testing 

one  thing  takes  away  from  your  charm  as  much  laboratory!   Grind  your  teeth  slowly  over  a 

as  a  face  powder  that  won't  cling  smoothly—  pinch  of  your  present  powder  (be  sure  they  are 

that  gives  you  a  "powdery  look"  because  it  con-  even)  and  your  teeth  will  detect  for  you  the 

tains  grit!  Why  not  find  out  about  your  powder?  slightest  possible  trace  of  grit!  But . . . 


What  an  amazing  difference  in 
Lady  Esther  Face  Powder... not  a 
trace  of  coarseness  or  grit!  That's 
why  it  gives  your  skin  a  luminous, 
satiny  look— a  new  loveliness! 


Smooth  on  Lady  Esther  Powder  after  dinner,  say  at  8 
o'clock,  and  at  midnight— 4  long  hours  later— your  skin  will 
still  look  exquisite.  Send  today  for  all  ten  shades  of  my 
powder,  at  my  expense.  See  for  yourself  that  this  superfine 
powder  contains  no  grit.  Find  your  lucky  shade,  too! 


Try  the  famous  Lady  Esther  "Bite  Test"/ 


There's  a  very  simple  way  for  you 
to  find  out  if  your  face  powder  is 
robbing  you  of  your  loveliness... if  it 
contains  grit.  Just  compare  it— no  mat- 
ter how  expensive  it  may  be— with  Lady 
Esther  Face  Powder  by  making  my 
famous  "Bite  Test"! 

Place  a  pinch  of  your  present  pow- 
der between  your  teeth.  Make  sure 
your  teeth  are  even,  then  grind  them 
slowly  upon  the  powder.  Don't  be 
shocked  if  your  teeth  find  grit! 

Now,  brush  away  every  trace  of 
this  powder  and  the  grit  it  might  con- 
tain, and  repeat  the  test  with  Lady 
Esther  Face  Powder,  Your  teeth  will 
quickly  tell  you  that  my  face  powder 
contains  no  trace  of  coarseness  or  grit! 
You'll  find  it  never  gives  you  a  harsh, 
flaky,  "powdery"  look  .  .  .  but  makes 
your  skin  look  satin-smooth  .  .  .  flat- 
ters you  .  .  .  gives  you  new  loveliness. 


Find  your  Lucky  Shade,  too!  For  the 
wrong  shade  of  powder  can  make  you 
look  older.  So  send  today  for  all  ten 
thrilling  new  shades  of  Lady  Esther 
Face  Powder,  at  my  expense.  Try  them 
all . . .  don't  skip  even  one.  For  the 
shade  you  never  thought  you  could 
wear  may  be  the  one  right  shade  for 
your  skin— luckiest  jor  you.' 


10  shades  FREE!  * 


penny  postcard) 


(S3) 


(You  can  paste  this  i 

Ladv  Esther, 

71  is  West  65th  Street,  Chicago,  111. 

end  me  FREE  AND  POSTPAID  >  our 

[0  nr»  shades  of  face  powder,  also  .i  tube 
"i  s Four-Purpose  Face  Cream. 


-  -.it  /,.;..' v  Etthrr.  Toronto,  Ont. 


MARCH,      1940 


Consult  This  biovie  Shopping  Guide  and  Save  Y7our  Time,  Money  and  Disposition 

k    INDICATES    PICTURE    WAS    ONE    OF    THE    BEST    OF    THE    MONTH    WHEN    REVIEWED 


ALLEGHENY  UPRISING-RKO-Radio 

Before  the  American  Revolution  the  Allegheny  Valley  settlers 
worked  up  a  rebellion  to  keep  industrialists  from  selling  ammunition 
to  the  Indians.  John  Wayne  plays  the  leader  of  the  protesting 
settlers  and  Claire  Trevor  adds  the  romance.  Recommended  with 
reservations.    (Jan.) 

ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS-Paramount 

A  college  picture  in  which  football  gives  way  to  the  problems  of 
undergraduate  marriages.  The  story  revolves  around  the  marital 
woes  of  Joseph  Allen,  Jr.,  and  Jean  Cagney ;  John  Arledge  and  Betty 
Moran;  Peter  Hayes  and  Virginia  Dale.    (Jan.) 

•  AMAZING  MR.  WILLIAMS,  THE-Columbia 

Melvyn  Douglas  carries  off  his  role  of  a  slap-happy  detective 


Brophy,  a  convicted  criminal,  Ruth  Donnelly  and  others  add  to  the 
fun.   Full  of  laughs. 

*  ANOTHER  THIN  MAN-M-G-M 

Bill  Powell's  first  since  his  illness — and  it's  amusing.  As  usual, 
the  Myrna  Loy-Powell  family,  now  blessed  with  a  baby,  sparkles 
with  smart  talk.  Bill,  of  course,  gets  mixed  up  in  another  murder 
mystery  in  which  C.  Aubrey  Smith  is  the  victim  and  his  daughter, 
Virginia  Grey,  complicates  the  plot.  Otto  Kruger  is  the  D.  A., 
aided  and  hindered  by  Nat  Pendleton.    (Jan.) 

*  BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL-M-G-M 

It's  a  touchy  subject,  religion;  but  Virginia  Weidler  has  made  this 
an  inspirational  film.  She's  an  orphan  whose  faith  has  its  effect  on 
adults.  Gene  Reynolds  foils  for  her;  Guy  Kibbee,  Ian  Hunter  and 
Henry  Hull  contribute.    (Jan.) 

*  BALALAIKA-M-G-M 

The  title  is  the  name  of  a  cafe  in  Russia  in  1914  where  Cossack 
Prince  Nelson  Eddy  comes  upon  the  stunning  Ilona  Massey  of  the 
gorgeous  voice.  There's  a  revolutionist  plot,  the  war,  and  Paris 
after  the  war.  Eddy  dees  a  fine  job  and  is  in  perfect  voice.  Ilona  is 
a  discovery  and  an  important  one.    You'll  like  this.    (Jan.) 


BIG  GUY,  THE— Universal 

Jackie  Cooper,  working  on  his  inventions  in  a  garage,  manages 
to  stay  out  of  trouble  until  he  gets  involved  in  a  jail  break  which 
uses  warden  Victor  McLaglen  as  a  shield.  Power,  emotional 
appeal  and  the  Cooper-McLaglen  teamwork  raise  this  above  the 
average  prison  picture.  (Feb.) 

BLACKMAIL-M-G-M 

A  morbid  but  thrill-packed  movie  revolving  around  oil-well  fires 
and  the  methods  of  fighting  them.  There's  an  escaped  criminal,  a 
chain  gang,  and  Edward  G.  Robinson,  who  does  a  swell  job.  Gene 
Lockhart  and  Bobs  Watson  are  good,  too.  (Dec.) 

BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY-Columbia 

Dagwood  Bumpstead  loses  his  job;  Baby  Dumpling  loses  the  dog 
Daisy  and  goes  off  to  find  her.  Whereupon  the  original  catastrophe 
pales  into  insignificance.  Penny  Singleton,  Arthur  Lake  and  Larry 
Simms  remain  the  Bumpsleads.    (Jan.) 

CAFE  HOSTESS— Columbia 

There's  a  lot  of  action  (including  a  fine  brawl)  in  this  rather 
sordid  story,  which  presents  Ann  Dvorak  as  "hostess"  who  picks 
the  pockets  of  her  partners — until  sailor  Preston  Foster  catches  her 
at  it.  Then  the  fun  begins.  (Feb.) 

CALL  A  MESSENGER-Universal 

The  Little  Tough  Guys  and  the  Dead  End  Kids  merge  in  this 
story  of  a  telegraph  official  (Robert  Armstrong)  who  thinks  lie 
might  work  some  regeneration  by  giving  the  kids  jobs.  It  clicks. 
Anne  Nagel,   Victor  Jory  and  Mary   Carlisle  support.    (Dec.) 


PICTURES   REVIEWED   IN 

SHADOW    STAGE 

THIS  ISSUE 


Page 

BARRICADE-20th  Century-Fox  90 

BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY— Warners  62 

CALLING  PHILO  VANCE— Warners  89 

CHARLIE  MCCARTHY,  DETECTIVE-Universal  90 

CHILD  IS  BORN,  A-Wamers  89 

CONGO  MAISIE-M-G-M  62 

EARL  OF  CHICAGO,  THE-M-G-M  89 

ENTENTE  CORDIALE-Glass  90 
EVERYTHING   HAPPENS  AT  NIGHT -20th 

Century-Fox 90 

FIGHTING  69th,  THE-Warners      .     ...  62 

GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN— Warners  63 

HENRY  GOES  ARIZONA-M-G-M  89 

HIGH  SCHOOL-20th  Century-Fox  62 
HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  THE-RKO- 

Radio 89 

INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE-Universal  89 

INVISIBLE  STRIPES-Warners  90 

MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE-RKO-Radio  63 

MEXICAN  SPITFIRE-RKO-Radio  .  ...  62 
OH,  JOHNNY,  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE-Uni- 

versal 89 

RAFFLES— Goldwyn-U.  A 90 

SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER,  THE— M-G-M  63 

SLIGHTLY  HONORABLE— Wanger-U.  A.  63 
SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON— Mayflower-Para- 


I 


CALLING  ALL  MARINES-Republic 


BEWARE  SPOOKS— Columbia 


Rookie  cop  Joe  E.  Brown  is  assigned  to  catch  Marc  Lawrence, 
bank  robber,  but  Joe's  off  on  his  honeymoon  with  Mary  Carlisle. 
At  the  resort,  however,  he  runs  up  against  some  murders,  and 
there's  a  climax  in  a  spook  house.    Boo!    (Jan.) 


Here's  a  strange  story  of  gangsters  who  attack  the  U.  S.  Marines 
to  steal  a  bomb.  There's  plenty  of  blasting  and  noise,  but  Helen 
Mack,  Donald  Barry,  Robert  Kent  and  Warren  Hymer  all  seem 
mildly  bewildered  at  what  they're  doing.  (Dec.) 

■k  CAT  AND  THE  CANARY,  THE-Paramount 

A  thriller — and  funny!  Paulette  Goddard  is  heir  to  the  estate 
of  an  eccentric  millionaire,  but  there's  a  second  will  in  case  she 
should  die  or  become  insane  within  a  month.  With  a  dangerous 
lunatic  loose,  uncanny  noises  and  clutching  hands,  there's  plenty 
to  keep  you  screeching.  Paulette  makes  a  convincingly  frightened 
heiress  and  shares  a  hectic  romance  with  Bob  Hope.  (Dec.) 


SWANEE  RIVER-20th  Century-Fox 
THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL— Republic 


Team  that  took  Atlanta  by  storm — Rhett 
and  Scarlett  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind" — 
Clark  Gable  and  Vivien  Leigh  in  person 


•  CHALLENGE,  THE-Denham  Films 

The  villain  of  this  melodrama  is  a  mountain;  the  hero,  the  breath- 
taking escapes  from  snowslides  in  the  Alps  in  the  1860's.  The 
rivalry  of  an  Italian  and  an  Englishman  (Luis  Trenker  and  Robert 
Douglas);  the  rivalry  of  three  countries  to  be  the  first  to  scale 
the  Matterhorn  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.  It's  intense  drama.  (Dec.) 

CISCO  KID  AND  THE  LADY,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

Cesar  Romero  fills  Warner  Baxter's  boots  as  the  Cisco  Kid  with 
grace  and  humor,  Virginia  Field  is  fine  as  a  dance-hall  girl,  and 
Gloria  Ann  White  is  a  pleasant  child.  But  they  didn't  have  much 
to  work  with  in  this  story  of  how  the  Kid  and  his  band  save  a 
mine  for  a  little  orphan.  (Feb.) 

CITY  IN  DARKNESS— 20th  Century-Fox 

Just  another  Charlie  Chan  picture,  with  Sidney  Toler  solving 
mysteries  in  Paris  during  the  blackouts.  Lynn  Bari  is  in  it,  too, 
but  the  result  is  only  fairish.  (Feb.) 

(Continued  on  page  90) 


PHOTOPLAY 


One  Day  Soon 


they'll  all  be  saying 


\  'i  /;  I  ■ 


V^ 


^r 


S  GO  S££ 


THE  FIGHTING  69™ 


'» 


Let's  see  'THE  FIGHTING  69TH'!  Because  if  ever  a  movie  moved 
this  is  the  one!  ThereVe  been  exciting  films  before -but  not 
this  kind  of  excitement!  You've  laughed Joudly  and  long  in 
the  theatre  before,  but  never  louder  nor  longer  than  this  time. 
And  there  will  be  a  teardrop  too . . .  but  the  kind  of  tears  that 
bring  cheers  when  it's  over! 

Let's  see  THE  FIGHTING  69TH'  and  see  grand  screen  stars  like 
JIMMY  *  CAGNEY  and  PAT  *  O'BRIEN  and  GEORGE  A  BRENT  give 
to  their  parts  from  their  hearts;  for  of  all  the  roles  they've 
portrayed,  of  these  they'll  be  proudest  ever!  ^    j^L     f^ 

Let's  see  'THE  FIGHTING  69TH' 

because  4The  Fighting  69th' 
brings  you  history's  heroes 
—  the  story  of  their  glory, 
which,  once  seen,  no  girl  can 
help  but  cherish. 

Q) 

A  new  Warner  Bros,  success       ^r . 


JAMES  CAGNEY-  PAT  O'BRIEN 
GEORGE  BRENT 

,/THE  FIGHTING  69™' 

with 

JEFFREY  LYNN 'ALAN  HALE 'FRANK  McHUGH 

DENNIS  MORGAN -DICK  FORAN 

WILLIAM  LUNDIGAN   .  GUINN  "BIG  BOY"  WILLIAMS 

HENRY  O'NEILL  .  JOHN  LITEL 

Directed  by  WILLIAM  KEIGHLEY 

Original    Screen    Play    by    Norman    Reilly    Raine,    Fred    Niblo,    Jr., 
and  Dean  Franklin   •  A  Warner  Bros.  First  National  Picture 


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FRITZ  FELD 

Story  by  John  Bafderston 


If  w 


y\ 


iy* 


Spectacular  entertainment  from  the  producer  and  director  of  "In  Old  Chicago", 
"Alexander's  Ragtime  Band",  "Stanley  and  Livingstone",  "Jesse  James"! 


PHOTOPLAY 


J> 


BY 
RUTH  WATERBURY 


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AS 


*'A,. 


NftVu 


'<&    ^ 


l  raw  . 

Three  newcomers  ride  the  crest  of  that 

tidal  wave  of  star  material  sweeping  into 

940  .  .  .  one  of  them  is  Mary  Martin 


close  ups  and   LONG    SHOTS 


IN  1929  ...  just  before  sound  got  going  in  a 
big  way  .  .  .  there  was,  considering  the  gen- 
eral prosperity  of  those  days  .  .  .  quite  a 
slump  at  the  movie  box  office  .  .  .  not  until 
sound  got  really  going  did  the  box-office  re- 
ceipts recover  and  mount  to  dizzying  heights 
.  .  .  creating  a  prosperity  that  was  due  not  alone 
to  the  exciting  novelty  of  hearing  lines  spoken 
from  the  screen  .  .  .  that  was  wonderful,  of 
course,  but  it  was  almost  as  thrilling  and  re- 
freshing to  see  a  completely  new  set  of  faces 
...  to  experience  the  charm  of  utterly  fresh 
personalities  ...  to  get  acquainted  through  the 
mere  purchase  of  a  movie  ticket  with  an  en- 
tirely different  generation  of  actors.  .  .  . 

TODAY,  eleven  years  after  ...  we  are  going 
through  a  similar  box-office  slump  .  .  .  really 
fine  pictures  are  not  earning  what  they  should 
.  .  .  here  at  the  beginning  of  1940  there  seems 
to  be  no  invention  about  to  spring  forth  to  jolt 
attendance  figures  back  to  where  they  should  be 
.  .  .  (don't  count  on  television  to  be  around  in 
a  commercially  acceptable  form  for  another  five 
years  at  the  earliest)  .  .  .  nonetheless  the  signs 
of  a  new  vitality  for  Hollywood  are  here  .  .  . 
signs  spelled  out  by  way  of  hitherto  unknown 
names  .  .  .  personalities  still  sufficiently  unfa- 
miliar to  be  mysterious  and  provocative  to  us 
...  it  may  be  hard  on  the  veterans  .  .  .  but  the 
truth  is  that  the  new  generation  of  players  is 
here  .  .  .  trained,  willing  and  able  to  take 
over.  .  .  . 

Hedy  Lamarr,  Vivien  Leigh,  Laurence   Oli- 


*** 


ill  \ 

Ruth  Waterbury 


vier,  Brenda  Joyce,  Richard  Greene,  Robert 
Cummings,  Brenda  Marshall,  Priscilla  Lane, 
Lana  Turner,  Linda  Darnell,  Ann  Rutherford 
.  .  .  these  you  already  know  and  you've  prob- 
ably discovered  their  charm  for  yourself  .  .  . 
with  the  exception  of  Laurence  Olivier  most  of 
them  are  in  their  twenties  and  a  few  of  them  are 
in  their  teens  .  .  .  now,  just  as  the  year  1939 
closed,  three  more  names  were  added  to  this 
group  of  conquering  young  troupers  .  .  .  the 
three  most  promising  names,  perhaps,  in  the 
whole  lot  of  them  .  .  .  three  girls  as  different 
from  one  another  as  satin  is  different  from  silver 
fox  ...  or  silver  fox  from  rain  .  .  .  girls  of 
startling  originality  .  .  .  yet  each  of  them  alike 
in  that  they  are  unmistakably  fashioned  from 
those  sensitive,  dynamic  qualities  of  which  stars 


are  made  ...  I  speak  of  Mary  Martin,  Ilona 
Massey  and  Jane  Bryan.  .  .  . 

It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  an  actor's  or 
an  actress'  fame  is  too  much  like  the  algebraic 
axiom  about  the  whole  being  the  sum  of  its 
parts  ...  an  actor's  enduring  fame  must  for- 
ever depend  upon  the  sum  of  the  parts  he  has 
played  .  .  .  and  that  too  often  leads  to  tragedy 
...  he  may  be  the  greatest  performer  ever 
born,  but  consistently  miscast  him  and  he  will 
lose,  not  only  all  popular  appeal,  but  also  that 
bright  luster  within  himself  by  which  he  is  in- 
spired. .  .  . 

IhINK  of  Gary  Cooper  .  .  .  handsome,  dis- 
tinctive, intelligent  Gary,  the  current  example 
of  the  blight  a  fine  actor  can  suffer  .  .  .  Gary 
will  most  certainly  come  back  when  he  gets 
the  right  role  .  .  .  but  such  a  role  he  hasn't 
had  since  he  signed  with  Samuel  Goldwyn  some 
three  years  ago  .  .  .  Gary  had  every  reason  to 
assume  that  the  Goldwyn  contract  would  be 
perfect  for  him  and  undoubtedly  Sam  Goldwyn 
intended  it  to  be,  too  ...  it  is  often  impossible 
among  the  multitudinous  details  that  go  into 
making  a  picture  to  fix  the  blame  for  its  turn- 
ing out  to  be  not  an  intended  success  but  a  dull 
failure  .  .  .  but  while  the  producer  suffers  in 
his  pocketbook  for  such  errors,  the  star  suffers 
in  every  way  .  .  .  Gary  proves  how  little  con- 
trol even  the  wisest  actor  has  over  his  final,  ar- 
tistic destiny.  .  .  . 

LVEN  absolute  independence  of  action  isn't  any 
guarantee  of  security  .  .  .  this  past  year  for  the 


MARCH,      I  940 


Most  unusual  of  the  star 
dust  triplets  .  .  .  and  most 
typical  of  her  sponsor- 
ing studio  . .  .  Jane   Bryan 


first  time  under  his  contract  terms  with  War- 
ners, Paul  Muni,  an  actor  who  has  always 
striven  with  the  utmost  sincerity  toward  the 
very  best  things  .  .  .  this  year  Muni  has  had 
absolute  authority  to  choose  stories,  dictate 
casts  and  guide  almost  every  detail  that  has  had 
any  influence  on  his  productions  .  .  .  thus  while 
it  was  Warners,  in  co-operation  with  Muni,  who 
chose  "Zola,"  it  was  Muni  alone  who  selected  the 
dreary  "Juarez"  ...  in  other  words,  he  got  the 
role  that  he  wanted  .  .  .  but  that  didn't  neces- 
sarily make  it  a  good  one  for  him  to  have 
played.  .  .  . 

UN  the  other  hand  when  you  get  the  right  col- 
laboration, what  a  blessed  result  for  everyone 
all  the  way  from  the  producer  to  those  of  us 
who  pay  our  way  into  the  theaters  .  .  .  con- 
sider "Ninotchka"  ...  a  perfect  script  for 
Garbo  to  play  in  ...  a  flawless  M-G-M  pro- 
duction .  .  .  the  perfect  director,  Ernst  Lu- 
bitsch,  to  get  the  full  flavor  from  such  a  script 
.  .  .  well,  there  was  Garbo  being  discussed  in 


Hollywood,  up  until  the  time  of  the  release  of 
this  film,  as  one  of  the  great  war  casualties  .  .  . 
the  gossip  ran  that  since  Garbo  had  lost  a  great 
volume  of  her  American  public,  the  loss  of  the 
European  market  would  finish  her.  .  .  . 

So  along  comes  "Ninotchka"  and  proceeds  to 
make  so  much  money  in  this  country  alone  that 
if  it  never  shows  in  Europe  the  studio  book- 
keeping department  can  still  keep  right  on  writ- 
ing its  earnings  down  in  black  ink  .  .  .  thus  be- 
cause an  organization  had  the  good  sense  to  let 
Garbo  laugh,  instead  of  keeping  on  crying,  even 
though  she  cried  magnificently,  she  is  back  on 
the  heights  of  popularity  again  .  .  .  she  has  al- 
ways been  there  artistically  .  .  .  but  until  this 
picture  she  had  become  pretty  remote  to  us  as 
a  human  being.  .  .  . 

(Right  here  I  want  to  ask  again:  Dear  Motion 
Picture  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences:  How 
about  an  Academy  Award  for  Garbo  this  year? 
I'll  concede,  if  you  insist,  that  perhaps,  fine  as  it 
is,  "Ninotchka"  isn't  necessarily  Garbo's  greatest 
performance  .  .  .  but  then,   neither  was   Bette 


Davis'  "Dangerous,"  for  which  you  gave  her  her 
first  Academy  Award,  representative  of  that 
brilliant  girl's  greatest  work  .  .  .  Bette  got  that 
award,  really,  on  the  strength  of  her  unforget- 
table Mildred  in  "Of  Human  Bondage"  the 
year  previously  ...  so  in  memory  of  "Camille" 
and  "As  You  Desire  Me"  and  even  silent  pic- 
tures like  her  love  stories  with  John  Gilbert, 
you  had  better  dust  off  an  Oscar  and  give  it  to 
the  greatest  Greta,  before  it  is  too  late  and  you 
have  to  bow  your  heads  eternally  in  shame  for 
your  oversight).  .  .  . 

BlJT  getting  back  to  the  new  Big  Three  .  .  . 
Martin  and  Massey  and  Bryan  ...  it  is  both 
intriguing  and  amusing  to  realize  how  each  of 
these  girls  represents  in  her  presentation  to  us 
exactly  the  most  outstanding  characteristic  of 
each  of  the  studios  involved.  .  .  . 

Paramount,  for  instance,  has  always  had  a  way 
with  musicals  .  .  .  therefore  Paramount  became 
most  quickly  aware  of  the  possibilities  of  pretty 
Mary  Martin  when  she  did  a  strip  tease  on 
Broadway  and  slyly  told  audiences  that  her 
heart  belonged  to  Daddy  ...  to  cover  her  up 
from  chin  to  toe  as  they  did  in  her  debut  film 
"The  Great  Victor  Herbert"  doesn't  seem  to 
have  been  the  most  imaginative  thing  to  do  .  .  . 
but  then  it  probably  did  little  harm  ...  for 
Mary's  clear  voice  .  .  .  her  warm,  sweet  per- 
sonality and  her  laughing  eyes  registered  so  en- 
chantingly  that  there  will  be  a  bigger  crowd  at 
the  box  office  next  time,  waiting  to  see  more  of 
her.  .  .  . 

Contrariwise,  M-G-M,  with  the  exception  of 
"The  Great  Ziegfeld"  and  "Babes  in  Arms,"  usu- 
ally flops  on  its  light  musicals  .  .  .  but  given  an 
operetta  where  finer  voices  are  needed  .  .  . 
where  the  seductive  Metro  opulence  in  staging, 
costuming  and  casting  can  get  fuller  play  .  .  . 
the  results  are  supreme  .  .  .  thus  for  two  years 
M-G-M  has  been  grooming  the  golden-haired, 
golden-voiced  Ilona  Massey  .  .  .  you  will  read 
her  amazing  story  on  page  12  of  this  issue  .  .  . 
so  I  will  only  add  here  that  she  is  quite  the  most 
glamorous  figure  to  be  discovered  since  Hedy 
Lamarr  ...  a  girl  in  whom  success  brings  out 
only  greater  generosity,  more  charm,  more  gra- 
ciousness  .  .  .  besides  her  gift  of  beauty,  she  has 
the  ability  to  both  sing  and  act  .  .  .  she  is  still 
very  young  ...  if  she  continues  to  get  the  right 
roles  .  .  .  (there  I  go  again)  ...  I  am  willing 
to  prophesy  that  she  will  be  one  of  the 
greatest  of  all  stars  before  another  year  rolls 
around.  .  .  . 

And  then  Jane  Bryan  of  Warners  .  .  .  not 
glamorous  in  the  usual  sense  .  .  .  not  beautiful 
in  the  usual  sense  .  .  .  but  with  a  force  to  her 
.  .  .  with  a  vitality  .  .  .  with  a  searching  after 
the  hidden  meanings  in  roles  such  as  no  other 
young  player  on  the  screen  today  represents 
.  .  .  Jane  is  so  like  Warners  ...  it  is  so  typical 
of  them  to  have  discovered  her  .  .  .  and  it  is 
also  typical  of  them  that,  as  I  write  this,  they 
are  having  a  quarrel  with  her  ...  or  she  with 
them  .  .  .  over  Jane's  not  taking  the  lead  in 
"Saturday's  Children."  .  .  . 

Warners,  above  all  other  studios,  have  a 
sense  of  "today-ness"  .  .  .  their  pictures  are 
like  dramatized  newspaper  headlines  .  .  . 
quickly  conceived,  to  be  quickly  experienced, 
and  yet  hidden  beneath  all  their  swiftness 
touching  the  inner  forces  that  make  such  head- 
lines possible  and  necessary.  .  .  . 

Warners  always  seem  to  have  to  go  through  a 
preliminary  squabble  with  their  players,  and 
right  in  the  middle  of  this  battle,  Janie  has  up 
and  married  Justin  W.  Dart,  a  drugstore  tycoon 
.  .  .  she  has  even  announced  she  intends  to  give 
up  her  career  .  .  .  perhaps  Jane  really  believes 
that  now  .  .  .  but  I  doubt  if  she  can  stick  to  re- 
tirement .  .  .  she  is  naturally  too  fine  a  trouper 
to  be  able  casually  to  give  it  all  up  ...  so  per- 
sonally I  hope  she  and  the  Warners  will  make 
peace  and  that  Jane  will  return  .  .  .  for  if  she 
does,  watch  the  rise  of  the  next  truly  great  dra- 
matic young  actress.  .  .  . 


10 


PHOTOPLAY 


Only    RUDYARD   KIPLING    could 
write  such  a  romance.  •• 

Only   RONALD   COLMAN    could 
play  such  a  role! 


I  o  those  who  believe  in  romance,  Paramount  dedicates  this 
glorious  film  re-creation  of  Kipling's  never-to-be-forgotten  story 
of  Dick  Heldar,  artist,  adventurer,  gentleman  unafraid.  For  this 
is  romance,  the  romance  of  far  places,  Abu-Hamed,  Khartoum, 
Port  Said,  London,  and  of  the  men  who  fought  for  glory 
beneath  the  desert  sun . . .  but  more  than  that . . .  the  romance  of 
that  strange  wilderness  which  is  the  heart  of  man. 


I^O""*" 


^ 


d&tf  Mils© 

A  Paramount  Picture  with 

WALTER  HUSTON 

Ida  Lupino  •  Muriel  Angelus  *  Dudley  Digges 

Produced  and   Directed   by  WILLIAM  A.  WELLMAN 

Screen  Play  by  Robert  Carson 

Based  on  the  Novel  by  Rudyard  Kipling 


HE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED". ..  Coming  soon  to  your  favorite  theatre! 


MARCH,      1940 


rfSS^! 


THIS  WOMAN  HAS 


Beginning  the  biography  of  a   girl 


whose  heart  knew  no  rest  and  whose 


fate  was  inevitable — //oner  Massey 


BY  ADELE  WHITELY  FLETCHER 


In  her,  the  lust  for  life  burns  flamelike  and  true 


ET  out  and  live!"  That's  what  the  old 
maestros  in  the  opera  houses  and  the 

theaters  used  to  tell  those  they  were 

grooming  for  fame.  "And  if  your  heart  gets 
broken,  be  glad!  It'll  make  a  better  actress  of 
you!" 

Ilona  Massey  is  like  that.  She's  been  com- 
pletely absorbed  by  living  ever  since  she  was  a 
little  girl  .  .  .  ever  since  she  bound  the  shine  of 
her  hair  under  a  funny  cap  so  she  could  play 
with  boys  on  an  equal  footing  and  know  better 
what  it  would  be  like  to  be  one  of  them  .  .  . 
ever  since  she  fell  in  love  with  a  friend  of  her 
father's — a  man  sixty  years  old,  almost  half  a 
century  her  senior — and  flushed  with  happiness 
every  time  he  patted  her  cheek. 

Ilona's  father  is  a  printer,  a  simple  man  and 
good.  Her  mother's  family  was  wealthy,  with  a 
name  made  proud  by  the  "von"  that  preceded 
it.  And  her  mother,  in  her  youth,  was  a  woman 
known  for  her  beauty  even  in  Budapest,  a  city 
of  beautiful  women. 

Ilona  remembers  little  of  the  war  fought  in 
Europe  when  she  was  a  child.  It  didn't  pene- 
trate very  far  into  her  young  consciousness. 
She  remembers  only  that  her  father  didn't  re- 
turn to  their  little  flat  at  supper  time  as  he  had 
before  .  .  .  that  her  mother  went  off  every 
morning  to  teach  in  the  school  .  .  .  and  that 
when  she  asked  why  her  mother  wept  in  the 
night  she  was  told  it  was  because  her  father  was 
at  some  vague  place  called  "The  Front."  While 
Mrs.  Hajmassey  (Ilona  has  dropped  the  first 
syllable  of  her  name)  taught  school  Ilona's  sis- 
ter, Dodo,  ten  years  older,  took  care  of  her.  This 
had  decided  drawbacks.  Dodo  had  ideas.  She 
was  very  strict  about  Ilona's  manners  and  the 
kind  of  children  she  played  with. 

Important  in  Ilona's  life  soon  after  this  was 
Albogen  Arpad.  The  strain  that  came  down  to 
him  from  ancestors  of  the  Far  East  allowed  him 
to  look  on  the  world  with  eyes  as  romantic  as 


Ilona's.  Albogen  appeared  faithfully  every  after- 
noon. He  and  Ilona  would  go  down  into  the 
courtyard  and  sing  "Tosca,"  Ilona  carrying  a 
towel  to  wave  in  the  dramatic  scenes.  They 
planned  to  marry  when  they  grew  up  and  to 
sing  together  in  the  opera  house. 

DURING  the  dark  period  of  the  Reconstruction 
which  followed  the  war  the  Hajmasseys  were 
very  poor.  Ilona's  father  came  home  injured. 
Because  of  his  injury — which  was  in  his  lungs — 
he  could  not  work  as  long  or  as  hard  as  he  had 
before.  And  before  there  had  been  only  enough 
— no  more.  Sometimes  Ilona's  grandmother,  who 
had  a  little  farm,  managed  to  send  some  manner 
of  food  into  the  city  to  them.  But  most  of  the 
time  their  bread  was  black  and  meat  on  the 
table  was  an  event — something  looked  forward 
to  beforehand  and  talked  about  afterwards. 

One  day  Ilona's  teacher  explained  that  many 
rich  families  in  Holland  had  invited  Hungarian 
children  to  come  there  to  live  for  a  season.  The 
children  who  wished  to  go  and  would  ask  their 
parents'  consent  were  told  to  raise  their  hands. 
Ilona's  hand  rose  swift  as  a  white  bird  startled 
into  flight. 

The  boys  and  girls  who  were  to  have  refuge 
in  Holland  traveled  on  the  same  train.  Tickets 
fastened  to  their  coats  gave  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  the  people  with  whom  they  were  to 
stay.  The  tag  on  Ilona's  coat  read  "Jacob  Boss 
— Ottoland— Holland." 

"I  was  just  twelve,"  she  says,  with  a  trace  of 
accent  and  that  occasional  misplaced  word 
which  colors  her  speech.  "I  was  frightened  and 
I  cried  very  much  but  I  also  found  a  lot  of  fun 
on  that  train  and  they  gave  me  a  banana  which 
I  never  had  seen  before.  .  .  ." 

Jacob  Boss  had  a  big  farm.  His  children  had 
grown  up  and  married,  and  he  and  his  wife  were 
glad  to  have  Ilona  with  them.  Again  and  again 
she  must  count  the  cows  stabled  in  their  barn. 


Sixty  of  them!  Surely  then,  they  were  very 
rich  and  had  so  much  milk  they  would  not  miss 
what  her  seven  cats  drank! 

They  loved  to  watch  her.  She  was  so  adapt- 
able, so  quick.  Readily  she  came  to  speak  their 
language.  She  skirted  their  family  differences 
so  intuitively  that  it  was  hard  to  believe  she 
hadn't  lived  with  them  always  and  had  heard 
the  loud  words  from  which  those  differences 
were  born.  They  found  it  unusual  that  anyone 
as  lively  as  the  little  Hungarian  should  be  so 
conscientious  about  coming  in  the  back  door. 
She  never  forgot  to  remove  her  shoes  so  they 
wouldn't  smudge  the  tile  floors. 

When  the  six  months  which  Ilona  had  been 
invited  to  stay  with  Jacob  Boss  were  up  he 
asked  her  to  remain.  She  was  glad.  She  liked 
living  in  another  land  and  another  house.  All 
her  childhood  had  been  lived  in  the  same  flat, 
a  flat  of  three  little  rooms  and  kitchen  and  bath 
where  she  and  her  sister  slept  in  the  salon. 
Now,  in  Holland,  she  looked  forward  to  skating 
on  the  little  rivers  where  she  had  fished  during 
the  summer.  Besides,  she  was  not  yet  ready  to 
leave  John.  John,  who  was  eighteen,  never  had 
spoken  to  her.  But  every  day  she  waited  at  the 
window  for  him  to  pass.  He  was  a  thin  boy  and 
very  serious,  the  son  of  a  teacher  at  the  school. 

"He  was,"  she  says,  "very  ugly.  But  for  me 
he  was  very  beautiful!" 

She  stayed  in  Holland  long  enough  for  all  the 
seasons  to  repeat  themselves.  By  then  the 
golden  sands  of  romance  had  run  through  the 
glass  and  she  saw  that  John  was  as  all  other 
young  men,  and  that  he  even  was  ugly.  By  then 
also  her  desire  to  see  her  people  had  grown  so 
strong  that  she  could  not  sit  back  properly  in 
her  seat  as  the  train  carried  her  across  the  bor- 
ders of  Holland,  Germany,  and  Czechoslovakia 
and  brought  her  at  last  to  Hungary. 

Jacob  Boss  and  his  wife  wept  when  she  left 
(Continued  on  page  68) 


forgot  my  English  accent. 
"You  butt  out  of  this,"  I 
stormed.  "Mr.  Olivier  has 
been  a   perfect  gentleman" 


Like  the  Boy  Scouts,  our  Jane  was 
prepared  for  anything — except  what 

happened with  Laurence  on  Broadway 


NANCY  &  I  fight  all  the  time  on  acct  of 
our  sharing  the  same  bathroom.  Also  I 
maintain  that  one  cannot  borrow  per- 
fume .  .  .  one  takes  it  or  leaves  it.  But  when 
it  comes  to  an  international  crisis  like  her  first 
grande  passion  all  barriers  are  flung  to  the 
winds  and  I  only  remember  that  we  are  sisters 
under  the  skin  (which  is  where  she  gets). 

It  was  hard  for  me  to  realize  that  little  Nancy 
had  blossomed  into  adolescence.  It  seemed  only 
yesterday  that  she  had  been  running  around 
in  pigtails  and  a  pinafore.  (I  speak  figuratively 
as  her  hair  is  bobbed  and  I'm  not  quite  sure 
what  a  pinafore  is.) 

Nancy  and  I  are  diabolically  opposite  types, 


she  being  simple  and  wholesome  while  I'm 
sophisticated  and  urbane  (from  Lat.,  city).  She 
loves  the  great  Outdoors  which  I  think  is  a 
bore  unless  a  couple  of  interesting  people  are 
scattered  on  it.  I  adore  swing  while  she  goes 
in  for  classical,  like  Friml.  She  is  very  un- 
sympathetic toward  my  life  work  (collecting 
autographs)  and  to  her  all  stars  are  alike  ex- 
cept Johnny  Weissmuller. 

So  it  was  to  be  expected  that  her  Puppy  G.P. 
would  be  a  Boy  Scout.  Donald  is  only  4  ft.  9  in 
his  thickest  socks  and  he  talks  like  a  ventril- 
oquist on  acct  of  his  voice  hasn't  made  up  its 
mind.  His  greatest  asset  is  that  he  can  make 
a  fire  without  matches.  But  chacun  a  son  gout 
as  the  French  say  at  weddings.  Nancy  thinks 
they  will  get  married  and  live  happy  ever  after 
and  I  wouldn't  disillusion  her  for  the  world. 

Things  began  last  spring,  when  I  first  saw 
"Wuthering  Heights."  I  was  just  sitting  look- 
ing at  the  screen  and  not  thinking  of  anything 
in  particular  when  all  of  a  sudden  HE  smiled, 
and  I  realized  my  search  was  over.  I  had  been 
waiting  all  my  life  for  I  didn't  know  what  and 
there  it  was.  So  I  sat  through  the  whole  show 
again  on  acct  of  it  would  have  cost  55c  to  come 
back.  I  made  up  my  mind  then  and  there  that 
I  would  meet  him  in  person  if  it  was  the  last 
thing  I  did  on  this  earth. 

The  first  thing  I  did  when  I  got  home  was  to 
start  a  special  Laurence  Olivier  Scrap  Book, 
because  no  other  star  was  worthy  of  being 
pasted  between  the  same  covers,  not  even  Bette. 


Then  I  got  six  photos  from  United  Artists  and 
sent  them  to  the  Coast  for  his  autograph.  Did 
intensive  research  in  all  newspapers  and  fan 
mags.     Got  information  as  follows: 

He  is  a  true  gourmet  (not  gourmand)  and 
loves  nothing  better  than  to  cook  his  favorite 
recipes  for  a  few  intimate  friends.  (Have  photo 
in  apron.)  He  is  a  connoisseur  of  wine  and 
only  has  to  taste  it  to  know  if  he  likes  it.  He 
has  a  wonderful  sense  of  humor  and  is  always 
kidding  but  can  be  serious  too.  Sometimes  he 
is  the  life  of  the  party  but  at  other  times  is  a 
Lone  Wolf  and  likes  to  take  long  walks  on  the 
Moors  with  his  dog.  He  has  a  talent  for  draw- 
ing and  knows  all  about  art  and  music  and  lit- 
erature. His  hobbies  are  playing  the  violin  and 
painting.  He  is  a  carnivorous  reader,  is  athletic 
and  adores  Nature.  He  is  very  democratic  al- 
ways saying  a  cheery  word  (Cheerio)  to  the 
electricians,  etc.  on  the  lot.  His  passion  is  The 
Drama.  He  thinks  the  Cinema  has  a  great 
Future. 

Certain  events  happened  last  summer  which 
might  have  changed  the  course  of  history,  if 
they  had  had  a  chance,  so  I  want  to  get  them 
down  in  long  hand  from  my  journal  which  I  call 
"My  Day,"  before  I  forget  how  to  read  the  notes. 
I'll  just  transcribe  them  and  put  in  the  style 
later. 

Transcription  of  Notes  from 
My  Day,  of  last  spring. 
As  follows: 


VlADNESS 


BY   LILLIAN   DAY 


HOT  POMME  DE  TER- 
RE. 

HE  is  coming  to  New 
York  IN  PERSON. 
He  is  going  to  act  in  a 
play  called  "No  Time  for 
Comedy."  K.  Cornell  has 
been  awarded  role  oppo- 
site him.  Shall  go  to 
opening  if  I  have  to  mort- 
gage my  album. 

There  has  been  a  slump 
in  my  allowance  ever 
since  mon  pere  (my 
father)  discovered  about 
roses  sent  to  Brian 
Aherne.  Pops  is  mid- 
Victorian  about  who 
should  send  flowers  to 
whom. 

Calling  all  members  of 
Guiding  Stars,  Inc.  to  a 
special  session  tomorrow 
to  discuss  means  and 
ways  of  my  meeting  HIM. 
It  won't  be  easy  as  he's 
down  on  the  official  list 
of  the  Federation  of  Fan 
Clubs  as  a  D.T.L.  (Diffi- 
cult to  Land.) 

Nancy  disapproves  of 
my  going  to  actors'  dress- 
ing rooms.  She  says 
Donald  says:  "How  do  I 
know  they  are  gentle- 
men?" I  told  her  to  tell 
him  if  he  wants  to  get 
into  our  family  he'd  bet- 
ter start  minding  his  business  right  now.  So 
we  had  a  fight. 

Went  out  with  Henry  last  night.  He's  oke 
to  step  with  as  he  is  beginning  to  look  18.  But 
as  far  as  my  emotional  life,  he  is  not  even  a 
faint  heart-beat.  He  said  he  didn't  want  to  see 
"Wuthering  Heights"  again.  I  told  him  it  was 
up  to  the  lady  to  decide  what  picture  to  see. 
When  it  comes  to  certain  things  I'm  quite  mid- 
Victorian.  Donald  took  Nancy  window  shop- 
ping on  acct  of 

A  SCOUT  IS  THRIFTY 

Held  meeting  of  Guiding  Stars,  Inc.  chez- 
moi,  (at  the  house  of  me). 

Pres.   (ye  scribe)  opened  meeting. 

Sec'y  read  minutes. 

Sent  telegrams  as  follows: 

Judy  Garland— Birthday  No.  2 
Errol  Flynn — Speedy  Recovery  No.  1 
Elaine  Barry — Condolence  No.  7 

Pres.  raised  question  of  How  to  meet  HIM. 

Dot  suggested  I  hire  Western  Union  outfit 
and  bring  him  a  telegram;  Muriel  said  I  should 
faint  at  stage  door;  Adele  thought  I  ought  to 
bribe  someone;  Mary  suggested  I  get  cards 
printed,  Representative  of  New  York  Times. 

I  rejected  all  these  routine  methods.  I  don't 
want  to  be  kicked  right  out,  although  even  that 
would  be  a  precious  memory.  Will  simply  have 
to  think  up  something  original.  Might  write  a 
scenario  and  ask  him  to  read  it. 

Meeting  adjourned  to  dining  room. 

Donald  came  to  supper. 

HIS  play  opened  last  night  without  me.  Sent 
him  red  carnations  and  2  telegrams.  Pops  sim- 
ply won't  let  me  out  week  nights  during  exams, 
for  some  reason. 


Cut  Lat.  and  Hist,  this  a.m.  to  read  the  re- 
views which  were  wonderful.  Can't  wait  until 
Sat.  matinee. 

My  little  sister  has  joined  the  Girl  Scouts. 
She  is  now  making  friends  with  the  Trees  and 
the  Brooks  and  the  Little  People  of  the  Woods. 
She  and  her  inamorato  (Lat.,  love)  send  mes- 
sages to  each  other  in  Indian  Sign  language. 

After  he  left  last  night  I  kidded  N.  Said  I'd 
give  her  twin  sleeping  bags  for  a  wedding  pres- 
ent. I  said  it  was  nice  having  interests  in  com- 
mon, like  making  a  tourniquet.  (I  can  be  very 
sarcastic  when  I'm  in  the  mood.) 

"What's  wrong  with  making  a  tourniquet?" 
she  said.  Nancy  has  no  s.  of  h.  "It's  a  lot 
more  use  in  the  world  than  collecting  silly 
autographs." 

"You  leave  my  autographs  out  of  it,"  I  cried 
furiously,  because  that's  one  subject  I'm  sensi- 
tive about. 

So  we  had  a  fight. 

School  dosed. 

Flunked  French. 

Now  I  can  devote  myself  to  my  collections 
and  writing  the  scenario  and  meeting  the  trains. 

Pops  and  I  had  a  conference  about  my  home- 
work interfering  with  my  other  activities.  I 
explained  to  him  that  school  isn't  the  only 
place  to  get  education,  there's  Life  itself.  He 
didn't  say  anything  for  a  long  time.  Guess  I 
started  him  thinking. 

Went  to  Fair  with  Henry  Saturday.  After 
standing  in  line  before  General  Motors  for  2 
hrs.  thought  I  saw  Marlene's  legs  going  by  in 
a  wheel  chair.  So  I  dashed  down  and  it  wasn't 
her  at  all,  so  we  had  to  get  on  the  tail  of  the 


line  again  &  Hy  was  furious.    He's  quite  unrea- 
sonable at  times. 

N's  swain  invited  her  out  for  the  day  yester- 
day. They  went  to  Central  Park  and  he  bought 
a  bag  of  peanuts  for  the  squirrels.  She  took  the 
sandwiches  and  he  got  a  bottle  of  pop  and  2 
straws  on  acct  of 

A  SCOUT  IS  SANITARY 

It's  all  too  buccolic  (from  Greek,  sheepish). 
Then  he  came  to  the  house  for  dinner  on  acct 
of  a  scout  is  always  hungry.  They  conversed 
about  feathered  creatures  and  fur-bearers. 
After  dinner  he  took  her  up  to  the  roof  to  show 
her  Polaris  and  he's  so  dumb  he  probably  did. 

Yesterday  was  THE  DAY,  LE  JOUR,  DER 
TAG,  IL  GIORNO.  (Have  no  Spanish  dic- 
tionary. ) 

I  saw  him  HIMSELF.  It  was  the  thrill  of 
my  life  (so  far).  Wore  my  yellow  dress  and 
brown  hat.  Dot  says  she  never  saw  me  look 
older.  We  were  in  tenth  row  balcony  so  he 
couldn't  see  me.  After  final  curtain  we  rushed 
around  to  the  alley  and  naturally  it  was  jammed. 
Some  of  them  were  Cornell  fans.  We  told  the 
Sour  Puss  at  the  stage  door  that  we  were  The 
Press,  but  he  didn't  believe  us.  We  hung  around 
an  hour  and  then  had  to  go. 

Am  going  again  and  sit  in  the  first  row  or- 
chestra if  I  have  to  break  a  bank  (Nancy's). 

Pasted  program  in  Scrap  Book. 

HOLY  HERRING!  HOT  POMME  DE  TER- 
RE!  JUMPING  BEAN! 

I  have  solved  the  problem.    Luck  is  with  me. 

Read  in  the  paper  that  he  lives  in  Whistler's 

(Continued  on  page  84) 


We  had  a  fight  because  Nancy  disapproves  of  my  going  to  actors'  dressing  rooms 

■RPM 


f&uffiMtJ 


Ijumce 


Nostalgia?  Or  is  it  just  a  hangover  of  a  youth's 
tendency  to  magnify  any  predicament  he  is  in?  Any- 
way, Mr.  C.  refuses  to  tell  what  youthful  mistake 
caused  him  the  most  embarrassment — so,  as  a  for- 
feit on  question  No.  I  I ,  he  does  his  favorite  card  trick 


This  month— with  Ronnie  Colman.  Remember 
we  said  we  would  make  talk  those  hard-to- 
interview  stars.  We've  lived  up  to  our  bar- 
gain in  most  cases.  Now  we're  doing  a  bit 
of  bragging.  At  last,  we've  broken  down  one 
Mr.  Ronald  Colman — in  the  most  humorous, 
most  revealing  article  yet  done  on  him 


1.  (Q)     When  have  you  ever  deliberately  tried 

to  steal  a  scene  in  a  picture? 
(A)     During  scenes  with  animals  and  ba- 
bies.    It's  a  fair  fight,  with  the  odds 
against  you. 

2.  (Q)     How  would  you  classify  yourself  as  an 

actor? 

(A)     Lucky. 

3.  (Q)     What  is  your  honest  opinion  of  Holly- 

wood women? 

(A)  Most  beautiful  in  the  world  .  .  .  but 
usually  overtired  and  nervous,  (if  you 
mean  the  popular  players).  They're 
more  natural  though  than  stage 
players. 

4.  (Q)     Who  is  the  most  beautiful  girl  you  have 

ever  seen? 

(A)  The  girl  who  used  to  live  across  the 
street — but  that  was  before  your  time. 

5.  (Q)     Who  makes  the  decisions  in  your  family, 

you  or  Benita? 

(A)     Nice  weather  we've  been  having  lately. 

6.  (Q)     Would  you  object  to  your  wife's  hav- 

ing a  career  of  her  own? 
(A)     Not  if  there  were  sufficient  reasons  for 
it — a  definite  urge,  a  grand  opportu- 
nity, or  real  necessity. 

7.  (Q)     If  you  were  forced  to  seek  some  other 

vocation,  what  would  be  your  choice? 
(A)      Writing. 

8.  (Q)     Do  you  believe  the  public  has  any  claim 

on  the  private  life  of  a  star? 

(A)     What  private  life? 

9.  (Q)     What     characteristic,     not     generally 


"What  memento  from  your  past  means  most  to  you, 
and  why?"  we  asked  as  question  No.  44 — but  Mr.  Col- 
man (do  you  suppose  he  was  being  a  sentimentalist) 
decided  it  was  none  of  our  business — but  we  give  you 
a  most  informal  snapshot  of  a  very  formal  gentleman 


Refusal  on  question  No.  18  is  a  true 
indictment  of  Rondld  Colman's  char- 
actor — we  are  rewarded  with  this 
picture  of  Benita  Hume,  which  he 
took,    developed    and    printed    himself 


16 


Always  the  diplomat — we 
knew  that,  but  we  asked 
question  No.  32  anyway. 
As  a  penalty,  a  picture 
of   Ronnie   in   stage   days 


Game  Conductor:   KATHARINE  HARTLEY 


J 


Tut,  tut,  Mr.  Colman.  We  didn't 
know  that  this  poised  gentleman 
ever  lost  his  temper  (unless  it  was 
with  too  inquisitive  interviewers). 
But  we  couldn't  let  him  get  away 
with  a  refusal  on  question  No.  48. 
So  we  demanded  (and  got,  what's 
more)  a  picture  of  him  all  dressed- 
up,  riding  in  his  best  bicycle  form 


known,  gives  a  cue  to  your  private  per- 
sonality? 
(A)     I'm  afield  I  chase  fire  engines. 

10.  (Q)     What  is  your  description  of  "umph"? 
(A)     Something  not  to  write  home  about. 

11.  (<?}     What  youthful  mistake,  when  recalled, 

causes  you  the  most  embarrassment? 
(A)     Too   embarrassing  to  repeat  even  at 
this  late  date.   (Mr.  Colman  took  the 
consequences. — Do  your  favorite  card 
trick.) 

12.  (Q)     What  do  you  do  when  autograph  fiends 

spot  you? 
(A)     If   caught,    I    sign — but    keep    on   the 
move. 

13.  (Q)     What  kind  of  a  child  were  you? 
(A)     Very  irritating. 

14.  (Q)     What  bores  you  most  about  your  daily 

work? 

(A)     Stills;  portraits;  and  answering  ques- 
tionnaires. 

15.  (Q)     In  keeping  with  your  position,  how  many 

suits  of  clothes  must  you  have,  for  a 
complete  wardrobe? 
(A)  Besides  evening  clothes,  my  "position" 
necessitates  only  a  couple  of  suits;  but 
my  professional  wardrobe  is  consid- 
erable— and  provides  the  moths  with 
no  end  of  fun. 

16.  (Q)     As  a  top  star  of  both  eras,  would  you 

say    that   today's    pictures    are    better 
than  those  of  the  silent  days? 
(A)     On  the  whole,  yes — a  few  of  the  old 
ones,     however,     have     never     been 
beaten. 

17.  (Q)     What  is  your  opinion  of  ladies'  hats? 
(A)     They'll  never  replace  the' old  horse  and 

buggy. 

18.  (Q)     In   what   type   of  investments   are   you 

most  interested? 
(A)  Refuse  to  answer  on  the  ground  that  I 
might  be  passing  on  my  mistakes  to 
others.  (Take  a  photograph  of  Benita 
Hume.  Develop  and  print  it  your- 
self.) 

19.  (Q)     Do  you  enjoy  attending   previews  and 


(A)     No. 


premieres  i 


(Continued  on  page  79) 


"Consequences,  please"  is  what 
Ronald  literally  begged  for  on 
question  No.  51.  But,  we're  the 
lucky  ones — with  this  torrid  love 
scene  from  an  old  picture  with  the 
lovely  Vilma  Banky.  His  latest 
film    is    "The    Light    That    Failed" 


K 


A 


W  h 


v 


•>\y 


~     £ 


He's  forty-seven,  famous  and 
twice  wed.  She's  twenty-one, 
her  career  only  started.  Yet 
that  first  glimpse  of  Diana 
on  the  edge  of  his  swimming 
pool  helped  bring  Bill  out  of 
the   shadows   into   the   sunlight 


THE 

THIRD   Mrs. 

William  Powell 

Elopement  with  Diana  Lewis  was  the  last 
thing  Hollywood  expected,  but  then  very 
few  knew  the   romantic    truth   behind  it! 

BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


IT  was,  of  course,  sheer  fate  that  sent  young, 
beautiful,  tiny  Diana  Lewis  to  William 
Powell's  swimming  pool  to  make  publicity 
pictures.  She  might  just  as  well  have  been 
taken  to  any  one  of  a  dozen  other  Metro  star's 
pools,  and  Bill  might  just  as  well  not  have  been 
at  home.  In  fact,  the  studio  thought  that  he  was 
away.  But  he  wasn't.  And  thus  it  happened 
that  one  late  winter  afternoon  he  looked  out  into 
his  garden  and  saw  the  vivid,  unsophisticated 
girl  standing  there,  laughing  in  the  sun. 

Less  than  a  month  later,  he  was  married  to 
the  girl,  by  way  of  a  surprise  elopement  to  Las 
Vegas,  Nevada,  and  a  quick  wedding  performed 
by  a  justice  of  the  peace  before  a  hastily  im- 
provised altar  under  a  spreading  desert  tree. 

The  announcement  that  twenty-one-year-old 
Diana  Lewis  was  the  third  Mrs.  William  Powell 
knocked  Hollywood  silly.     The   "wise  crowd" 


was  offended  because  it  had  all  been  on  the 
wrong  Powell  trail.  You  could,  until  January 
5th,  take  your  choice  of  Powell  romantic  rumors. 
There  was  (1)  Bill's  supposed  rekindling  of  the 
flirtation  he  had  started,  several  years  ago,  with 
Ginger  Rogers;  (2)  his  supposed  current  infatu- 
ation with  Loretta  Young;  (3)  his  inability  ever 
to  fall  in  love  again  because  of  his  memory  of 
Jean  Harlow. 

Hollywood,  hating  nothing  quite  so  much  as 
being  caught  with  its  rumors  down,  wailed  sev- 
eral assorted  moans  to  high  heaven;  (1)  that 
Bill,  with  an  added  twenty-six  years,  was  im- 
possibly older  than  his  newest  bride;  (2)  that 
he  simply  couldn't  have  fallen  in  love  so  fast; 
(3)  that  he  really  should  have  chosen  a  woman 
more  "suitable"  to  him. 

But  Bill's  friends  (and  they  are  an  army 
strong)  saw  this  wedding  as  one  of  those  tender 


miracles  that  make  life  marvelous  for  those  who 
possess  both  courage  and  imagination. 

For  if  Bill  didn't  possess  both  courage  and 
imagination,  he  wouldn't  be  alive  right  now. 
Being  alive  right  now — well,  that's  the  story. 

When  you  say  that  anyone  "nearly  died,"  it 
seems  very  simple,  unless  you  were  the  person 
who  nearly  did  it.  "Nearly  died,"  you  say,  and 
dismiss  the  thought,  because  after  all  you  do 
see  the  person's  body  recovering.  There's  no 
visible  gauge  as  to  the  effect  on  the  mind. 
There  is  little  outward  sign  of  the  fever  for  life 
that  swiftly  rules  the  convalescent.  But  it's 
there,  make  no  mistake.  It  is  so  keenly  there 
that  the  simplest  things  in  existence  take  on  a 
new  beauty. 

The  sick  realize,  more  certainly  than  the  well 

ever  do,  what  an  exciting,  laughing,  exquisite 

(Continued  on  page  75) 


I      N      G 


OLLYWOOD'S 
RED 
MENACE 


l  '^n 


They  harrowed  him  with  tales  of  misery  .  .  .   bled  him  of  a  percentage  of  his  weekly  pay  check 


A  CHASTENED  Hollywood  today  is  re- 
covering from  a  nightmare  which  pro- 
vided the  most  bitter  disillusionment  in 
its  history. 

For  nearly  three  years  numbers  of  its  inhab- 
itants have  been  systematically  plundered. 
Blackmailed.  Made  the  cats-paw  and  the  tool  of 
Communists  in  a  conspiracy  so  callous  that  its 
full  ramifications  may  never  be  entirely  re- 
vealed. 

Police  and  other  investigators,  some  of  them 
volunteers  attached  to  patriotic  organizations, 
have  been  canvassing  the  situation  for  some 
time.  The  trail  of  the  Communists  was  an  in- 
credibly devious  one.  It  led  from  studio  to 
studio,  into  the  very  homes  of  the  stars,  into 
their  political  meetings,  their  luncheon  parties, 
wherever  a  Communist  could  gain  a  foothold 
and  wherever  there  was  a  film  notable  sympa- 
thetic enough  to  listen. 

The  investigation  wasn't  just  a  political  ges- 
ture. The  investigators  weren't  out  to  sling 
mud,  create  a  sensational  story,  or  persecute  de- 
cent, hard-working  artists  whose  only  crime  was 


their  desire  to  help  America  and  give  their  time 
and  money  to  relieve  the  suffering  of  their  fel- 
low humans. 

There  was,  for  instance,  the  group  of  fifteen 
outstanding  male  stars  who  gathered  in  the 
home  of  one  of  their  number  about  two  yeai-s 
ago  to  hear  a  talk  by  Ernest  Hemingway.  The 
celebrated  author,  fresh  from  a  stay  in  war- 
ripped  Spain,  implored  financial  aid  for  the 
Spanish  wounded.  Most  of  the  stars  who  heard 
his  quiet,  dramatic  recital  of  war  horrors  could 
barely  wait  until  he  had  finished  before  they 
had  whipped  out  checkbooks  and  begun  writing 
heavy  donations.  The  money  was  to  buy  am- 
bulances. They  didn't  care  which  side's 
wounded  the  ambulances  carried.  They  wanted 
to  buy  ambulances.  A  wounded  man  to  the 
sympathetic  group  was  a  wounded  man,  no  mat- 
ter what  his  political  sympathies  might  have 
been  before  he  was  maimed.  In  that  spirit  they 
sent  Hemingway  away  with  fifteen  thousand 
dollars.  Questionless,  Hemingway  turned  the 
money  over  to  some  group  which  handled  do- 
nations of  that  sort.    I  wonder  how  much  of  it 


With  hearts  and  checkbooks  the 
stars  responded  to  the  call  of 
humanity — but  an  insidious  plot 
lay   hidden    behind   the    campaign! 

BY  MORTON  THOMPSON 

ILLUSTRATED         BY        C.        C.        BEALL 


ever  found  its  way  to  Spain  in  the  way  of  am- 
bulances? The  State  Department  said  recently 
that  little  more  than  ten  per  cent  of  American 
donations  to  Loyalist  Spain  ever  reached  the 
people  for  whom  they  were  intended. 

THAT'S  one  side  of  the  picture.  Here's  an- 
other side.  This  is  the  case  history  of  a  well- 
known  Hollywood  actor  who  contributed  money 
in  a  drastically  different  manner.  Late  in  1937 
he  was  approached  by  three  men.  Two  were 
fellow  actors.  One  was  a  bit  player  with  known 
Red  sympathies. 

"We  want  to  talk  to  you,"  they  said.  "We 
want  you  to  join  us." 

He  laughed.  He  said  he  was  too  old  to  go 
around  waving  a  Red  flag,  and  he  thought  the 
whole  Red  business  then  intriguing  Hollywood 
was  just  a  fad,  like  badminton  or  pogo  sticks. 
He  said  he  hadn't  much  use  for  parlor  pinks. 

They  started  in  to  work  on  him.  They  showed 
him  documents  proving  that  American  unem- 
ployment was  becoming  serious.  They  har- 
rowed him  with  tales  of  misery,  of  oppression, 
did  their  best  to  rock  the  boat  of  his  patriotic 
convictions.  They  pictured  to  him  his  country 
in  the  grip  of  munitions  makers  and  war  profi- 
teers. They  "proved"  to  him  that  the  menace 
of  Fascism  was  very  real,  that  his  country  was 
being  threatened  more  gravely  each  succeeding 
day  by  Europe's  Hitler  and  Mussolini,  that  his 
duty  as  an  American  citizen  was  to  join  the 
growing  movement  combating  these  menaces 
by  affiliating  himself  with  any  of  a  number  of 
pro-Communist  organizations. 

He  was  shaken — weren't  the  two  fellow  actors 
his  friends? — but  still  unconvinced.  They  be- 
gan to  talk  union  to  him.  and  open-nundedness, 
and  how  labor  was  settling  its  problems,  and 
(Continued  on  page  78) 


HERE  they  come,  those  familiar  faces  of 
the  screen,  those  steadfast  people  who 
are  slowly  rising  to  new  heights  and  new 
places.  We've  watched  them  rise  from  tiniest 
bits  to  meatier  roles  and  on  and  on  up  the  road 
to  fame.  And  because  we've  appreciated  them 
and  become  interested  in  them,  as  we  know  you 
have,  we  give  you  their  stories. 


You've  read  and  re-read  of  those  glamorous 
couples  of  Hollywood,  of  their  homes  and  lives 
and  doings.  But  did  you  ever  stop  to  wonder 
about  those  young  couples  in  Hollywood  who 
plan  and  work  and  struggle  just  like  you  and 
your  Joe?  No?  I  thought  not.  That's  why  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  Bill  Henry.  Now  Bill 
isn't  a  star  or  a  glamour  boy  or  a  night-club 
devotee.  Bill's  a  hard-working,  sincere  young 
fellow  who  could  work  in  a  garage  or  an  office 
and  be  the  same  Bill  Henry. 

He's  been  married  to  Grace  Durkin  for  three 
years,  and  the  way  Bill  speaks  of  that  marriage 


Few  scenarios  are  as  exciting  as  the  life 
of  John  Carroll,  hero  of  "Congo  Maisie" 


Dennis  Morgan  was  a  casting  office 
castaway.  Now  he's  in  demand — for 
"The  Fighting  69th,"  among  others 

"The  Light  That  Failed"  DIDN'T 
for  Ida  Lupino — she  gets  a  chance 
to   prove   her  theatrical   heritage! 

Home  town  boy  who's  making  good 
— Bill  Henry,  for  whom  "Gero- 
nimo!"  is  only  his  current  success 


OF    FAMILIAR   FACES 


The  "breaks"  in  Hollywood  come  in 
two  styles — good  and  bad.  The  best 
of  troupers  get  plenty  of  the  sec- 
ond style  before  getting  the  first! 


would  bring  a  lump  to  your  throat.  Grace  and 
Bill  buy  presents  twice  every  month,  on  their 
engagement  and  wedding  anniversary,  for  each 
other,  and  have  for  three  years.  They  prepare 
their  own  meals,  have  their  own  group  of 
friends  in  their  own  circumstances  of  life  (no 
living  above  one's  means),  and  they're  going  to 
have  a  baby  any  minute  now. 

When  Grace  first  told  Bill  about  the  baby  the 
first  thing  he  did  was  telephone  his  foster 
brother  in  Honolulu,  Duke  Kahanamoku,  the 
champion  Hawaiian  swimmer.  "If  it's  a  boy 
we're  naming  it  after  you,  Duke,"  he  shouted. 

The  way  Duke  came  into  the  Henry  family  is 
interesting.     Bill's  father,  who  was  president  of 


the  Amateur  Athletic  Union,  sponsored  Duke's 
first  appearance  on  the  mainland  and  as  a  pro- 
tective measure  for  the  young  Hawaiian,  Mr. 
Henry  took  out  adoption  papers.  Later,  when 
Duke's  mother  died,  the  papers  were  legally 
signed.  It  was  a  good  move  for  Bill.  The  swim- 
mer spent  hours  with  the  lad,  teaching  him  to 
swim  and  surfboard  from  the  beach  at  Waikiki. 
In  fact,  Bill  spent  six  years  of  his  young  life  on 
the  islands,  and  attended  several  schools  there. 

He  just  kind  of  gradually  woiked  into  the  act- 
ing business.  It  seems  logical  he  should,  for 
Bill  was  born  right  here  in  Los  Angeles.  When 
Duke  went  into  a  picture,  "Lord  Jim,"  in  1925, 
Bill  went  in,  too,  in  a  small  role.  All  through 
his  Los  Angeles  and  Hollywood  High  School 
days  he  played  with  the  Burnham  Players,  a 
group  of  amateurs  that  gave  plays  at  clubs  and 
social  gatherings.  He  met  Grace  when  several 
of  the  young  Hollywoodites  were  giving  a  play 
at  the  Pasadena  Community  Theater. 

Bill's  the  best  cook  in  all  their  crowd,  wives 
included.  His  roast  leg  of  lamb  is  a  regular 
Saturday  night  treat  when  his  wife's  sister,  Ger- 
trude Durkin,  and  her  husband,  actor  James 
Ellison,  come  over  for  dinner. 

After  dinner  the  four  of  them  play  penny  ante 
like  fury  or  talk  about  their  babies  to  come. 
The  Ellisons  are  having  one,  too.  Sometimes 
Bill  and  Grace  go  to  movies.  The  ones  she 
wants  to  see.     Their  new  house  is  being  fur- 


nished piece  by  piece  as  they  have  the  money 
and  see  something  they  want. 

Together  they  talk  over  Bill's  hopes  and  fail- 
ures. He  didn't  go  so  far  over  at  20th  Century- 
Fox  or  at  M-G-M  where  he  was  under  contract. 
But  with  this  new  Paramount  contract  and  such 
pictures  as,  "I'm  from  Missouri,"  and  "Geron- 
imo!"  behind  him,  and  "The  Way  of  All  Flesh," 
in  the  making,  he's  all  set  now. 

"Anyway,"  Bill  says,  "Grace  and  I  realize 
there  will  be  big  things,  big  troubles  to  think 
about  in  our  life  together,  so  we  don't  let  the 
little  ones  seem  too  big." 

He's  shy,  painfully  shy.  In  a  land  of  brassy 
forwardness,  it's  hardly  believable.  But  as  Bill 
says,  if  Grace  likes  him  that  way,  and  she  does, 
it's  all  he  cares  about.  And  young  as  he  is.  for 
he's  still  in  his  twenties,  he's  realized  one  of  his 
greatest  ambitions — it  was  to  have  a  wife  like 
Grace.— S.H. 

He's  a  Bad  Boyl 

To  begin  with,  his  name  isn't  Carroll.  It's 
Julian  Lafaye  (pronounced  Lafah),  and  he  was 
born  of  French  descent  down  in  New  Orleans. 
To  sum  it  all  up.  he's  mad  as  a  hatter,  has  had 
more  hell  and  adventure  packed  into  his  twen- 
ty-seven years  than  any  ten  screen  heroes 
added  up  together,  and  what  John  hasn't  done 
(Continued  on  page  87) 


MY   FRIEND 


FRED! 


BY    GEORGE    (MURPH)    MURPHY— AS   TOLD   TO   JERRY   ASHER 


It  isn't  easy  to  get  a  perspective 
on  Astaire  but  this  old  friend  got 
one  (along  with  a  kick  in  the  pants) 


ONE   morning    not   so    long    ago,    I    was 
called    to    the    M-G-M    front    office. 
Knowing  how  unpredictable  this  busi- 
ness is,  I  automatically  expected  the  worst. 

"Well,  George,"  said  the  executive  who  sent 
for  me,  "something  happened  this  morning  that 
is  pretty  rare  in  Hollywood.  We've  been  tryin 
to  sign  Fred  Astaire  for  the  new  'Broadway 
Melody  of  1940.'  We  finally  received  his  an- 
swer. He  will  do  the  picture  if  we  promise  that 
it  won't  in  any  way  hurt  your  position  on  this 
lot.    I  thought  you'd  like  to  know  this.     Also, 


that  you  are  going  to  be  teamed  in  the  picture 
with  Fred." 

That  night  I  had  a  phone  call  from  Fred.  He 
didn't  know  the  studio  had  already  broken  the 
wonderful  news  and  he  put  it  to  me  this  way: 

"Murph — guess  what?  After  all  these  years, 
we're  going  to  work  together.  I'm  going  to 
make  a  picture  with  you!" 

My  friendship  with  Fred  started  back  in  1928. 
We  met  backstage  when  Fred  and  Adele  were 
appearing  in  "Funny  Face."  Julie  (my  wife) 
and  I  were  just  starting  out  as  a  dance  team. 
The  Astaires  came  to  see  us  at  the  Central  Park 
Casino.  When  they  took  "Funny  Face"  to  Lon- 
don, we  went  over  and  danced  in  "Good  News." 

It  was  at  the  Grosvenor  House,  where  we 
lived,  that  I  first  became  conscious  of  the  vital 
force  that  is  a  relentless  part  of  Fred's  nature. 

Everyone  in  show  business  admires  Fred  As- 
taire; the  number  of  people  who  really  know 
him  is  limited.  Instinctively,  he  is  a  shy  person. 
Starting  'way  back  as  an  adolescent  vaudevil- 


lian,  he  was  driven  by  an  all-consuming  desire 
to  improve  himself — to  be  the  best.  He  has 
never  had  the  time  to  devote  himself  to  whole- 
sale camaraderie,  to  get  beyond  a  nice,  casual 
acquaintance  with  the  majority  of  those  who 
come  in  contact  with  him. 

That's  why  I  consider  it  a  privilege  to  tell  this 
story — to  be  able  to  share  with  you  my  friend- 
ship with  Fred  Astaire.  I  like  him.  He  likes 
me.     We  both  know  it.     It's  as  simple  as  that. 

Don't  get  the  impression  that  Fred  takes  it  all 
too  seriously!  He  is  a  great  worrier,  but  he  has 
a  topnotch  sense  of  humor.  Let  me  tell  you 
about  a  different  and,  if  possible,  better  Fred 
Astaire.  In  his  pictures,  Fred  is  always  the 
nice  young  man — quiet,  well-mannered,  modest 
— which  he  is  in  real  life.  Out  of  this  same 
mold  comes  another  Astaire — a  happy,  relaxed 
clown.  You  have  to  know  him  well  to  get  this 
side  of  him.  Sometimes  it  comes  out  during  a 
dance  rehearsal.  Fred  breaks  into  a  machine 
gun  rhythm.  "This  is  the  way  Cagney  would 
do  it,"  he  volunteers.  Then  he  changes  into 
slithering  snakehips  movements.  "Now  I'm 
George  Raft,"  he  says. 

(Continued  on  page  86) 


22 


Even  eighteen  "takes"  of  this 
too-realistic  (to  Murph!)  scene 
in  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940" 
couldn't  break  up  a  friendship 
that  has  lasted  a  dozen  years! 


PRESENTING   PHOTOPLAY'S 

COMPLETE     IN     THIS     ISSUE 


By  LOUIS  BROMFIELD 


Maggie  (Una  O'Connor)  was  dubious 
about  the  future  of  her  daughter 
Ann  Sheridan),  but  Tommy's  mother 
Jessie  Busley),  an  incurable  roman- 
tic, had  woven  a  story  that  would 
make    everything    come    out    all    right 


IT  DLL  CnillE  TRtff 

Br  LOUIS  BR0MFIE10 


CHAPTER  I 

BECAUSE  they  rarely  had  boarders  who  had 
to  be   in  an  office  at  eight-thirty  or  nine 
o'clock,  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie  did  not 
rise    until   nearly   eight.     Then   by   eight- 
thirty  or  a  quarter  to  nine  the  boarders  be- 
gan to  appear  in  the  dining  room — old  Mr. 
Van  Diver,  Miss  Flint,  Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon 
who   were   always  with   them,   and   occasionally   a 
transient  or  two. 

The  four  star  boarders — Miss  Flint,  Mr.  Van 
Diver,  Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon  had  been  there 
for  so  long  that  their  lives  seemed  to  have  become 
entangled,  grown  together,  and  beyond  separation. 
Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie  were  both  affectionate, 
easygoing  and  creatures  of  habit,  all  of  which  was 
a  handicap  in  keepers  of  boardinghouses.  The 
transients  nearly  always  seemed  to  them  violent 
creatures  blown  in  by  the  wind  from  the  strange 
hard  outside  world  to  be  blown  out  again  after 
a  week  or  two,  always  mysterious  and  remote 
and  cantankerous,  never  fitting  the  leisurely  old- 
fashioned  tempo  of  the  establishment.  None  of  that 
inner  circle  of  boarders  at  Mrs.  Lefferty's  ever 
seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  like  the  people  one  met 
outside  the  house,  rushing  for  the  bus  or  the  sub- 
way or  the  elevated,  dashing  about  in  taxis  and  mo- 
tors. In  the  middle  of  Manhattan  Island  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty's boardinghouse  was  an  island  where  time 
seemed  to  have  stood  still.  Mrs.  Lefferty  would 
never  have  taken  transients  save  that  the  income 
from  them  gave  her  and  Maggie  a  tiny  margin  that 
permitted  them  to  keep  the  place  going  for  Miss 
Flint,  Mr.  Boldini  and  the  rest. 

Together  they  got  ready  the  evening  meal  and 
after  supper  Mrs.  Lefferty  left  Miss  Flint  to  serve 
the  coffee  in  the  parlor  while  she  descended  to  the 
kitchen  to  have  her  own  coffee  off  a  shelf  while  she 
helped  Maggie  with  the  dishes.    This  she  did  in  or- 


Take  a  beautiful,  hot-tempered  girl,  a 
sensitive  young  composer  and  a  hard- 
boiled  gangster;  turn  them  loose  in  a 
boardinghouse  full  of  living  antiques. 
The  hilarious  result  is  just  what  you 
would  expect,  coming  from  the  facile 
pen  of  an  author  whose  every  book  is 
a  delight.  Photoplay  is  happy  to 
bring    you    his    most   charming   story 

der  to  gain  time  so  that  she  might  get  upstairs  to 
the  rummy  game  a  little  earlier.  When  the  dishes 
were  finished  she  put  out  the  cat  and  Maggie  turned 
out  the  lights  and  they  went  upstairs  to  find  Miss 
Flint,  Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon  already  gathered 
impatiently  about  the  card  table  with  old  Mr.  Van 
Diver  dozing  or  reading  a  movie  magazine  in  poor 
Miss  Minnie's  plush  armchair  by  the  fire. 

There  were  no  stakes  in  the  rummy  game  because 
none  of  them  could  afford  to  play  for  money,  but 
they  kept  a  running  score  of  the  games,  month  after 
month,  year  after  year  and  played  with  passion. 
Mrs.  Lefferty,  who  was  full  of  tricks  and  played 
every  night,  had  eighteen  hundred  and  thirty-four 
games,  Miss  Flint,  who  was  less  successful  because 
there  were  times  when  she  seemed  foggy,  had  four- 
teen hundred  and  three.  Mr.  Boldini,  who  was 
handicapped  by  having  to  be  absent  when  he  had 
a  professional  engagement,  had  twelve  hundred  and 
forty -five,  and  Mr.  Salmon,  who  was  frequently 
called  away  by  his  muse,  had  eleven  hundred  and 
sixty-three.  Because  Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon 
were  unable  to  play  every  night,  they  were  each 
allowed  the  value  of  one  and  a  half  games  for 
every  game  they  won.  As  Mr.  Salmon  grew  older, 
his  muse  called  him  less  frequently  and  he  had  been 
able  to  catch  up  a  little  on  the  general  score. 


About  midnight  Mrs.  Lefferty  brought  up  a  cold 
snack  and  then  they  all  went  to  bed. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  was  an  incurable  romantic.  Her 
imaginings  had  very  little  to  do  with  what  was 
known  as  "Life";  there  was,  even  in  the  blackest 
moments  of  her  "stories,"  no  evil  or  bitterness  but 
only  the  rather  mechanical  plottings  of  the  "vil- 
lain"; there  was  never  any  misery,  nor  any  irony 
nor  any  real  malice. 

That  was  the  way  she  felt  about  people  in  real 
life — they  were  never  really  bad.  She  was  certain 
that  some  day  luck  would  turn  for  Miss  Flint  and 
that  once  again  Mr.  Boldini  would  be  "the  sensation 
of  three  continents,"  that  Mr.  Salmon  would  be  a 
famous  writer,  and  that  Maggie's  daughter  Sarah 
Jane  would  settle  down  and  "get  a  break"  and  cease 
to  be  a  burden  and  a  worry.  Mr.  Van  Diver  was 
much  too  old  to  have  any  ending  but  the  inevitable 
one,  and  Mrs.  Lefferty,  taking  care  of  him,  was 
planning  as  happy  an  ending  as  possible. 

Only  in  the  case  of  her  son  Tommy  did  she  ever 
have  any  doubts,  and  those  only  came  to  her  at 
times  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when  she  lay  awake, 
unable  to  sleep. 

To  ease  her  heartache  she  told  herself  that  it  was 
really  not  Tom's  fault  that  he  had  neglected  and 
forgotten  her,  but  because  poor  Miss  Minnie  had 
paid  for  his  music  lessons  and  sent  him  to  college. 

And  it  was  American  ideas  and  those  dancing  les- 
sons that  poor  Miss  Minnie  had  given  Sarah  Jane 
that  had  sent  her  off  into  the  chorus  with  ideas 
about  becoming  a  famous  actress,  instead  of  being 
content  with  being  a  good  typist  and  coming  home 
regularly  with  her  money.  Sarah  Jane  was  always 
coming  and  going,  returning  to  live  with  her  mother 
and  Mrs.  Lefferty  when  she  was  out  of  a  job  and 
dead  broke. 

MlSS  MINNIE  had  been  dead  for  ten  years,  but 
she  still  lived  so  far  as  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie 
were  concerned.  They  had  both  gone  to  the  funeral 
in  Long  Island,  wrapped  in  yards  of  hired  crepe, 
and  seen  her  with  their  own  eyes,  laid  away  in  the 
earth  of  the  old  cemetery.  And  when  Maggie  and 
Mrs.  Lefferty  came  back  to  the  empty  house  they 
wept  and  keened  not  only  because  poor  Miss  Minnie 
was  gone  but  because,  without  her,  the  world  itself 
seemed  to  have  come  to  an  end. 

Poor  Miss  Minnie  had  been  their  mistress,  their 
charge,  the  figure  about  which  their  whole  world 
revolved  since  they  had  come  from  Ireland  long  ago. 

Not  only  had  they  lost  poor  Miss  Minnie  but  there 
would  no  longer  be  a  house  with  fine  walnut  furni- 
ture and  the  remnants  of  beautiful  china,  and  a 
beautiful  linen  closet,  but  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie 
would  have  to  find  new  places  and  perhaps  be  sepa- 
rated and  Sarah  Jane  and  Tom  could  no  longer  live 
at  home. 

And  then  the  day  after  the  funeral  Miss  Minnie's 
lawyer,  old  Mr.  Prendergast,  came  to  the  house  and 
called  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie  into  the  long  tunnel 
of  a  drawing  room  and  told  them  that  Miss  Minerva 
had  left  the  house  to  the  two  of  them  with  every- 
thing in  it  and  all  the  money  she  had  left  from  the 
great  fortune  founded  by  her  grandfather  which,  if 
everything  went  well,  would  be  about  enough  to 
pay  the  taxes  and  insurance.  Mr.  Prendergast  ad- 
vised them  to  sell  the  house  and  its  contents  and 
invest  the  money,  but  neither  Mrs.  Lefferty  nor 
Maggie  would  bring  herself  to  do  such  a  thing.  Sell 
all  that  furniture  they  had  always  lived  with?  It 
would  be  like  being  evicted.  Anyway  neither  of 
them  wanted  to  retire. 

Ten  years  afterward  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie 
still  spoke  of  Miss  Minerva  as  if  she  were  still  alive, 
calling  her  "poor  Miss  Minnie." 

When  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  were  left  the 
house,  there  seemed  only  one  thing  to  do  in  order 
to  keep  it  going  and  that  was  to  open  a  boarding- 
house. It  was  all  there,  ready  and  waiting,  furni- 
ture and  all,  in  a  good  location,  save  that  it  was  a 
little  too  near  the  elevated.  And  they  knew,  be- 
cause they  had  known  poor  Miss  Minnie  for  so  long, 
that  the  plan  would  have  pleased  her.  They  talked 
it  all  out  in  terms  of  what  poor  Miss  Minnie  would 
have  thought  and  said  and  done.    It  was  Maggie's 


24 


opinion  that  poor  Miss  Minnie  had  left  them  the 
house,  hoping  that  they  would  go  on  living  there. 

So  Mrs.  Lefferty,  because  of  her  appearance  and 
because  she  had  been  a  housemaid  all  her  life,  was 
obviously  the  choice  as  nominal  proprietress.  She 
was  plump  and  pleasant  with  humorous  eyes  and  a 
kindly  manner. 

Sometimes,  as  in  the  case  of  Miss  Flint,  the  seam- 
stress, and  the  Great  Boldini,  weeks  passed  without 
any  payment  being  made,  but  Mrs.  Lefferty  and 
Maggie  knew  that  when  they  had  money  they  would 
pay,  and  besides  they  were  almost  members  of  the 
family.  Old  Mr.  Van  Diver  had  only  thirty  dollars 
a  month  when  he  first  came  to  them  and  when 
stocks  began  to  go  bad,  this  was  cut  to  twenty  dol- 
lars. He  paid  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  everything 
he  received,  simply  turning  over  to  them  the  en- 
dorsed checks.  The  sum  he  paid  them  scarcely 
covered  the  cost  of  his  food,  but  they  could  not  turn 
him  out.  For  forty  years  he  had  been  devoted  to 
poor  Miss  Minnie.  For  thirty  years  he  had  called 
three  times  a  week  and  come  to  supper  every  Sun- 
day evening.  For  thirty  years  he  and  poor  Miss 
Minnie  had  waited  for  "the  old  gentleman"  to  die 
or  give  his  permission  for  them  to  marry,  and  when 
at  last  he  died  it  was  too  late  and  the  habit  of  court- 
ship had  become  fixed  and  agreeable.  Not  only 
were  they  too  old,  they  were  too  poor  to  marry. 
And  so  one  day,  about  five  years  after  Miss  Minnie 
died,  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  came  to  the  door  and  asked 
Mrs.  Lefferty  to  take  him  as  a  lodger. 

So  they  took  in  Mr.  Van  Diver  and  his  few  be- 
longings— some  books,  a  few  worn  suits  of  clothes, 
a  gold  headed  stick  and  a  photograph  of  Miss  Minnie 
taken  during  her  twenties  in  which  she  wore  a  dress 
with  a  bustle  in  a  gentle  storm  of  artificial  snow. 
From  the  beginning  the  old  gentleman  was  happy. 
He  never  went  out  save  after  nightfall,  because  his 
clothes  were  shabby  and  he  lived  in  gentle  terror 
of  a  world  which  moved  too  rapidly  and  too  noisily 
for  him.  He  was  very  gentle  and  retiring  and,  as 
Mrs.  Lefferty  said,  "He  gave  class  to  the  house." 

AND  so  slowly  they  had  come  to  be  a  shelter  and 
a  refuge  for  those  who  in  the  march  of  time  had 
lagged  behind. 

That  was  why  Miss  Flint  had  come  to  them  and 
why,  after  nine  years,  was  still  with  them.  All  her 
life  she  had  been  a  "sewing  woman"  who  went  out 
by  the  day  to  make  the  dresses  of  whole  families  in 
the  days  when  the  rows  of  brownstone  houses  lay 
monotonous  and  respectful  in  a  gigantic  gridiron 
across  the  whole  of  Manhattan  north  of  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  But  slowly  everything  had  changed 
for  Miss  Flint.  People  no  longer  had  in  "the  sewing 
woman"  spring  and  fall  to  stay  day  after  day. 

Miss  Flint  dyed  her  hair  now  in  order  to  make 
herself  look  more  "youthful,"  not  discreetly,  but  a 
strange,  flaming  red,  which  resembled  the  color  of 
no  hair  on  land  or  sea. 

There  were  times  when  the  sight  of  poor  re- 
spectable Miss  Flint  coming  down  the  steps  of  the 
boardinghouse  on  her  way  to  the  Women's  Ex- 
change with  a  crocheted  bag,  was  almost  too  much 
to  be  borne  by  Maggie,  who  said,  "Sure  and  she 
gets  herself  up  like  a  madame." 

Lately  she  had  returned  home  from  the  Women's 
Exchange  again  and  again  with  the  story  that  she 
had  been  "followed,"  twice  the  man  dared  to  come 
almost  to  the  door  itself.  When  she  recounted  these 
stories,  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie  listened  sympa- 
thetically, pretending  that  they  believed  them. 

And  there  was  Mr.  Boldini,  whom  Mrs.  Lefferty 
and  Maggie  sometimes  called  with  a  kind  of  pride, 
"The  Great  Boldini."  He  was  not  much  better  pay 
than  Miss  Flint  or  Mr.  Van  Diver,  but  they  were 
attached  to  him  because  long  ago  he  had  been  their 
first  boarder. 

He  was  a  tall  man  of  about  sixty,  who  looked 
rather  like  a  bloodhound  with  large  hypnotic  eyes, 
a  sallow  skin  and  hair  which  he  wore  very  long  and, 
like  Miss  Flint,  dyed,  to  give  himself  a  youthful  ap- 
pearance. 

His  clothes,  like  those  of  Mr.  Van  Diver,  showed 
signs  of  once  having  cost  a  great  deal  of  money.  It 
was  the  Great  Boldini  who,  as  the  Original  Boarder, 
occupied  what  had  once  been  poor  Miss  Minnie's 
sitting  room  at  the  front  of  the  house. 

The  shelves  on  which  Miss  Minnie's  hats  once 
stood  were  burdened  with  turbans,  berets,  Roman 
helmets  and  headdresses  with  plumes,  carefully  put 
away  against  the  day  when  Mr.  Boldini  would  stage 
his  great  "comeback"  and  be  able  to  pay  all  he 
owed  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie.  Luckily  the  house 
was  old-fashioned  and  the  closets  were  enormous, 
for  Mr.  Boldini  had  stowed  away  in  them  not  only 


his  own  costumes,  but  also  those  of  a  whole  troupe. 

Whenever  he  was  embarrassingly  far  behind  with 
his  rent  he  got  out  the  books  and  read  aloud  to  Mrs. 
Lefferty  the  clippings  about  his  invitation  perform- 
ances before  the  Kaiser  and  the  King  of  Bavaria, 
and  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  impressed,  never  noticing 
that  royalty  had  fallen  to  an  estate  very  nearly  as 
low  as  that  of  the  Great  Boldini.  Nowadays  his 
agent,  hounded  by  Mr.  Boldini,  occasionally  pro- 
duced an  engagement  in  some  picture  house  in  the 
"sticks,"  but  the  bulk  of  his  income  came  from  pull- 
ing rabbits  out  of  top  hats  at  children's  parties. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room  there  was  a  large  and 
shabby  basket  with  a  cushion  in  it.  Here  slept 
Fanto,  Mr.  Boldini's  poodle.  He  was  no  longer  a 
young  dog,  but  despite  his  rheumatism,  he  was  as 
clever  as  he  had  ever  been  and  none  of  his  tricks 
had  been  forgotten.  Sometimes  he  performed  with 
Mr.  Boldini  at  children's  parties  where  he  always 
experienced  a  greater  success  than  his  master.  On 
the  occasions  when  the  children,  delighted  by  Fanto, 
shouted  for  more  and  more  tricks  from  him,  Mr. 
Boldini  was  always  a  little  hurt  and  outdid  himself 
to  regain  prestige  and  Fanto,  aware  of  his  success, 
barked  and  turned  somersaults  and  heartlessly 
thrust  his  master  into  the  background. 

In  the  beginning  Mrs.  Lefferty  had  been  dubious 
about  allowing  dogs  in  the  house.  But  once  Fanto 
was  allowed  inside  the  door  he  made  forever  secure 
not  only  his  own  place  but  that  of  his  master  as  well. 

Mr.  Rene  Salmon,  ne  Joseph  Solomon,  was,  finan- 
cially speaking,  the  rod  and  staff  of  the  establish- 
ment. Luckily,  for  he  was  a  poet,  he  received  three 
hundred  dollars  a  month  quite  regularly  from  his 
father,  who  owned  the  extremely  prosperous  Bos- 
ton Store  in  Great  Falls,  Indiana. 

Mr.  Salmon,  like  the  others  at  Mrs.  Lefferty's,  was 
a  relic,  although  of  a  vintage  much  later  than  Miss 
Flint  and  old  Mr.  Van  Diver.  He  had  begun  his 
career  a  little  before  the  turn  of  the  century  when 
Mouquin's  was  Mouquin's  and  poets  were  creatures 
full  of  light  who  dressed  in  such  a  way  that  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  their  calling. 

Despite  his  paunch  and  the  bags  under  his  eyes, 
Rene  Salmon,  nearing  sixty,  still  had  a  life  that  was 
carefree.  He  still  wore  his  hair  long  and  "touched 
it  up"  but  he  was  a  little  bald  in  front  and,  despite 
the  flowing  black  tie  and  the  large  black  felt  hat 
which  both  screamed  "Poet!"  at  every  passerby,  he 
no  longer  looked  like  a  gazelle-eyed  boy  poet  but  a 
prosperous  business  man  who  needed  a  haircut. 
For  a  year  or  more  he  had  written  almost  no  verse 
but  was  engaged  upon  his  memoirs. 

INTO  the  quiet  of  this  small  lost  world,  Maggie's 
daughter  came  and  went,  sometimes  appearing 
quietly,  sometimes  returning  noisily  in  a  burst  of 
drama,  for  she  was  one  of  those  personalities  which 
appears  to  project  excitement,  to  create  disasters, 
calamity  and  farce. 

Sarah  Jane  had  a  "career,"  spotty,  checkered  and 
full  of  ups  and  downs,  a  "career"  which,  somehow, 
no  matter  what  the  opportunities,  never  seemed  to 
arrive  anywhere.  Luckily  for  the  career  she  re- 
sembled the  squat  flat-footed  Maggie  scarcely  at  all. 
She  had  Maggie's  quick  temper,  and  her  sense  of 


Sarah  Jane ' 

Tommy      Jeffrey  Lynn 

Grasselli Humphrey  Bogart 

Miss  Flint ZaSu  Pitts 

Maggie Una  O'Connor 

Bridget       Jessie  Busley 

Rene  Salmon Grant  Mitchell 

Victor  Leontopopulos Billy  Gilbert 

Boldini Felix  Bressart 

Mr.  Van  Diver Brandon  Tynan 

Doorman Max  Hoffman,  Jr. 

Police  Captain Jack  Mower 

Taxi  Driver John  Ridgely 

Mr.  Prendergast DeWolf 

A  Warner  Bros.-First  National  Picture 
Directed  by  Lewis  Seiler 


the  ridiculous,  but  physically  nature  had  been  kind 
to  her,  permitting  her  to  resemble  her  father,  the 
big,  florid,  wild,  handsome  Mr.  Ryan,  the  coachman, 
to  whose  charm  even  poor  Miss  Minnie  had  suc- 
cumbed despite  his  drinking  and  his  habit  of  over- 
turning the  victoria  by  running  it  into  trees.  She 
was  tall,  and  even  the  most  severe  dieting,  upon 
which  she  embarked  spasmodically,  could  not  make 
her  beauty  anything  but  one  of  curves. 

At  home  she  was  known  as  Sarah  Jane,  a  name 
suggested  long  ago  by  poor  Miss  Minnie,  but  when 
she  crossed  Sixth  Avenue  into  the  world  of  theaters 
and  night  clubs,  she  was  known  simply  as  "Sal" 
and  sometimes  as  "Big  Sal."  Because  she  was  at 
once  bold  and  beautiful,  hot-tempered,  honest,  pro- 
vocative and  virtuous,  she  was  always  in  trouble 
and  rarely  able  to  hold  a  job. 

At  times  she  used  language  which  would  have 
startled  a  longshoreman,  and  there  was  nothing  she 
did  not  know,  but  technically  she  remained  "a  good 
girl."  Only  the  more  experienced  and  hard-boiled 
denizens  of  Broadway  believed  this  and  they  be- 
lieved it  only  because  they  "knew,"  for  Sarah  Jane's 
appearance  was  scarcely  that  of  a  well-behaved 
young  woman.  Along  Broadway  some  of  the  more 
flippant  called  her  "Virgie"  when  they  were  well  out 
of  her  reach,  and  flashy  lady-killers  had  been  known 
to  make  large  wagers  on  the  score  of  her  assail- 
ability,  but  all  of  them  had  lost  their  money  and 
some  of  them  had  lost  teeth  as  well.  There  were 
even  times  when  old  Maggie,  bewildered  by  Sarah 
Jane's  clothes  and  behavior,  did  not  believe  she  was 
a  "good  girl,"  and  then  between  the  two  of  them 
would  break  out  a  row  which  shook  the  whole 
boardinghouse.  But  it  was  true,  because  Maggie 
had  put  the  fear  of  God  into  Sarah  Jane  as  a  child 
and  because  being  Irish,  and  Roman  Catholic,  she 
had  a  wholesome  terror  of  Hell,  and  finally  because 
after  she  found  out  about  the  wagers,  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  "show  them." 

Her  presence  at  the  boardinghouse  during  those 
periods  when,  like  Mr.  Boldini,  she  was  "at  liberty," 
always  brought  troubles  and  disturbances  of  the 
somnolent  peace  which  otherwise  enveloped  the 
place.  She  had  a  way  of  upsetting  the  "relics,"  of 
filling  their  heads  with  new  ideas,  of  making  them 
think,  even  old  Mr.  Van  Diver,  that  they  were  young 
again.  She  never  brought  home  any  money  because 
she  never  had  any,  and  sometimes  Maggie  and  Mrs. 
Lefferty  loaned  her  a  few  dollars  out  of  the  slender 
store  which  kept  them  out  of  ruin. 

ONE  evening  about  eleven  o'clock,  while  the  rum- 
my game  was  in  progress  in  poor  Miss  Minnie's  par- 
lor, Sarah  Jane  had  one  of  her  dramatic  homecom- 
ings. It  was  preceded  by  the  sound  of  rushing  foot- 
steps on  the  steps  of  the  brownstone  stoop  and  of 
someone  trying  frantically  to  open  the  door.  Then 
came  Sarah  Jane's  voice  crying,  "Let  me  in!  Let  me 
in!"  and  the  sound  of  a  violent  smack  followed  by  a 
flow  of  sulphurous  language.  Fanto,  barking  wildly, 
sprang  from  his  chair  and  ran  to  the  door. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  followed  him  and  when  she  opened 
the  door  she  discovered  Sarah  Jane  and  a  small, 
dark,  ugly  little  man  seated  on  the  floor  with  his 
back  in  the  corner,  shielding  his  face  with  raised 
hands.  Sarah  Jane  held  a  revolver  in  one  hand  and 
was  kicking  him,  saying,  "You  rat!  I'll  teach  you  to 
pull  a  gun  on  me." 

At  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Lefferty  she  rushed  into  the 
house  and  closed  the  door.  Mrs.  Lefferty  double - 
bolted  it  and  Sarah  Jane  threw  the  revolver  down 
on  poor  Miss  Minnie's  table  of  teakwood  inlaid  with 
mother-of-pearl  and  said,  "The  rat!  The  White 
Slaver!  He  had  the  nerve  to  pull  a  gat  on  me,"  and 
without  another  word  ran  up  to  Maggie's  room. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  went  to  the  parlor  window  and 
watched  Sarah  Jane's  unfortunate  admirer  limp 
down  the  stairs,  climb  into  a  taxicab  and  drive 
away. 

Then  she  turned  and  said,  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, "It's  Miss  Flint's  deal." 

But  this  was  an  attitude  possible  to  carry  out 
only  so  long  as  Sarah  Jane  herself  remained  in  the 
background;  once  she  came  into  the  room  hand- 
some, reckless,  glowing  with  the  excitement  of  her 
violent  homecoming,  it  was  impossible  to  pretend 
that  she  did  not  exist  or  had  never  happened  at  all. 
While  they  went  on  with  the  game,  Sarah  Jane 
remained  closeted  abovestairs  with  Maggie.  She 
remained,  so  to  speak,  in  the  background  or  at 
least  out  of  sight,  but  to  their  ears  she  was  violently 
present  for  fragments  of  the  quarrel  going  on  on 
the  fourth  floor  kept  penetrating  the  parlor  .  .  . 
shouts  from  Maggie  of  "Sure,  and  I  ought  to  shut 
you  up  with  the  sisters  for  a  time.     Your  poor 


25 


father  must  be  rollin'  in  his  grave"  and  "You're  a 
bad  girl!  Don't  tell  me  you  aren't!"  With  Sarah 
Jane  shouting  back,  "I'll  do  as  I  please  and  you 
can't  stop  me.  No  man  has  ever  laid  hands  on  me 
without  bein'  slapped  for  it." 

When  she  came  into  the  room  something  hap- 
pened to  everyone  in  it  except  Mrs.  Lefferty,  who 
had  known  her  for  too  long  and  spanked  her  out  of 
too  many  tantrums  to  be  impressed  by  her  now.  Mr. 
Boldini  became  very  Italian  and  full  of  old-world 
courtesy,  quips  and  elegant  speeches.  Mr.  Salmon 
smirked,  deftly  ruffled  his  hair  and  disarranged  his 
flowing  tie  to  give  himself  a  more  Bohemian  ap- 
pearance, and  experienced  a  sudden  return  of  youth 
which  made  him  remember  the  ladies  of  his  earlier 
days,  none  of  whom  was  ever  as  young  or  as  hand- 
some as  Sarah  Jane.  As  for  Miss  Flint,  instead  of 
glowing  and  relaxing,  she  grew  as  rigid  as  the  wife 
of  Lot  after  she  had  satisfied  her  curiosity  about 
the  friends  she  had  left  behind  in  Sodom.  Old  Mr. 
Van  Diver,  who  never  joined  in  the  games  because 
he  could  never  remember  the  cards  that  had  been 
played,  put  down  his  moving-picture  magazine, 
smoothed  his  hair  and  began  to  chuckle. 

NOW  Sarah  Jane  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  them, 
crossed  her  legs,  lighted  a  cigarette  and  said,  "Can 
you  imagine?  He  was  gonna  make  me  into  a  torch 
singer.  He  took  me  to  his  studio  to  give  me  a  les- 
son and  after  about  five  minutes,  I  said,  'Yeah,  well 
I  never  heard  that  called  a  singing  lesson  before.' 
The  dirty  little  White  Slaver!  And  when  I  beat  it, 
he  followed  me  right  to  the  door  in  a  taxicab.  Can 
you  imagine?  With  a  gat  too  ...  as  if  I  didn't 
know  enough  to  manage  a  guy  with  a  gat?" 

Breathlessly  she  went  on  with  the  whole  story, 
about  how  Mr.  Myers  had  "discovered  her"  and  was 
going  to  open  a  night  club  and  give  her  all  sorts 
of  "breaks."  She  threw  away  one  cigarette  and 
lighted  another.  "Breaks!"  she  said,  "I  know  all 
about  breaks!  They  always  mean  the  same  thing. 
All  men  are  beasts!" 

"You  never  said  a  truer  word,"  said  Miss  Flint. 

Then  unbending  a  little,  she  told  about  her  ex- 
periences, beginning  with  her  earliest  disillusion- 
ment and  finishing  with  the  story  of  being  followed 
home  from  the  Women's  Exchange  by  a  "young 
Italian-looking  man  about  thirty"  only  yesterday. 

Mrs.  Lefferty,  watching  her,  knew  that  Miss  Flint 
had  reached  the  second  stage.  First  the  presence 
of  Sarah  Jane  made  her  bristle  and  then  it  made 
her  feel  fast  and  Bohemian.  "The  minute  Sarah 
Jane  comes  home,"  Mrs.  Lefferty  thought,  "every- 
body goes  cockeyed."  And  in  disgust  scarcely  able 
to  stand  the  spectacle  of  Mr.  Salmon's  smirks  and 
Miss  Flint's  bridlings  and  Mr.  Boldini's  fatuous  com- 
pliments, she  went  off  downstairs  for  sandwiches. 

The  party  lasted  until  one  o'clock  and  before  going 
up  to  her  room,  Sarah  Jane  announced  to  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty's  dismay  that  she  thought  that  now  she  was 
home  she  might  as  well  stay  and  have  a  rest. 

And  as  she  carried  the  remnants  of  the  supper  to 
the  kitchen  and  put  out  the  lights,  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes,  tears  of  jealousy  of  Maggie  at  having 
Sarah  Jane  back  in  the  house,  sleeping  in  the  room 
next  to  her  where  she  could  see  her  and  talk  to  her 
and  wait  on  her.  Five  years  was  such  a  long  time. 
There  were  moments  now  when  she  thought  that 
perhaps  Tommy  was  dead  and  maybe  buried  some 
place  outside  consecrated  ground  with  no  one  to 
care  for  his  grave.  Tommy,  who  loved  her,  wouldn't 
have  stayed  away  so  long  without  a  sign,  if  he  was 
still  alive. 

She  felt  so  badly  that  she  took  a  little  drink  of 
Irish  whisky,  "medicinally"  like  Miss  Flint,  and 
that  warmed  her,  and  by  the  time  she  had  taken  off 
her  woolens  and  was  in  bed  she  was  her  old  opti- 
mistic self  again  and  knew  that  somewhere,  out  in 
the  great  world  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  Tommy 
was  all  right  and  would  one  day  come  back  to  her. 

Sarah  Jane  would  get  her  "break"  and  Tommy 
would  come  home  in  a  big  comfortable  automobile 
with  a  cut-glass  light  in  the  top,  rich  and  success- 
ful, to  take  her  away  to  live  in  a  fine  palace.  Once 
started  on  a  story  like  this,  she  lay  for  a  long  time 
sleepless,  building  it  up.  It  was  a  beautiful  story. 
Tommy  had  gone  away  to  South  America  and  dis- 
covered a  big  mine  full  of  gold  and  hadn't  told  her 
anything  about  it  because  he  wanted  to  surprise  her 
by  driving  up  in  front  of  the  house  in  a  big  car.  He 
would  buy  her  a  big  house  and  she  and  Maggie 
would  take  all  poor  Miss  Minnie's  lovely  furniture 
with  them  and  then  Sarah  Jane  would  be  discovered 
and  become  a  great  movie  star  and  she  and  Tommy 
would  get  married.  She  was  just  at  the  end,  with 
Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy  at  the  altar  when,  through 


the  half -waking  dream,  came  the  sound  of  the  door- 
bell ringing  violently,  and  she  thought,  "There  he  is 
now!  He's  come  home  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing to  make  the  surprise  better." 

TVHILE  she  put  on  a  wrapper  and  twisted  her  thin 
hair  into  a  screw  on  the  top  of  her  head,  she  knew 
that  when  she  opened  the  door  Tommy  would  be 
there.  It  couldn't  be  anybody  else,  ringing  the  bell 
at  this  hour  of  the  night.  The  bell  kept  up  its  wild 
clamor,  ringing  the  way  it  rang  when  Sarah  Jane 
was  on  the  stoop  pursued  by  an  admirer.  As  she 
went  down  the  stairs,  there  was  something  in  the 
desperate  sound  of  the  bell  which  frightened  her. 
Suddenly  she  felt  old  and  afraid  and,  with  a  feeling 
of  sickness,  she  knew  all  at  once  that  the  whole 
dream  had  been  made-up  and  foolish  and  that  prob- 
ably Tommy  was  dead  and  she  would  never  see 
him  again. 


When  Tommy  (Jeffrey  Lynn)  came 
home  he  was  so  changed  that  his 
mother    scarcely    recognized    him 


But  when  she  opened  the  door,  cautiously  on  the 
chain,  and  called  out,  "Who's  there?  What  is  it?" 
Tommy's  voice  answered  her,  a  voice  she  would 
have  known  anywhere  in  the  world,  a  voice  which 
she  knew  better  than  her  own.  It  said,  "It's  Tommy. 
Let  me  in!"  And  suddenly  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  sure 
that  when  she  opened  the  door  she  would  find  a 
beautiful  automobile  with  a  cut-glass  light  in  the 
top,  waiting  at  the  curb. 

But  when  she  opened  the  door,  she  caught  only  a 
glimpse  of  a  taxicab  driving  away.  It  was  Tommy 
all  right,  but  a  Tommy  so  changed  that  for  a  mo- 
ment she  doubted  the  truth.  And  there  was  a  man 
with  him,  a  big  man  who  was  crosseyed  and  wore 
his  hat  pulled  far  down  over  one  eye. 

They  came  in  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  threw  her  arms 
about  Tommy,  crying  out,  "Tommy!  Tommy!"  over 
and  over  again  and  then  she  stood  back  a  little  and 
looked  at  him,  frightened  a  little  because  he  was  so 
pale  and  thin  and  looked  so  sallow  and  shabby.  He 
was  still  a  good-looking  boy  with  big  dark  blue 
eyes  (like  Mr.  Lefferty's)  and  a  big  generous  mouth, 
but  his  body  seemed  to  have  shrunk  and  shriveled 
inside  his  clothes. 

And  then  somehow  they  were  in  poor  Miss  Min- 
nie's parlor,  with  Tommy  looking  around  at  the 
furniture  he  had  known  all  his  life,  and  the  big 
man  said,  "I  guess  it's  a  long  time  since  you  seen 
Tommy." 

"Five  years!"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty,  tearfully.  "More 
than  five  years." 

The  big  man  was  about  forty  with  a  red  face  and 
big  shoulders.  He  stood  now  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand,  a  cigarette  hanging  from  his  lips. 

Tommy  was  still  shy  and  embarrassed.  He  didn't 
say  anything  but  she  knew  from  the  way  he  looked 
at  her  that  he  was  glad  to  be  back.  He  asked, 
"Have  you  got  anything  to  eat,  Ma?" 

"Sure,  and  what  would  you  both  like  to  drink?" 

Tommy  wanted  beer  and  Mr.  Grasselli,  which  was 
the  name  of  the  big  man  with  the  cockeye,  wanted 
whisky. 

"You  set  right  down  here,  both  of  you  and  Til  go 
and  fetch  it.  You're  going  to  stay  a  while,  ain't 
you,  Tommy?" 

"Yeah,  Ma,  I'm  going  to  stay  a  while." 

She  kept  staring  at  him,  still  not  sure  whether  she 
was  dreaming  or  not.  He  hadn't  come  back  with  a 
big  automobile  but  it  didn't  matter  now.    The  only 


thing  that  mattered  was  that  here  he  was  back 
poor  Miss  Minnie's  parlor  as  if  he  had  never  gone 
away. 

"My  friend,  Mr.  Grasselli,  wants  a  room  for  a  time.  I 
Have  you  got  one,  Ma?" 

"Yes.    On  the  second  floor  at  the  back." 

"Mebbe  I  could  have  the  little  room  next  to  him.' 

"Sure,  Tommy,  anything  you  want." 

"He  doesn't  like  to  be  alone." 

She  thought  it  was  funny  that  a  big  man  like  Mr. 
Grasselli  didn't  like  to  be  alone.  You'd  have 
thought  he  wasn't  afraid  of  anything. 

"Well,  I'll  get  some  cheese  and  cold  ham  and  some 
drinks." 

"Sure,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli,  "that  would  be  fine." 

She  went  downstairs  thinking  that  she  did  not 
like  Mr.  Grasselli's  face  and  wishing  he  wasn't  there 
so  she  could  talk  to  Tommy  and  hear  about  why  he 
had  never  written  to  her.  He  was  alive!  He  wasn't 
dead!  She  and  Maggie  would  feed  him  up.  In  a 
little  while  he'd  look  like  he  used  to  as  a  little  boy. 

When  she  had  gone,  Mr.  Grasselli  went  over  and 
pulled  aside  the  curtains  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "This  is  all  right.  It's  great. 
Where  did  they  find  all  this  stuff?" 

"It  belonged  to  an  old  lady  called  Miss  Randolph. 
She  left  it  all  to  my  mother."  And  for  a  second  it 
occurred  even  to  Tommy  that  it  was  odd  to  see  his 
"friend,"  Mr.  Grasselli,  standing  there  in  poor  Miss 
Minnie's  parlor  among  all  her  things. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli,  "it  otta  be  worth  a  lot 
of  money  some  day  to  a  museum.  They  otta  pay  a 
big  price  for  it." 

And  a  moment  later  Mrs.  Lefferty  appeared  with 
a  tray  burdened  with  cold  ham  and  chicken  and 
sandwiches,  beer  and  whisky  and  glasses  and  a  large 
pot  of  coffee. 

In  silence  Tommy  and  Mr.  Grasselli  ate  every- 
thing on  the  tray.  At  last  they  had  enough  and 
Mr.  Grasselli  thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  if  they 
all  went  to  bed,  "Because,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  kind 
of  rest  cure  I'm  taking.  I'm  gonna  stay  in  bed  a 
good  part  of  the  time.    I'm  not  goin'  out  much." 

Secretly  Mrs.  Lefferty  regretted  the  news  be- 
cause it  would  mean  a  new  interruption  of  the  non- 
stop rummy  tournament. 

"Mr.  Grasselli,"  said  Tommy,  "didn't  bring  any 
baggage.  I'm  going  out  in  the  morning  to  buy  him 
some  things  and  get  my  own  stuff." 

WHEN  she  had  made  up  the  beds  and  everything 
was  ready  and  she  had  shown  Mr.  Grasselli  to  his 
room,  she  lingered  for  a  moment  in  Tommy's  room, 
watching  him  with  a  beaming  face,  thinking  how 
much  more  refined  he  was  than  his  friend,  Mr. 
Grasselli,  and  how  nice  he  talked.  She  wanted  to 
stay  and  talk  to  Tommy,  to  find  out  where  he  had 
been  and  what  had  happened  to  him  and  why  he'd 
never  written  to  her,  but  when  she  saw  how  grey 
and  tired  he  seemed,  she  had  not  the  heart  to  keep 
him  awake  any  longer. 

She  said,  "You're  goin'  to  stay  awhile,  ain't  you?" 

"Yes,  Ma." 

"And  you'll  never  run  off  like  that  again?" 

He  looked  away  from  her  at  the  floor  and  at  last 
said,  "No,  Ma." 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  write  and  tell  me  where 
you  was?" 

"Because  I  didn't  want  to  come  home  till  I  was 
successful.    I  wouldn't  have  come  home  now  only 
.  .  ."     He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  save  by  a  . 
weary  gesture. 

"I  know,  Tommy." 

She  bent  down  and  kissed  him  and  he  put  his 
arm  about  her  waist  and  leaned  his  head  against 
her  plump  body.  It  was  a  tiny  gesture,  but  it  made 
Mrs.  Lefferty  feel  warm  and  triumphant. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "Everything's  goin'  to  be 
fine.  You're  goin'  to  be  a  big  success.  What  line 
have  you  been  tryin'?" 

"Writing  songs  .  .  .  lately.  I've  tried  a  lot  of 
things  ...  too  many  things  I  guess." 

She  knew  now,  with  his  head  resting  against  her 
side,  that  she  was  glad  he  hadn't  come  home  in  a 
big  automobile  with  a  cut-glass  light  in  the  roof. 
Now  she  could  feed  him  up  and  see  that  he  got 
plenty  of  sleep  so  that  he'd  get  good  and  strong  to 
start  all  over  again.  No,  this  was  a  lot  better  story 
than  she  had  imagined. 

As  she  said  good  night,  she  added,  "Sarah  Jane  is 
home  again." 

Without  interest,  he  said,  "Is  she?" 

"She's  out  of  a  job." 

"Too  bad,"  said  Tommy.    "But  it  isn't  news." 

"She's  had  a  bad  time  lately.  She  never  gets  a 
break.    She  had  to  sell  that  beautiful  silver  fox." 


26 


"I  guess  some  of  her  bad  luck  is  her  own  fault." 

"She's  a  good  girl." 

"Yeah,"  said  Tommy,  "that's  her  trouble.  She's 
made  an  issue  of  it.  Even  I  can  .  .  ."  He  didn't 
finish  the  sentence,  so  Mrs.  Lefferty  never  knew 
what  it  was  he  meant  to  say. 

She  asked  him,  "What  were  you  going  to  say?" 
But  he  only  answered,  "I  don't  know.  I've  forgot- 
ten." 

Then  she  left  him,  wondering  that  he  showed  so 
little  interest  in  Sarah  Jane  who  was  like  a  sister 
to  him. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  Mrs.  Lefferty 
finally  fell  asleep,  but  she  was  up  again  at  eight, 
helping  Maggie  and  seeing  that  everyone  got  enough 
to  eat  at  breakfast  and  that  old  Mr.  Van  Diver 
didn't  forget  to  take  the  medicine  for  his  heart. 
She  had  just  finished  clearing  away  the  table  and 
was  on  her  way  to  do  the  rooms  when  Maggie  ap- 
peared carrying  a  letter  from  old  Mr.  Prendergast, 
poor  Miss  Minnie's  lawyer.  Maggie  always  let  her 
read  all  the  letters  because  she  wasn't  very  good  at 
reading  herself,  and  it  was  the  day  when  a  check 
from  Mr.  Prendergast  was  due,  so  she  wasn't 
alarmed  until  she  tore  open  the  letter  and  found 
there  wasn't  any  check  in  it.  Instead  there  was  a 
note  from  old  Mr.  Prendergast  saying  that  there 
weren't  any  dividends  from  the  stock  poor  Miss  Min- 
nie had  left  them  and  he  did  not  know  when  there 
would  be  any.  And  he  said  there  wasn't  much  use 
,  in  trying  to  sell  the  stocks  now  as  they  weren't 
worth  anything. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Lefferty  could  think  of  noth- 
ing to  say.  At  last  she  said,  "Something  will  turn 
up.  It'll  be  all  right.  It  always  is."  But  her  voice 
was  a  little  weak  this  time,  because  it  was  the  first 
time  she  had  ever  had  any  doubts. 

CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  after  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when 
Sarah  Jane  wakened  at  last,  rose  lazily,  dressed 
and  went  down  to  the  kitchen.  It  was  too  late 
to  have  lunch  with  the  boarders  but,  that,  she 
thought,  was  all  the  better  for  her  figure.  Now 
she  wouldn't  be  tempted.  She'd  just  have  a 
cup  of  coffee  with  Maggie  in  the  kitchen. 

She  found  her  mother  dealing  with  the  remains 
of  lunch  just  sent  down  on  the  dumb-waiter  by 
Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"You'll  have  to  get  up  for  your  meals  if  you're 
goin'  to  get  anything  around  this  house,"  said 
Maggie. 

"I  don't  want  any  meals.  All  I  want  is  a  cup  of 
coffee." 

But  as  she  drank  the  coffee,  the  fragrance  of  ham- 
burger steak  was  wafted  to  her  nostrils  and  she 
traced  the  scent  to  the  pan  on  the  stove  where  Mag- 
gie was  keeping  warm  what  was  left.  "I  guess  I'll 
just  have  a  bit  of  steak,"  she  said. 

"Sure,"  said  Maggie,  "I  don't  believe  in  this  dietin'. 
How  about  some  potatoes  with  the  steak?" 

"If  there's  any  gravy  I'll  have  just  a  bit,"  said 
Sarah  Jane. 
And  then  as  she  picked  up  the  Daily  Mirror  she 
■  had  another  cup  of  coffee. 

While   she   was   eating,   Maggie   said,   "Tommy's 
come  home." 
"Has  he?" 

"Yes.     Sure.     You  take  it  as  if  he'd  only  gone 
away  yesterday." 
"It  doesn't  seem  so  long." 

She  wasn't  listening  very  closely  to  what  her 
mother  said  because  she  had  gotten  interested  in  a 
story  in  the  Mirror  about  Monk  Maguire,  the  Beer 
Baron,  who  was  being  sought  by  Federal  Officials 
on  an  income  tax  charge.  She  had  known  Monk, 
off  and  on,  mostly  in  the  days  when  he  was  the  head 
of  a  bootlegging  ring,  when  he  owned  a  couple  of 
s§  speakeasies  and  the  Villa  Paradise  night  club. 

"Five  years,"  said  Maggie,  seating  herself  before 
a  large  lunch  she  had  constructed  out  of  the  rem- 
nants from  abovestairs.  "Five  years  it  is  ...  He 
ain't  so  well,  Bridget  says." 

Sarah   Jane,    still   lost   in   reading    about   Monk 
Maguire,  said,  "What's  the  matter  with  him?" 
"I  don't  know.    I  guess  he's  just  run  down." 
To  this  Sarah  Jane  made  no  response  whatever. 
"He  brought  a  friend  back  with  him.    He's  gonna 
stay  as  a  boarder." 
"Yeah?"  said  Sarah  Jane. 
"His  name  is  Mr.  Grasselli." 
"Never  heard  of  him." 

Then  slowly  Maggie  began  to  show  signs  of  be- 
coming irritated  by  Sarah  Jane's  lack  of  interest. 
"I    should    think    you'd    be    interested  .  .  .  with 


Tommy  brought  up  alongside  of  you  like  a  twin." 

"WELL,  can  you  beat  it!"  exclaimed  Sarah  Jane. 
"That's  what  I  call  fast  work." 
"What?"  asked  Maggie. 

"About  me  and  Mr.  Myers  and  the  vestibule. 
Imagine,  already.  And  it  ain't  three  o'clock  yet!" 
"I  hope  it  ain't  one  of  them  scandals  again." 
"Listen,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  reading  from  the  Mir- 
ror. "It  says,  'Early  this  morning  Abe  Myers  was 
trying  to  explain  away  a  black  eye  and  a  missing 
front  tooth.  Said  he  fell  downstairs.  Wiseacres 
say  .  .  .' "  (Here  Sarah  Jane  stumbled  for  a  mo- 
ment) "  'Cherchez  la  femme  ...  a  femme  known 
around  Broadway  hot  spots  as  Sal.  Well,  Abe's  in 
good  company.  A  lot  of  other  fellows  have  lost  bets 
on  Sal,  along  with  their  front  teeth.' "  Sarah  Jane 
threw  down  the  paper.  "If  I'd  known  he  was  bet- 
tin'  I'd  have  given  him  more  than  he  got." 


"If  that  ain't  a  scandal  I 
don't  know  what  you'd  call 
it,"  Maggie  told  Sarah  Jane 


"Bettin'  on  what?"  said  Maggie. 

"That  he  could  make  me.    Why,  the  little  rat!" 

"Well,"  said  Maggie,  growing  still  redder.  "If  it 
ain't  a  scandal  I  don't  know  what  you'd  call  it." 

"It's  only  a  coupla  lines,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  "Why 
the  last  time.  .  .  ." 

"Your  poor  father  ain't  allowed  to  rest  in  his  grave 
and  poor  Miss  Minnie's.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Miss  Minnie  is  right.  She  never  had  any 
fun.  .  .  ." 

And  then  Maggie  exploded.  Reaching  across  the 
table  she  gave  Sarah  Jane  a  slap  that  was  heard  by 
the  boarders  having  coffee  upstairs  in  the  parlor. 
"I'll  teach  you  to  be  disrespectful  about  the  dead. 
I'll  teach  you  to  speak  like  that  of  poor  Miss  Min- 
nie. .  .  ." 

Tears  of  pain  came  into  Sarah  Jane's  eyes,  but  she 
took  the  slap.  Maggie  was  the  only  person  in  the 
world  who  could  slap  her  and  not  be  knocked  down. 

ABOVESTAIRS  in  the  parlor  an  air  of  dullness  and 
futility  hung  over  the  boarders. 

On  the  second  floor,  Tommy  and  his  friend  still 
slept.  Three  times  Mrs.  Lefferty  went  to  their  doors 
but  each  time  she  discovered  only  the  unmistakable 
sounds  of  slumber.  Mr.  Grasselli,  she  discovered, 
had  even  locked  his  door,  which  she  thought  odd 
and  even  faintly  insulting.  Nobody  in  the  house  ever 
locked  his  door. 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  at  last  Tommy  did 
wake  and  have  a  bath  and  dress  himself.  When  she 
heard  him  moving  about,  she  went  in  to  tell  him 
that  when  he  was  ready,  she  would  be  in  the  kitchen 
with  something  for  him  to  eat.  He  said  that  he 
didn't  want  much  and  that  he  was  going  out  right 
away  to  buy  a  razor  and  a  toothbrush  for  Mr.  Gras- 
selli and  bring  his  own  clothes. 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  Mr.  Grasselli 
would  like  to  have  his  meals  in  his  own  room." 

"Why  can't  he  come  down  to  the  table  like  every- 
one else?" 

For  a  moment  Tommy  hesitated  and  then  said, 
"You  see  he's  having  a  kind  of  nervous  breakdown 
and  he  can't  see  people  without  getting  upset." 

"It'll  make  a  lot  of  extra  work." 

"He'll  pay  extra  for  it." 

Mrs.  Lefferty  was  silent  for  a  moment,  considering. 

"All  right,"  she  said,  "I  guess  I  can  manage." 

"And  he  doesn't  want  to  see  anybody,"  said  Tom- 
my. "Will  it  bother  you  if  he  stays  in  his  room 
while  you  make  it  up?" 


"Yes,  it'll  bother  me.  I  can't  bear  to  have  some- 
body sitting  around  in  the  room  I'm  working  in.  I 
always  make  all  the  others  get  out." 

"I  guess  he'd  pay  extra  for  that  too,"  said  Tommy. 

"He  must  have  a  lot  of  money  to  throw  around 
.  .  .  paying  extra  just  to  sit  in  his  own  room  to 
watch  his  bed  being  made  up.  Maybe  we  can  work 
that  out  too,  but  I  should  think  he'd  be  better  off 
in  a  hospital." 

"No,"  said  Tommy.  "He  can't  stand  hospitals. 
They  make  him  worse." 

"All  right,  being  he's  a  friend  of  yours." 

As  she  was  leaving  the  room,  Tommy  asked,  "Has 
Sarah  Jane  gone  out?" 

"Yes.    She's  gone  to  fetch  her  clothes." 

"When  will  she  be  back?" 

"I  don't  know.    She's  just  gone." 

Tommy  went  on  arranging  his  tie.  "Okay,"  he 
said  without  looking  at  her. 

But  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  suspicious.  She  said, 
"What's  the  matter  with  you  and  Sarah  Jane?" 

"Nothing." 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  see  her?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  didn't  want  to  see  her.  I  just  asked 
if  she'd  gone  out." 

But  that  didn't  fool  Mrs.  Lefferty.  She  went 
downstairs  to  the  kitchen,  but  she  wasn't  deceived. 
She  knew  there  was  some  kind  of  a  mystery. 

AT  the  kitchen  table  something  happened  to  Tom- 
my. Perhaps  it  was  the  sight  of  the  familiar  kitchen 
itself,  unchanged  after  so  many  years,  with  the  same 
old-fashioned  chairs,  with  Maggie's  worn  raincoat 
and  battered  hat  with  a  feather  hanging  against  the 
wall,  with  the  same  plates  and  tea  cups  which  he 
had  noticed  for  the  first  time  when  he  was  spanked 
for  breaking  one  of  them  as  a  little  boy  of  four  in 
the  kitchen  of  poor  Miss  Minnie's  house  .  .  .  Per- 
haps it  was  that  in  all  the  suffering  he  had  known 
during  the  five  missing  years,  he  had  become  more 
human  and  honest  and  much  nearer  to  reality  and 
truth,  sloughing  off  all  the  pride  and  falsity  and 
vanity  which  had  corrupted  him  .  .  .  Whatever  the 
reason  Tommy  underwent  a  sudden  change.  He 
had  become  another  person,  a  person  who  seemed, 
after  those  five  hard  years,  almost  a  stranger,  even 
to  himself. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  with  a  leap  of  the  heart,  saw  it  al- 
most at  once.  He  had  come  back  to  her,  not  only 
the  Tommy  who  had  gone  away  five  years  ago,  but 
the  Tommy  he  had  been  before  poor  Miss  Minnie 
sent  him  away  to  be  educated. 

And  presently,  quite  easily,  he  was  telling  her 
what  had  happened  to  him  since  he  went  away,  how 
he  had  planned  to  be  rich  and  successful  and  some 
day  have  enough  money  to  buy  a  place  in  the  coun- 
try for  her  and  Maggie.  He  told  her  about  the  fine 
job  he  had  got  in  the  mills  belonging  to  the  father 
of  one  of  the  boys  he  had  known  in  college,  and  how 
quickly  all  that  dream  had  vanished  at  the  first  sign 
of  bad  business;  how,  one  by  one,  he  had  tried  other 
college  friends,  how  some  had  put  him  off  with 
smooth  words  and  others  had  simply  told  him  to  get 
out,  and  how  he  had  wandered  from  job  to  job,  try- 
ing to  gain  a  foothold  anywhere,  even  on  the  lowest 
rung  of  the  ladder  of  success,  and  finally  how  he  had 
been  content  to  do  anything  at  all  simply  to  get  a 
place  to  sleep  and  enough  food  to  keep  him  alive, 
and  how  sometimes  he  went  without  anything  to  eat 
at  all  for  days  at  a  time,  and  how  at  last  Mr.  Gras- 
selli had  befriended  him  and  given  him  a  job  as  a 
secretary  and  manager  of  his  personal  affairs. 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  he  had  disappeared  be- 
cause he  was  ashamed  of  herself  and  Maggie  and 
the  noisy  Sarah  Jane.  He  did  not  tell  her  that  while 
he  was  in  college  he  had  pretended  to  be  an  orphan 
and  the  nephew  of  poor  Miss  Minnie.  He  did  not 
tell  her  of  his  wild  ambition  to  become  rich  over- 
night. And  he  did  not  tell  her  all  the  low  things  he 
had  done  from  time  to  time  simply  in  order  to  be 
able  to  go  on  living.  And  he  did  not  tell  her  what 
Mr.  Grasselli's  business  was. 

Lately,  he  said,  he  had  gone  back  to  playing  the 
piano  and  that  he  was  more  thankful  now  than  he 
had  ever  been  to  poor  Miss  Minnie  for  the  lessons 
she  had  paid  for  long  ago.  He  told  her  that  he  was 
writing  songs  but  that  he  hadn't  had  much  success 
as  yet  because  it  was  so  hard  to  get  a  "break."  And 
he  asked  her  if  they  could  have  poor  Miss  Minnie's 
piano  tuned  so  that  he  could  work  at  home. 

When  he  had  finished,  Mrs.  Lefferty  held  her 
peace  and  did  not  tell  him  her  own  troubles  and  the 
letter  from  old  Mr.  Prendergast  and  the  menace  of 
taxes  and  insurance  which  hung  over  her  and  Mag- 
gie's head.  Poor  Tommy,  she  thought,  he  had 
enough  to  bear. 


BV  aiMf  rROmFIEL 


•:•■■ 


27 


For  nearly  a  year  Sarah  Jane  had  known  that 
Tommy  was  alive;  for  most  of  that  time  she  knew 
where  he  was  and  for  a  part  of  the  time  she  sus- 
pected, at  least,  what  he  was  doing.  But  Tommy 
had  made  her  promise  not  to  tell.  It  was  a  promise 
Sarah  Jane  would  have  broken  if  she  had  seen  fit 
to  do  so;  she  kept  it  because  she  had  no  more  de- 
sire than  Tommy  to  tell  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  because, 
oddly  enough,  Tommy  was  the  only  person  in  the 
world,  save  Maggie,  who  could  ever  exert  even  the 
faintest  control  over  Sarah  Jane. 

In  the  Fifties,  not  far  from  Eighth  Avenue,  there 
was  a  kind  of  all-night  lunch  with  a  false  front.  To 
the  uninitiated  it  displayed  a  shabby,  sordid  fagade 
with  the  legend  THE  EXCELSIOR  CAFE  AND 
LUNCH  ROOM  stenciled  in  chipped  and  fading 
paint  on  the  dusty  windows.  If  you  didn't  know 
the  place  the  best  you  could  expect  was  a  bad  snack 
cooked  and  served  by  a  Greek  known  as  "Pete." 
You  could  eat  and  go  away  again  without  suspecting 
anything. 

Those  who  knew  the  place,  entered,  exchanged  a 
word  or  two  with  Pete  and  then  walked  directly 
through  a  door  which  was  marked  "Lavatory."  To 
a  stranger  this  would  have  appeared  a  fabulous 
place,  capable  of  swallowing  up  whole  armies  of 
people  who  entered  and  never  came  out.  The  secret 
was  simple.  There  was  a  lavatory  behind  the  door, 
but  there  was  also  a  long  hallway  which  led  into  a 
back  room.  This,  unofficially,  was  known  as  The 
Excelsior  Club. 

Sarah  Jane  came  and  went,  to  and  from  the  Ex- 
celsior Club,  miraculously  escaping  any  trouble 
more  serious  than  an  occasional  scandal  like  that  of 
Mr.  Myers  and  the  vestibule. 

And  then  one  night  when  she  came  in  there  was 
a  new  man  playing  the  piano.  She  did  not  notice 
him  at  first.  It  was  only  when  he  began  playing 
Irish  tunes  like  "Kathleen  Mavourneen"  and  "Mother 
Machree"  that  she  noticed  something  different  about 
the  music,  some  quality  which,  together  with  the 
music  itself,  made  her  cry  without  quite  knowing 
why.  It  made  her  think  first  of  the  good  old  days  in 
poor  Miss  Minnie's  house  with  herself  and  Maggie 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  all  sitting  about  listen- 
ing to  the  miraculous  Tommy  playing  tunes  which 
brought  tears  to  all  their  eyes.  And  then  slowly,  as 
she  listened,  it  seemed  to  her  that  it  must  be  Tommy 
himself  or  Tommy's  ghost  who  was  playing  the 
piano  because  she  had  never  heard  anyone  play 
"When  Irish  Eyes  Are  Smiling"  like  that  with  little 
trills  all  through  it. 

RlSING  halfway  out  of  her  seat,  she  peered  through 
the  smoke  at  the  back  of  the  pianist's  head.  It  was 
...  no,  it  couldn't  be  .  .  .  exactly  like  the  back  of 
Tommy's  head.  She  knew  the  way  the  curly  black 
hair  grew  close  and  vigorous.  But  it  couldn't  be 
Tommy  .  .  .  not  the  Tommy  who  had  a  college  edu- 
cation and  wanted  to  be  a  swell. 

She  pushed  the  table  violently  away  from  her, 
rose  and  went  all  the  way  across  the  room  to  make 
certain.  Before  she  reached  the  piano  she  knew  that 
the  player  was  Tommy,  a  Tommy  who  looked  tired 
and  thin  and  played  the  piano  dully,  without  en- 
thusiasm, a  cigarette  hanging  from  his  lips  ...  a 
Tommy  who  she  knew  at  once  was  crushed.  The 
old  gay,  funny  look  wasn't  there.  He  looked  much 
older  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to  droop. 

She  took  a  chair  and  placed  it  beside  him  and  sat 
down  and  even  then  he  seemed  completely  unaware 
of  her  presence.  He  went  on  playing  absent- 
mindedly,  as  if  his  spirit  had  left  his  body  there 
functioning  mechanically  and  gone  away. 

She  said,  "Hello,  smart  guy!" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her,  not  seeing  her  at 
first,  as  if  he  had  to  wait  for  his  spirit  to  rejoin  his 
mechanically  functioning  body.  Then  he  said,  as  if 
he'd  never  gone  away  before,  "What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

He  went  right  on  playing  because  that  was  his  job 
and  because  he  could  do  it  without  effort  or  con- 
centration. 

"Where  have  you  been?"  asked  Sarah  Jane. 

Tommy  raised  one  hand  from  the  piano  to  chuck 
his  smoked-out  cigarette.  Then  he  went  right  on 
again.  "Chicago,  St.  Louis,  San  Francisco,  Panama 
...  a  lot  of  places." 

"Never  sending  a  word  to  your  poor  old  mother." 

"Leave  my  poor  old  mother  out  of  it." 

"She's  been  nearly  crazy  sometimes." 

"Yeah?  You  don't  need  to  tell  me  about  that." 
He  looked  away  from  her  and  went  into  another 
tune. 

"Will  you  come  home  with  me  tonight  and  sur- 
prise her?" 

"No,"  said  Tommy. 


IT    HII    [HIRE    TRUE 


"Why  not?" 

"I've  got  plans,"  he  said.  "You  keep  out  of  it.  I 
don't  suppose  you  can,  but  anyway  I'm  warning 
you." 

"I'm  gonna  tell  her,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

"If  you  tell  her,  I'll  go  away  again  and  never  come 
back." 

She  wanted  to  say  something  to  reach  him  but  she 
did  not  know  what  to  say  or  how  to  say  it.  He 
turned  away  from  her.  She  saw  cords  at  the  back 
of  his  neck  stand  out  and  his  jaw  suddenly  grow 
hard  and  then  she  knew  there  wasn't  anything  to  be 
done,  not  right  now  anyway. 

"Where'll  I  find  you,"  she  asked.    "Here?" 

"Yeah  ...  off  and  on." 

So  week  after  week,  month  after  month,  they  saw 
each  other  infrequently  and  nearly  every  time  the 
encounters  ended  in  smart  cracks  and  insults.  And 
then  suddenly  Tommy  inexplicably  came  home, 
bringing  with  him  the  mysterious  Mr.  Grasselli,  and 
the  moment  Sarah  Jane  heard  of  it,  she  grew  sus- 
picious. She  knew  her  way  about.  She  didn't  like 
the  smell  of  Mr.  Grasselli  and  she  determined  to 
find  out  who  he  was  and  why  he  had  chosen  to  be- 
come a  pensioner  of  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

BUT  finding  out  who  Mr.  Grasselli  was,  was  no 
easy  matter. 

None  of  the  boarders  ever  saw  him,  not  even  Miss 
Flint,  who  found  excuses  to  go  up  and  down  the 
stairs  several  times  a  day  and  even  managed  to  lin- 
ger on  Mr.  Grasselli's  landing  for  an  hour  or  two  at 
a  time  in  the  pretense  of  mending  the  curtains.  No 
one,  not  even  Maggie,  saw  him  but  Tommy  and  Mrs. 
Lefferty.  ____ 


Neither  Sarah  Jane  nor  Miss 
Flint  (ZaSu  Pitts)  ever  saw 
the  mysterious  new  boarder 


Tommy  brought  in  newspapers  for  Mr.  Grasselli, 
a  good  many  of  which  Mrs.  Lefferty  had  never  seen 
before—  Variety,  The  Daily  Mirror,  The  Daily  News, 
The  Racing  Form  and  The  Hollywood  Reporter. 
Tommy  said  he  read  them  not  so  much  for  the  in- 
ternational and  political  news  as  to  keep  in  touch 
with  his  friends.  Now  and  then,  about  once  a  week, 
Tommy  went  out  and  returned  with  a  visitor  for 
Mr.  Grasselli,  a  short,  rather  plump  Jewish  gentle- 
man with  thick  glasses,  dressed  very  quietly  and  re- 
spectably, and  always  carrying  a  leather  dispatch 
case  with  a  gold  lock  on  it.  He  would  remain  in 
Mr.  Grasselli's  room  for  a  couple  of  hours  and  then 
go  away  again.  Tommy  told  Mrs.  Lefferty  that  his 
name  was  "Mr.  Hirsh,"  but  "you'd  be  surprised  if 
you  knew  who  he  really  was."  That  was  the  nearest 
Tommy  ever  came  to  giving  away  a  hint  of  Mr. 
Grasselli's  true  identity. 

Slowly  the  thing  became  an  obsession  with  Sarah 
Jane.  When  she  was  not  in  bed  eating  chocolates 
and  reading  the  Daily  Mirror  and  the  picture  maga- 
zines and  putting  on  weight,  she  spent  all  her  time 
in  trying  to  discover  who  Mr.  Grasselli  was.  From 
Tommy  she  could  gain  not  the  slightest  hint.  They 
did  not  see  each  other  very  often  even  though  they 
lived  now  in  the  same  house,  for  Tommy,  at  the 
moment,  was  just  a  little  afraid  of  Sarah  Jane  and 
Sarah  Jane  shrewdly  divined  that  the  time  for 
breaking  down  Tommy  would  never  arrive  so  long 
as  Mr.  Grasselli  was  there  in  the  house  troubling 
Tommy's  conscience.  For  she  knew  almost  at  once 
that  there  was  something  shady  about  Mr.  Gras- 
selli and  that  Tommy  was  worried. 


Now  and  then  she  encountered  Tommy  working 
over  his  songs  at  poor  Miss  Minnie's  piano.  She  did 
not  hesitate  to  attack  him  on  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Grasselli.  One  day  she  said,  "If  you  want  to  get 
yourself  into  trouble,  it's  okay  by  me,  but  you 
haven't  any  right  to  drag  your  mother  and  Ma  into 
it." 
"Who's  dragging  them  into  anything?" 
"What's  he  hidin'  from?" 

"He's  not  hiding  from  anything.    Go  on  away  and 
let  me  work." 
"You  might  give  me  an  idea  of  one  of  your  songs." 
"Sure,"  said  Tommy.     "I  didn't  know  you  were 
interested." 

So  Sarah  Jane  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cigarette 
and  listened  while  he  played.  At  first  she  lay  back 
in  poor  Miss  Minnie's  armchair,  relaxed  and  not 
very  sanguine  in  her  expectations.  Then  slowly,  as 
Tommy  played,  she  sat  up  a  little  in  the  chair,  and 
by  the  time  he  had  finished,  she  was  sitting  on  the 
edge. 

"Jeez  .  .  ."  she  said.  "That's  good!  Where'd  you 
learn  to  do  that?" 

"Haven't  you  ever  heard  about  genius?"  asked 
Tommy. 

He  handed  her  the  manuscript  and  she  looked 
over  it.  When  she  handed  it  back  to  him  she  said, 
"Well,  what  d'you  know  about  that?  It  looks  like 
the  real  thing  ...  all  written  out  and  everything. 
I  didn't  know  you  were  so  smart.  Where'd  you 
learn  to  write  out  music?" 

"Well,  that's  one  of  the  things  I  learned  wander- 
ing about." 

The  shoe  was  suddenly  on  the  other  foot  and  both 
of  them  were  aware  of  it.  Sarah  Jane  was  not 
treating  him  now  as  if  he  were  a  naughty  half- 
witted child  who  had  to  be  taken  care  of.  She  was 
impressed,  and  in  her  simplicity  she  collapsed  at 
once.  The  fact  that  she  was  impressed  changed  her, 
and  Tommy  saw  that  too  right  away.  He  swelled 
a  little  with  pride.  He  lost  the  defensive  air  of  in- 
difference and  defeat.  His  eyes  became  brighter  and 
the  color  came  into  his  pale  face.  It  was  as  if  the 
old  Tommy  had  suddenly  returned.  Sarah  Jane 
noticed  it  at  once  and  thought,  "Maybe  that's  done 
it.  Maybe  if  I  keep  on  telling  him  he's  God  himself, 
I  can  get  through  to  him."  The  emotion  wasn't 
false,  either.    The  song,  she  thought  was  swell. 

"Got  any  others?" 

He  played  three  others,  singing  the  words  in  the 
husky  tenor  voice  which  she  loved.  When  he  had 
finished,  she  said,  "You're  wonderful.  Maybe  you'd 
let  me  take  a  crack  at  singing  one  of  'em?" 

"Since  when  do  you  sing?" 

"I've  always  sung." 

"Yeah,  I  remember,"  said  Tommy.  "You  and  poor 
Miss  Minnie's  cats." 

Miraculously  Sarah  Jane  kept  her  temper.  "Well, 
I  do  sing,"  she  said.  "I've  sung  in  public  even  .  .  . 
twice  .  .  .  not  very  good  places,  but  I  got  away 
with  it." 

"Okay,"  said  Tommy  without  enthusiasm.  "If 
you  want  to  try." 

"Sure  I  do." 

So  they  chose  a  comedy  song.  "What  Am  I  Gonna 
Do  Now?"  There  was  a  great  deal  of  difficulty  over 
the  key,  but  at  last  they  found  it  and  Sarah  Jane 
sang  from  the  manuscript  leaning  against  poor  Miss 
Minnie's  piano,  and  when  she  finished,  Tommy 
looked  up  at  her. 

"Not  bad,"  he  said,  patronizingly.  "Not  bad  at 
all." 

"Thanks,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  "Jeez  ...  we  ought 
to  make  a  team.    We'd  be  good." 

"Yeah,"  said  Tommy.  "But  not  so  good  at  starv- 
ing to  death." 

"We  could  get  a  break  someplace." 

"Where?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  We  could  get  somebody  to 
take  us  on.  Of  course  I  can  sing  it  better  than  I 
did.  I'd  never  seen  it  before.  I've  got  ideas  about 
how  to  build  it  up." 

"When  did  you  take  lessons?"  asked  Tommy. 

"I  never  took  any  lessons.  You  don't  need  any 
lessons  to  sing  a  song  like  that." 

"Thanks,"  said  Tommy. 

"I  didn't  mean  it  that  way.  You  know  what  I 
meant.  If  a  girl's  got  any  talent,  she  ought  to  work 
a  song  like  that  out  her  own  way.  She  ought  to 
trust  her  instinct." 

"I  suppose  you  would  take  a  few  suggestions." 

"Sure,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "from  the  composer. 
Give  me  a  chance  to  work  it  up." 

"Okay.  Maybe  that'll  keep  you  from  annoying 
Mr.  Grasselli." 

"Sure,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 


23 


She  had  never  lost  her  temper  once.  Although  a 
score  of  smart  cracks  came  into  her  head,  she  had 
managed  to  suppress  every  one  of  them.  When  she 
went  up  to  her  room  again,  she  couldn't  quite  be- 
lieve what  had  happened,  but  she  was  glad,  because 
for  a  minute  or  two  she  had  recovered  the  old 
Tommy,  quick,  humorous,  lovable.  "Jeez  .  .  ."  she 
thought.  "Mebbe  love  makes  you  keep  your  tem- 
per. Mebbe  I'm  in  love.  Mebbe  that's  the  way  it 
feels."  And  then  suddenly  a  great  revelation  came 
■  to  her.  Maybe  that  was  what  had  been  her  trouble 
all  along.  Maybe  that  was  why  she  never  seemed 
able  to  get  along  with  men.  Maybe  you  had  to  keep 
■  telling  them  that  they  were  God  himself. 

DUT  she  didn't  leave  Mr.  Grasselli  in  peace.    She 
:  knew  perfectly  well  that  he  wasn't  having  any  nerv- 
I  ous  breakdown  and  that  he  was  in  the  house  for  no 
good  reason. 

At  first  she  began  on  Mrs.  Lefferty,  questioning 

her,  but  she  didn't  find  out  anything  because  Mrs. 

I  Lefferty  really  didn't  know  anything,  except  that 

I  one  day  when  she  had  gone  into  the  deep  closet 

I  where  he  kept  his  clothes  and  picked  up  one  of  his 

I  suitcases  to  move  it  out  of  her  way,  it  fell  open  and 

I  revealed  three  revolvers  and  a  big  complicated  piece 

of  machinery  which  must  have  been  a  gun.     She 

.'couldn't  say  because  she'd  never  seen  anything  like 

it  before.    When  it  happened,  she  said  Mr.  Grasselli 

•  got  very  mad  and  followed  her  into  the  closet  and 

asked  her  what  she  was  poking  around  in  there  for. 

-;Then  she  lost  her  temper  and  told  him  she  wasn't 

\  poking  around  but  only  doing  her  work  and  if  he 

didn't  like  it  he  could  leave. 

That  was  exactly  what  Sarah  Jane  had  expected. 
And  then  she  had  an  inspiration.  Now  and  then  Mr. 
Grasselli  did  have  to  go  to  the  bathroom.  These 
visits  she  discovered  were  made  either  late  at  night 
;  or  early  in  the  morning  when  there  was  no  one 
about. 

At  the  end  of  the  bathroom  there  was  a  sort  of 
shallow  curtained  alcove  where  Mrs.  Lefferty  kept 
towels  and  soap,  and  here  one  night,  after  pretend- 
ing to  everyone,  including  Tommy,  that  she  had  gone 
to  bed,  Sarah  Jane  concealed  herself  and  waited. 
When  Mr.  Grasselli  came  into  the  room  she  would 
emerge  from  the  alcove  and  pretend  that  she  had 
come  for  a  towel  or  a  cake  of  soap. 

A  little  after  midnight  she  hid  herself.  She  must 
have  been  there  for  more  than  an  hour  when  she 
heard  his  door  opening  and  his  step  in  the  hallway. 
Peeking  out  from  between  the  curtains  she  saw  the 
door  of  the  bathroom  open  a  few  inches  and  one 
eye  peer  round  the  corner  to  make  certain  the  coast 
was  clear.  When  the  eye  discovered  the  room  was 
empty  the  door  opened  and  the  rest  of  Mr.  Grasselli 
came  into  the  room,  and  she  knew  at  once  who  Mr. 
Grasselli  was. 

Pushing  the  curtains  back,  she  came  out  and  as 
she  emerged,  Mr.  Grasselli's  hand  went  swiftly  into 
the  pocket  of  his  dressing  gown.  And  when  he  saw 
that  it  was  only  Big  Sal,  he  took  it  out  again. 
Sarah  Jane  said,  "So  you're  Mr.  Grasselli!" 
"Yeah,  and  you've  got  a  nerve  spying  on  me.  I 
otta  gone  away,"  he  said,  "when  I  discovered  you 
was  livin'  here." 

"I'm  not  gonna  bite  you."  Then  she  didn't  pre- 
tend any  more.  "I  only  wanted  to  know  what  Tom- 
my had  got  himself  mixed  up  with." 

"Well,  don't  worry.  I'll  beat  it  now.  Anyway 
nobody  would  have  got  into  any  trouble.  They  only 
want  me  on  account  of  Income  Tax." 

"Yeah,  I  read  that  in  the  papers.  It  was  kinda 
dumb  of  me  not  to  guess  you  and  Mr.  Grasselli  was 
the  same.  Nice  of  you  to  get  us  all  in  trouble.  I 
suppose  we'll  all  get  pinched  now." 

"No.  None  of  you'll  get  pinched.  I'm  gonna  give 
myself  up  when  the  time  comes.  Only  the  case 
ain't  ready  yet.  We're  just  preparing  it.  When  it's 
ready  I'll  beat  it  and  nobody'll  ever  know  I  was 
staying  here.  They  can't  ship  me  up  the  river. 
They  haven't  got  anything  on  me.  Only  we  got  to 
make  everything  tight  before  we  take  a  chance." 
"How  was  Tommy  mixed  up  with  you?" 
"He  wasn't  mixed  up  with  me.  I  liked  the  way  he 
played  a  hot  piano  and  I  told  him  I'd  help  to  get  his 
music  published,  and  then  I  asked  him  if  he  knew 
about  a  good  hideaway.  It  had  to  be  a  place  in  New 
York  where  I  could  see  my  lawyer.  I  didn't  even 
want  any  of  the  boys  to  know  where  I  was.  They're 
all  kind  of  nervy  just  now  and  one  of  'em  might 
squeal  to  get  himself  off.  And  he  said  he  knew  a 
boardinghouse  that  would  be  the  last  place  in  the 
world  anybody  would  think  of  looking  for  Monk 
Maguire.  He  was  right,  all  right.  Nobody  would 
ever  think  of  looking  for  me  here.    Only  he  didn't 


tell  me  before  I  came  that  you  was  here  in  the  same 
house." 

"He  didn't  know  it  then,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  "Did 
he  tell  you  after?" 

"No,  I  heard  your  voice.  I'd  know  that  voice  any 
place.    Well,  what  are  you  gonna  do  about  it?" 

"You  must  get  awful  sick  of  that  one  room." 

"I  am  beginning  to  feel  a  little  nuts  from  being 
shut  up  so  much." 

"Why  don't  you  come  down  for  meals,  that  would 
be  a  change?" 

"I'm  not  so  hot  about  being  seen  just  now." 

Sarah  Jane  laughed.  "None  of  them  would  ever 
know.  You  oughta  see  the  rest  of  'em.  Why,  they 
ain't  even  alive.  At  least  they  don't  live  in  New 
York.  They're  a  lot  of  fossils."  And  she  proceeded 
to  give  him  a  description  of  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  and 
Miss  Flint,  Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon.  "You're 
safe  as  a  church  with  them  around.  Sure,  they'd 
make  you  laugh.  .  .  ." 

"Well,  mebbe  I'll  think  about  it." 

Sarah  Jane  opened  the  door  and  went  out. 

And  then  the  worst  happened.  As  she  passed 
Tommy's  door,  it  opened  and  Tommy's  head  was 
thrust  out. 

"Now  you've  done  it,"  he  said.  "Spoiled  every- 
thing with  your  spying." 

"I  haven't  spoiled  anything.  I've  just  kind  of 
cleared  up  the  situation." 

"Yeah?"   He  began  to  swear  at  her. 

"Calm  down!  Calm  down!  He's  not  gonna  beat 
it.  He's  staying  right  here  and  he's  even  coming 
down  to  meals.  Leave  him  to  me.  I  know  him 
better  than  you  do." 

"He  was  going  to  give  me  a  break,"  said  Tommy. 
"He  could  have  helped  both  of  us." 

"He  mighta  talked  about  it  before,"  said  Sarah 
Jane.  "Now  he's  gonna  do  it.  Believe  me,  he's 
gonna.  Go  on  back  to  bed.  I've  been  waitin'  for 
years  for  a  break  like  this." 

I  HE  next  evening  Mr.  Grasselli  came  out  of  his  re- 
tirement and  appeared  at  dinner  all  dressed  up  in  a 
dinner  coat  and  a  black  tie,  his  sandy  hair  all  oiled 
and  shiny,  and  his  appearance  was  the  greatest  mo- 
ment in  the  history  of  Mrs.  Lefferty's  boarding- 
house.  Mrs.  Lefferty  put  on  her  best  dress  and 
Miss  Flint,  making  a  supreme  effort,  hastily  ran  up 
a  concoction  made  of  the  bottom  of  one  dress  and 
the  top  of  another.  She  it  was  who  appeared  the 
most  deeply  affected  by  his  presence.  She  giggled 
and  bridled,  shaking  her  earrings  and  whenever  she 
talked,  she  was  completely  incoherent. 

For  two  weeks,  ever  since  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Gras- 
selli, the  idea  of  him  had  obsessed  her.  In  the  soli- 
tude of  her  own  room  she  invented  the  wildest 
fancies  about  Mr.  Grasselli — how  after  all  these 
years  he  had  come  to  her — the  man  for  whom  she 
had  been  waiting  for  all  her  life.  So  when  Mr. 
Grasselli  came  down  the  stairs  and  entered  poor 
Miss  Minnie's  parlor  she  had  thought,  "Here  He 
comes." 

He  was  not  exactly  what  she  had  thought  he 
would  be.  He  was  not  handsome  and  she  had  not 
exactly  expected  him  to  be  a  little  walleyed,  but 
he  had  other  qualities.  Perhaps  it  was  the  hardness 
of  his  jaw  and  the  cruel  twist  of  the  lips,  the  cold- 
ness in  the  shallow  blue  eyes,  in  which  she  found 
compensation.  In  any  case  he  was  a  success,  per- 
haps because  his  appearance  was  a  surprise. 

Mr.  Boldini  and  Mr.  Salmon  bristled  a  little  at  the 
appearance  of  another  male  boarder,  and  Mr.  Sal- 
mon became  aware  at  once  that  Mr.  Grasselli  did 
not  speak  like  a  gentleman.  At  his  corner  of  the 
table  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  chortled  and  chuckled  to 
himself,  pleased  and  faintly  aware  through  the  haze 
of  immense  age  that  there  was  excitement  about  and 
that  everyone  was  happy. 

Oddly  enough  the  only  one  at  the  table  who  felt 
uncomfortable  was  the  newcomer.  Never  before 
had  he  seen  such  courtly  old-fashioned  manners  as 
those  of  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  and  Mr.  Boldini,  Mr. 
Salmon  and  Miss  Flint  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  herself. 
And  afterwards  in  the  "drawing  room"  (which  was 
a  word  Mr.  Grasselli  had  never  even  heard)  while 
Mrs.  Lefferty  sat  pouring  out  coffee  as  poor  Miss 
Minnie  had  done  evening  after  evening  for  nearly 
sixty  years,  his  fear  and  awkwardness  increased. 
He  became,  also  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  con- 
scious of  his  own  language,  and  aware  that  very 
often  he  expressed  himself  in  words  and  expressions 
which  the  other  boarders  seemed  to  find  quite  as 
new  as  he  found  the  name  of  the  room  in  which 
they  were  sitting. 

After  dinner  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  the  boarders 
were  aching  to  return  to  the  nonstop  rummy  game 


but  none  of  them  was  impolite  enough  to  propose  it 
until  Sarah  Jane,  feeling  that  the  atmosphere  was 
becoming  more  and  more  arid  and  strained,  asked 
Mr.  Grasselli  if  he  played  rummy.  He  didn't,  he  said, 
but  he  played  all  kinds  of  cards  and  liked  playing. 
He  said  that  he  guessed  he  could  learn. 

"They  don't  play  for  money,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

"Okay,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli. 

So  Mrs.  Lefferty  fetched  "the  old  gentleman's" 
gaming  table  and  they  all  sat  down  to  play.  The 
game  relieved  the  atmosphere  enormously  and  after 
a  little  while  Mr.  Grasselli,  with  the  worn  playing 
cards  in  his  fat  ugly  hands,  began  to  feel  more  at 
home.  He  picked  up  the  game  very  quickly,  and 
after  the  second  hand,  no  longer  needed  the  solici- 
tous help  and  advice  of  Miss  Flint.  And  when  the 
second  game  went  to  him,  Mrs.  Lefferty  took  out  the 
copy  book  in  which  she  kept  the  running  score  and 
wrote  "Mr.  Grasselli,"  and  under  it  the  figure  one. 

"Now,"  she  said  to  him,  "you're  one  of  us." 

Mr.  Boldini  won  the  next  game  and  while  Mrs. 
Lefferty  put  away  the  cards  and  the  score,  he  ex- 
cused himself,  and  took  Fanto  for  his  nightly  airing. 

"That's  a  funny  looking  dog,"  Mr.  Grasselli  ob- 
served. "I've  never  seen  one  like  that  except  on 
the  stage." 

"Fanto's  been  on  the  stage,"  said  Miss  Flint  eag- 
erly, "and  he  knows  the  most  wonderful  tricks. 
You'd  never  believe  what  he  can  do,  Mr.  Grasselli." 

"Sure,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty.  "And  Mr.  Boldini  is 
a  magician  ...  a  wonderful  magician." 

"They  ought  to  give  a  performance  for  Mr.  Gras- 
selli. About  twice  a  year  Mr.  Boldini  gives  a  per- 
formance just  for  us." 

And  then  Mr.  Boldini  returned  with  Fanto  who 
made  his  entrance  walking  on  his  hind  legs,  and 
Mrs.  Lefferty  suggested  the  performance. 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Boldini.  "What  about  the 
end  of  the  week?  We've  got  some  new  tricks  we've 
been  practicing.  We'd  like  to  try  them  out.  How 
about  it,  Fanto?"  And  the  poodle  went  into  a  out- 
burst of  happy  barking. 

"And  Mr.  Salmon  could  read  his  poems,"  said  Miss 
Flint. 

"Oh  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  not  really  ...  I  couldn't,"  said 
Mr.  Salmon. 

"If  you'll  read  your  poems,  Mr.  Salmon,  Tommy 
and  I  will  play  and  sing  for  you  all,"  said  Sarah 
Jane. 

This  was  not  entirely  an  innocent  remark.  In  the 
first  place  she  thought  Mr.  Salmon's  poems  were 
the  funniest  things  she'd  ever  heard,  funnier  than 
anything  she  ever  found  in  the  theater,  funnier  even 
than  Mr.  Boldini  when  he  was  giving  a  perform- 
ance. And  in  the  second  place  it  would  give  her 
and  Tommy  a  good  chance  to  show  Monk  what  they 
could  do.  By  Friday  they'd  have  four  or  five  songs 
all  worked  up  and  ready. 

AFTER  that  Mr.  Grasselli  came  down  every  eve- 
ning to  dinner,  and  every  evening  there  was  a  rum- 
my game,  and  every  evening  he  won  more  often 
than  anyone  else.  After  the  second  night  they  let 
him  do  all  the  dealing  because  it  went  so  much 
faster,  and  so  he  became  a  kind  of  croupier  in  the 
gambling  hell  of  poor  Miss  Minnie's  drawing  room. 
Sometimes  Tommy  stayed  in  and  played  the  piano 
and  once  he  went  out  with  Sarah  Jane  to  the  pic- 
tures. Then  on  Thursday,  the  day  before  Mr.  Bol- 
dini's  performance,  two  things  happened. 

In  the  morning  Sarah  Jane  came  upon  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty sitting  on  a  chair  in  Mr.  Boldini's  room  with 
a  letter  in  her  hand,  weeping.  When  she  questioned 
her,  Mrs.  Lefferty  simply  handed  her  the  letter.  It 
was  brief.  It  said  that  the  interest  was  overdue  and 
that  something  would  have  to  be  done  about  it. 
The  bank,  said  the  letter,  had  been  lenient  and  put 
up  with  delays  in  the  past,  but  under  present  condi- 
tions, it  could  no  longer  continue  such  a  policy. 

"So  that's  it!"  said  Sarah  Jane.  She  knew  now 
that  all  along  she  had  been  aware  that  there  was 
something  wrong,  but  she  hadn't  imagined  that  it 
was  as  bad  as  this. 

It  struck  her  for  the  first  time  that  Maggie  and 
Mrs.  Lefferty  weren't  so  young  any  more.  They 
couldn't  go  on  working,  looking  after  people  for- 
ever. She  didn't  know  exactly  what  she  was  going 
to  do,  but  she  meant  to  do  something.  The  idea 
did  not  come  to  her  until  late  that  same  evening 
when  she  was  watching  the  rummy  game. 

Somehow  the  spirit  had  been  going  out  of  the 
game,  slowly,  bit  by  bit,  night  by  night.  In  four 
nights  Miss  Flint  hadn't  won  a  game  nor  had  Mr. 
Salmon.  Mr.  Boldini  had  won  a  single  game  and 
Mrs.  Lefferty  had  won  two.  All  the  others  had  gone 
to  Mr.  Grasselli.     And  then  Sarah  Jane,  watching, 


BV   LOUIS   BROmMELD 


29 


TRUE 


discovered  the  reason.  Mr.  Grasselli  was  stacking 
the  cards.  Once  she  was  suspicious,  twice  she  was 
very  nearly  sure  and  on  the  third  occasion  there 
was  no  doubt. 

For  a  second  she  very  nearly  lost  her  temper  and 
made  a  big  scene.  Mr.  Grasselli  won  the  game,  and 
after  that  everybody  went  to  bed.  While  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty  was  putting  away  the  cards,  Sarah  Jane  said 
to  Mr.  Grasselli,  in  a  low  voice,  "Wait  a  minute, 
Monk.    I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Okay,"  he  answered.    "But  lay  off  that  name." 

"All  right,  Mr.  Grasselli."  Then  she  said  to  Tom- 
my and  Mrs.  Lefferty,  "I'll  be  up  in  a  minute.  I 
want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Grasselli  about  something  con- 
fidential.   I'll  put  out  the  lights." 

Tommy  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  Sarah  Jane's 
heart  gave  a  sudden  leap.  This  time  it  wasn't  a 
look  of  anger,  because  she  might  be  stirring  up 
trouble  for  Mr.  Grasselli.  It  was  a  look  of  jealousy. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  it. 

But  Tommy  and  his  mother  went  upstairs  and 
when  they  were  well  out  of  hearing,  she  said  to 
Mr.  Grasselli.    "Well,  of  all  the  cheap,  lousy  crooks!" 

"What's  the  matter  now?" 

"Palming  the  cards  in  a  game  with  a  lot  of  old 
women." 

"Who  was  palming  any  cards?" 

"Listen,  I  wasn't  born  yesterday.  I  saw  you  do  it 
not  once  but  twenty  times." 

"So  what?" 

"It  would  be  bad  enough  if  you  were  taking  their 
money  .  .  .  but  you're  taking  their  fun  from  'em 
.  .  .  about  the  only  fun  they  have." 

"I  never  thought  of  that.  My  God,  I've  got  to  have 
a  little  fun  myself.  I  guess  it's  a  kind  of  habit.  I 
guess  I'm  goin'  nuts  here  anyway,  bein'  shut  up  all 
the  time." 

"You  oughta  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

"I  am  ashamed  of  myself.  I  won't  do  it  again, 
only  I've  got  to  have  a  little  fun  now  and  then." 
He  was  ashamed.  She  had  never  hoped  for  that— 
a  Monk  Maguire  who  was  ashamed. 

"Sure.  Well,  I  can  tell  you  how  to  have  some 
fun.    I  can  tell  you  how  you  can  square  yourself." 

Mr.  Grasselli  looked  at  her  with  his  one  good  eye. 
"What?"  he  asked. 

"Sit  down." 

Mr.  Grasselli  sat  down. 

"The  old  girls  are  broke,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 
"They're  gonna  lose  the  house  if  something  isn't 
done." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"Some  money." 

"How  much?" 

"They  got  to  have  it  right  away.  About  two 
thousand." 

"Oh,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli.  "Two  grand!  I  thought 
you  was  talking  about  real  money.  Sure,  they  can 
have  it  .  .  .  tomorrow,  as  soon  as  Tommy  can  get 
it  from  my  lawyer.  What  are  they  gonna  do  after 
that?" 

The  words  of  Mrs.  Lefferty  came  to  Sarah  Jane's 
lips.  "Something'll  turn  up."  She  didn't  doubt  it 
now. 

Mr.  Grasselli  went  upstairs,  and  when  she  had 
turned  out  the  lights,  she  followed  him.  Just  as  she 
expected,  Tommy's  head  appeared  in  the  doorway 
of  his  room. 

"What  were  you  doing  downstairs?"  he  asked. 

"Business,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

"Don't  pull  that  stuff  on  me." 

"I'm  not  pulling  anything  on  you." 

"Well,  take  it  from  me.  Don't  get  mixed  up  with 
that  guy.  I'll  beat  you  up  first.  If  Maggie  isn't 
strong  enough,  I  am." 

In  disgust  she  walked  off  and  left  him.  It  was 
only  after  she  had  gone  that  he  remembered  he 
still  had  not  found  out  what  her  business  with  Mr. 
Grasselli  had  been. 

She  told  him  in  the  morning  when  Mr.  Grasselli 
sent  him  with  a  note  to  "Mr.  Hirsh,"  instructing  him 
to  pay  over  two  thousand  dollars.  Mr.  Grasselli 
hadn't  any  money  or  securities  in  the  bank.  They 
were  all  in  the  keeping  of  "Mr.  Hirsh"  where  the 
government  couldn't  find  out  about  them. 

CHAPTER  HI 

AT  last  the  night  of  the  performance  ar- 
rived. Mrs.  Lefferty  arranged  to  have 
supper  a  little  early  so  that  she  and 
Maggie  could  both  be  up  in  the  drawing 
room  by  nine  o'clock.  Everybody  was 
excited,  even  Mr.  Grasselli,  to  whom  the 
performance  offered  at  least  a  change  from  the  in- 
evitable routine  of  rummy. 


While  Sarah  Jane  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  arranged  the 
room,  Tommy,  with  a  cigarette  hanging  from  one 
corner  of  his  mouth,  played  the  piano  in  order  to 
build  up  the  mood.  At  the  opposite  end  the  au- 
dience seated  itself.  Mr.  Van  Diver,  chuckling  with 
an  excitement  which  he  understood  only  vaguely, 
Mr.  Boldini  a  little  nervous  and  Mr.  Salmon  with  his 
tie  and  hair  carefully  ruffled,  already  getting  into  the 
mood.  In  the  center  of  the  audience  in  a  large  chair 
Mr.  Grasselli  had  been  given  the  seat  of  honor  and 
next  to  him  in  a  smaller  chair  drawn  very  close  to 
his,  sat  Miss  Flint  like  the  Queen  Consort.  For  the 
occasion  she  had  tied  a  bit  of  black  velvet  about  her 
throat  and  wore  a  butterfly  of  rhinestones  given  her 
long  ago  by  one  of  her  employers,  pinned  in  her 
flaming  hair.  She  clutched  her  handkerchief  in  her 
hand,  and  kept  saying,  "Oh,  I've  never  been  so  ex- 
cited." She  kept  smoking  incessantly.  The  smoke 
of  her  cigarette  drifted  upward  and  mingled  with 
that  from  the  expensive  cigar  made  especially  for 
Mr.  Grasselli  in  Havana. 

Presently  Mr.  Salmon  retired  and  everything  was 
ready  and  Sarah  Jane  stood  up  and  announced  that 
the  program  was  about  to  begin.  Mr.  Salmon,  she 
said,  would  open  his  program  by  reading  two  or 
three  of  his  poems.  After  that  would  appear  the 
Great  Boldini  and  Fanto,  the  wonder  dog,  and  it 
would  close  with  an  act  by  Tommy  Lefferty  and 
Sarah  Jane  Ryan,  "Ryan  and  Lefferty,"  she  said, 
"in  a  few  songs." 

Then  Tommy  left  the  piano  and  came  to  sit  in  the 
audience,  and  Sarah  Jane  went  upstairs  to  summon 
Mr.  Salmon,  and  suddenly,  as  if  they  were  in  a  real 
theater,  the  audience  lowered  their  voices  and  con- 
versed in  whispers.  "Oh,  I'm  so  excited,"  said  Miss 
Flint. 

Mr.  SALMON  chose  two  poems  out  of  his  "Vil- 
lage" period.  One  was  called,  "In  Praise  of  Venus," 
and  the  other  "The  Tea  Shop  Under  the  El." 

Long  ago  as  a  handsome  ox-eyed  boy  with  an 
open  throat  reading  before  the  literary  ladies  of  the 
days  before  the  war,  he  had  acquired  a  special  and 
impressive  technique,  in  which  there  remained 
traces  of  the  Oscar  Wilde  influence. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  go  into  a  trance,  wait- 
ing for  the  audience  to  grow  calm.  Then  clearing 
his  throat,  he  began. 

"Oh,  Venus,  born  of  hot  and  languorous  seas, 
Creature  of  breasts  and  buttocks  and  dimpled 
thighs." 

At  the  second  line  Mr.  Grasselli  began  to  feel 
nervous.  Something  about  Mr.  Salmon's  poem,  re- 
cited in  the  genteel  surroundings  of  poor  Miss  Min- 
nie's drawing  room,  seemed  to  him  indecent.  By 
the  middle  of  the  poem  he  began  stealing  glances  to 
right  and  to  left  to  see  how  the  ladies  were  taking  it. 
The  faces  of  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  were  per- 
fectly blank  and  filled  with  that  look  of  awe  which 
they  both  felt  at  any  demonstration  of  literacy.  On 
the  angular,  sagging  face  of  Miss  Flint  there  was  a 
look  of  rapture  as  if  Mr.  Salmon's  ode  was  written 
to  herself  instead  of  Venus  Anadyomene.  It  made 
Mr.  Grasselli  suddenly  suspect  the  authenticity  of 
that  atmosphere  of  gentility  which  made  him  feel 
so  ill  at  ease. 

There  was  a  faint  patter  of  applause  to  which  the 
shocked  Mr.  Grasselli  contributed  nothing  as  a  way 
of  showing  his  disapproval.  Then  Mr.  Salmon,  after 
a  bow,  cleared  his  throat  again  and  announced. 
"The  next  verse  was  written  a  great  many  years  ago 
when  I  lived  in  Eighth  Street.  Some  of  you  never 
knew  Greenwich  Village  when  it  was  the  American 
Parnassus.  Some  of  you  are  not  old  enough  to  have 
known  it.  I  hope  my  few  lines  will  give  you  an  im- 
pression of  what  it  was  like  during  those  Golden 
Days.  The  poem  was  called,  "The  Little  Tea  Room 
Under  the  El.'    It  is  written  in  free  verse." 

He  began: 

"Beneath  the  El  obscured  by  the  grim  shadow  of  a 

prison, 
Nymphs  and  fauns  disported  by  the  light  of  ancient 

candles  on  tables  of  ebony  and  lacquer  red 
Venus,  enshrined,  gave  blessing  to  the  revels  unseen, 

reclining  on  her  bed  of  clouds.  .  .  ." 

As  he  read,  recognition  slowly  dawned  on  Mr. 
Grasselli.  The  second  poem,  like  the  first,  was  filled 
with  references  to  the  more  unmentionable  parts  of 
female  anatomy,  still  designated  by  those  refined 
words  which  Mr.  Grasselli  found  so  offensive;  but 
this  time  Mr.  Grasselli  was  less  shocked  than  trans- 
lated to  the  realm  of  wonder. 


At  the  close  of  the  poem  Sarah  Jane  seemed  sud- 
denly to  be  overcome  by  an  attack  made  up  of  equal 
parte  of  coughing  and  sneezing  and  ran  from  the  | 
room.    Maggie  looked  after  her  severely. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  leaned  forward  and  said.  "Isn't  he; 
wonderful?"  and  Miss  Flint  echoed,  "Wonderful!: 
and  Mr.  Salmon  came  toward  them  and  sat  down,: 
beaming.  After  all  nothing  had  changed  in  forty; 
years  since  he  first  read  as  a  boy  of  twenty  in  Mrs.' 
Van  Rensselaer's  drawing  room  on  Sixteenth  Street.  I 

Then  Mr.  Boldini  excused  himself  to  go  and  fetch  I 
Fanto,  and  Tommy  seated  himself  at  the  piano  and! 
began  to  play.  Sarah  Jane,  who  seemed  to  have  I 
recovered  her  coughing  fit,  returned,  and  took  her  | 
place  in  the  audience,  but  traces  of  the  attack  still 
remained,  for  every  time  she  looked  at  Mr.  Salmon  | 
it  began  all  over  again. 

The  appearance  of  Mr.  Boldini  was  heralded  by' 
the  wild  barking  of  Fanto. 

The  entrance  came  as  something  of  a  surprise  to  I 
everyone,  for  even  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty,  as  \ 
often  as  they  have  seen  him  go  through  his  reper- 
toire of  old-fashioned  tricks,  had  never  seen  him  in  I 
costume  before.  He  had  chosen  to  appear  as  a  i 
Roman  and  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  mail  made  of 
papier-mache  and  painted  bronze.  Here  and  there  \ 
the  papier-mache  had  given  way  beneath  some  an- 
cient strain  and  cracked,  leaving  the  bronze  paint 
chipped  and  missing  in  spots.  On  his  head  he  wore  ' 
a  helmet  of  pseudo -Roman  design  with  a  plume  of 
black  horse  hair  which  fell  to  his  shoulders  and  be- 
came  confused  with  his  own  long  black,  dyed  hair. 
Beneath  the  coat  of  mail  he  wore  a  sort  of  kilt  which 
left  his  bony  knees  exposed,  and  fastened  about  his 
throat,  and  hanging  down  the  back  he  wore  a  long 
cloak  of  faded  purple  pierced  by  a  great  many  moth 
holes.  One  thing  about  the  costume  he  had  either 
failed  to  notice  or  been  blind  to;  the  armor  had  been 
made,  in  the  classic  Roman  fashion,  upon  the  mold  : 
of  a  heroic  warrior  with  all  the  muscles  of  massive 
trunk  moulded  in  high  relief.  Looking  at  it,  one 
expected  it  to  be  accompanied  by  limbs  of  massive  ' 
herculean  proportions;  instead,  there  emerged  from 
the  openings  in  the  armor  only  Mr.  Boldini's  own . 
skinny  withered  legs  covered  with  black,  coarse 
hair.  The  effect  was  that  of  a  spider  with  a  large 
body  rearing  into  the  air. 

The  sight,  after  the  strain  of  Mr.  Salmon's  em- 
barrassing words,  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Grasselli. 
He  grew  red   in   the   face   and   choked   and  then 
snorted  and  went  into  a  coughing  fit  like  Sarah  Jane. 
While  he  coughed  and  stuffed  a  handkerchief  into 
his  mouth,  the  Great  Boldini  waited  with  an  ex- 
pression of  resignation  on  his  face.     Beside  him 
Fanto  wriggled  and  wagged  his  tail  in  impatience 
to  show  off  before  an  audience.    When  Mr.  Gras- 
selli had  recovered  himself,  Mr.  Boldini,  in  his  spec-  \ 
tral  tragedian's  voice  enriched  by  a  heavy  Trieste  \ 
accent,  said,  "Ladies  and  Gentlemen:     This  eve-  ; 
ning  I  am  going  to  exhibit  to  you  a  few  tricks  which 
I  hope  will  hold  your  attention.    One  or  two  of  them 
have  defied  the  efforts  of  whole  committees  to  un- 
derstand.  I  regret  that  I  have  not  my  troupe  with 
me  and  the  stage  is  too  small  to  employ  all  the  ap- 
paratus which  would  be  necessary  to  give  you  such 
an  entertainment  as  I  should  feel  worthy  of  the  ; 
Great  Boldini.    However,  we  shall  do  our  best.    And 
now  I  take  pleasure  in  introducing  to  you  Fanto, 
The  World's  Wonder  Dog." 

At  the  sound  of  his  name  Fanto  stood  on  his  hind 
legs  and  made  a  bow.    He  heard  the  faint  discreet  | 
murmur  of  Miss   Flint  saying,   "Oh,  the  darling! 
Isn't  he  cute?"  and  gave  a  faint  wag  of  his  short  tail 
in  answer  to  the  flattery. 

THE  Great  Boldini  went  on  with  his  tricks.  There 
wasn't  anything  extraordinary  about  them.  He  con- 
tented himself  with  the  tricks  he  passed  off  at  the 
children's  parties,  simple  ones  in  which  he  produced 
odd  subjects  out  of  the  plumed  Roman  helmet  and 
from  beneath  the  flowing  moth-eaten  cloak,  and . 
slowly  as  he  worked,  he  became  aware  that  a  ter-  I 
rible  thing  was  happening,  the  same  terrible  thing 
which  happened  nearly  always  nowadays  when  he 
and  Fanto  appeared  together  at  children's  parties. 
Fanto,  his  "stooge,"  was  stealing  the  show.  His 
audience  was  more  interested  in  Fanto  than  in  the 
Great  Boldini;  and  worst  of  all,  as  Mr.  Boldini  no- 
ticed from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  Fanto  knew  it  and 
was  showing  off.  He  was  insufferable,  wagging  his 
tail  and  whimpering  and  looking  to  the  audience  for 
approbation.  Pangs  of  jealousy  attacked  the  Great 
Boldini.  And  slowly  the  jealousy  transformed  itself 
into  fury  and  Mr.  Boldini  came  to  a  decision.  He 
knew  what  he  would  do.  He  would  punish  Fanto. 
The  new  and  wonderful  tricks  he  had  been  rehears- 


30 


lng  depended  more  upon  Fanto  than  upon  himself, 
and  Fanto,  whimpering  and  impatient,  was  longing 
for  the  moment  when  he  might  show  off.  Des- 
perately Mr.  Boldini  kept  trying  to  annex  to  himself 
the  success  Fanto  was  having  behind  his  back.  In- 
wardly furious,  he  would  turn  suddenly  and  pat 
Fanto's  head  and  murmur,  loud  enough  for  his  au- 
dience to  hear,  "Good  old  fellow"  and  "Clever  dog." 
He  would  give  the  poodle  a  patronizing  glance  over 
his  shoulder  and  then  chuckle,  with  bitter  artificial- 
ity as  much  as  to  say,  "Haven't  I  trained  him  well? 
Isn't  he  a  clever  dog?"  And  all  the  time  he  was 
longing  to  pinch  the  incorrigible  Fanto's  ear  or  give 
him  a  good  smack  to  put  him  in  his  place. 

Behind  the  frozen  smile  he  turned  on  the  poodle, 
he  came  to  a  decision.  He  thought,  "Very  well, 
young  man,  "I'll  fix  you!  We  won't  do  the  new 
tricks  at  all!"  And  so  instead  of  withdrawing  for  a 
moment  to  put  Fanto  into  a  travesty  of  his  own 
Roman  costume  for  the  new  tricks,  he  went  sud- 
denly into  the  goldfish  trick,  the  breath-taker  with 
which  he  always  finished  his  act. 

Fanto  knew  the  goldfish  trick!  He  knew  it  was 
the  end  of  the  act.  Vaguely  he  suspected  that  he 
had  been  betrayed.  He  did  not  move  a  muscle  while 
Mr.  Boldini  returned  to  the  stage,  faced  his  audience 
and  impressively  paused  for  a  moment  before  pro- 
ducing a  bowl  of  live  goldfish  out  of  the  air  itself. 
Then  he  acted.  With  a  swift  jerk  of  his  teeth  he 
snatched  the  Great  Boldini's  moth-eaten  Roman 
cloak  and  from  beneath  it  fell  the  bowl  of  goldfish, 
water  and  all,  on  poor  Miss  Minnie's  Axminster  car- 
pet.   The  score  was  even! 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dreadful  silence  while 
the  startled  goldfish  attempted  to  get  their  bearings 
and  swim  away  over  poor  Miss  Minnie's  faded  car- 
pet; then  came  the  explosion.  The  sight  of  the  gold- 
fish was  one  too  much  for  Mr.  Grasselli.  He  began 
to  laugh  softly  at  first  and  then  louder  and  louder, 
and  at  the  first  chuckle  Tommy  and  Sarah  Jane  were 
with  him.  There  on  the  front  of  the  stage  beside  a 
Great  Boldini  who  was  shattered,  stood  Fanto  on  his 
hind  legs  barking  joyously  and  taking  his  bow. 

Nothing  could  check  the  laughter.  Mr.  Grasselli 
shook  in  a  terrifying  way,  clapping  his  hands  to- 
gether at  the  same  time  to  create  an  applause  which 
was  worse  than  if  he  had  kept  silent  because  each 
clap  was  patronizing.  Sarah  Jane  began  to  grow 
red  in  the  face  and  choke  again.  Tommy  howled. 
Maggie  and  Miss  Flint  glared  at  the  offenders  but 
nothing  could  stop  the  awful  mirth. 

Mr.  Boldini  dashed  suddenly  from  the  stage  but 
Fanto  lingered  for  a  moment  longer  to  savor  to  the 
full  his  triumph  and  success. 

"That's  great,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli,  gasping  for 
breath,  "that's  one  of  the  best  acts  I  ever  seen." 

"It  wasn't  meant  to  be  like  that.  It's  a  wonderful 
trick,"  said  Miss  Flint  with  a  frozen  dignity.  "Fanto 
is  naughty.    I  can't  imagine  what  got  into  him." 

"WhEN  the  wreckage  had  been  cleared  and  the 
panting  goldfish  rescued  they  waited  for  Mr.  Bol- 
dini before  beginning  "A  Few  Songs  by  Ryan  and 
Lefferty."  They  waited  for  five  minutes  and  then 
ten  and  then  fifteen  and  then  Mr.  Grasselli  had  some 
brandy  and  at  last  Mrs.  Lefferty  rose  and  said, 
"Maybe  I'd  better  see  what  is  the  matter,"  and  left 
to  go  up  to  Mr.  Boldini's  room. 

Upstairs  she  knocked  once  and  then  twice  but 

there  was  no  response  and  alarmed,  thinking  that 

*  Mr.  Boldini  in  his  humiliation  might  have   done 

something  terrible,  she  pushed  open  the  door.   She 

saw   that   Mr.   Boldini,   still   in   his  papier-mdche 

.^  armor  was  lying  on  the  bed.    Mr.  Boldini  did  not 

^  even  turn  his  head  when  she  entered  and  for  a 

moment  she  thought  he  might  be  dead,  but  when 

she  touched  his  shoulder  he  turned  his  mournful 

bloodhound  face  toward  her  and  she  saw  that  there 

;■'.  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Sure,"  she  said,  patting  his  shoulder,  "it  was 
'I  nothing  at  all.  It  was  a  great  success.  Mr.  Grasselli 
,     said  he  never  seen  such  a  funny  act." 

At  this  Mr.  Boldini  gave  a  great  sigh  and  a  groan 
Eg  and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

"They're  waiting  for  you  .  .  .  Tommy  and  Sarah 
i-  Jane  ...  to  begin  their  act." 

At  this  Mr.  Boldini  gave  a  great  snort  of  anger. 

Mr.   Grasselli   and  Tommy   and   Sarah   Jane   had 

laughed.    He  could  still  hear  the  awful  sound  of 

their  laughing. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  couldn't  go  down.  I  couldn't  face 

»    them." 

"Sure,  and  you'll  spoil  all  the  fun." 
"No.  Never  again  .  .  .  never  again."  Tears  began 
to  come  out  of  the  large  bilious  eyes. 


"You're  taking  it  too  hard.  Maybe  some  brandy 
would  make  you  feel  better." 

Mr.  Boldini  made  no  response,  "Sure,  I'll  bring 
you  some  brandy  and  they  can  begin  the  act  and 
then  you  can  come  down." 

She  fetched  a  fresh  bottle  of  brandy  and  a  glass 
and  left  them  on  the  table  by  his  side  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  drawing  room. 

"I  guess  we'd  better  go  on  with  the  program,"  she 
said,  "he's  all  broken  up.  Maybe  he'll  come  down 
later." 

So  Tommy  went  to  the  piano  and  Sarah  Jane  re- 
tired to  the  dining  room  to  make  ready. 

It  wasn't  easy.  Both  of  them  were  aware  of  that. 

Sarah  Jane  signaled  that  she  was  ready  and 
Tommy  began  to  play.  Turning  to  the  audience  he 
said,  "This  one  is  called  'Tit  for  Tat.' " 

NOBODY  had  ever  heard  one  of  Tommy's  songs 
through  to  the  end  and  nobody  had  ever  heard 
Sarah  Jane  sing  one  of  them.  Now  for  the  first  time 
they  presented  the  whole,  and  astonishingly,  it  was 
good.  Even  the  1890  faction  admitted  it  grudgingly. 

Sarah  Jane  had  put  on  a  black  evening  dress,  cut 
very  simply  and  very  low  and  she  wore  about  her 
throat,  tied  carelessly,  an  immense  scarf  of  plain 
white  silk.  For  the  first  time  Mr.  Grasselli  thought, 
"The  girl's  got  a  face.  She  ain't  just  all  body.  She 
ain't  just  simply  a  show  girl." 

And  when  she  began  to  sing,  Mr.  Grasselli  dis- 
covered that  Sarah  Jane  not  only  had  a  face,  but 
also  she  had  a  voice.  It  wasn't  exactly  a  voice  for 
grand  opera,  although  the  volume  would  have  filled 
any  vast  auditorium,  but  it  was  a  voice  that  did 
something  to  you.  Mr.  Grasselli,  at  least,  was 
aware  that  it  did  something  to  him.  And  it  was 
good  music  too.  It  was  the  first  time  that  Mr.  Gras- 
selli had  ever  really  listened  to  Tommy's  music,  the 
first  time  he  had  really  seen  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  it.  "Tit  for  Tat"  was  a  swell  song.  The 
rhythm  of  it  not  only  penetrated  the  critical  con- 
sciousness of  Mr.  Grasselli,  who  might  have  been 
expected  to  understand  such  things,  but  Maggie 
felt  it,  grudgingly  for  she  was  still  out  of  temper 
with  Sarah  Jane,  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  even  old 
Mr.  Van  Diver  who  at  the  second  chorus  began  to 
hum  softly  off  the  key  to  himself. 

As  for  Miss  Flint,  she  appeared  to  be  enchanted 
by  the  song  and  began  to  sway  a  little  in  sympathy, 
to  tap  the  tip  of  her  slipper  on  the  floor  and  set  her 
oriental  earrings  to  jangling. 

When  Sarah  Jane  reached  the  end,  there  was  a 
burst  of  applause  and  she  noticed  that  Mr.  Grasselli 
was  applauding  loudly  and  was  quite  red  in  the 
face,  although  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  this 
had  been  caused  by  enthusiasm  or  by  brandy. 

Then  they  sang  another  called  "Here  We  Are  in 
Love"  and  put  a  great  deal  of  feeling  into  it  and 
Mr.  Grasselli  sat  still  farther  forward  in  his  chair 
and  about  the  middle  of  the  song  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  didn't  know  Sarah  Jane  at  all.  She  wasn't 
just  "Big  Sal"  that  he'd  known  about  Broadway 
for  five  or  six  years,  a  big  good-looking  show  girl 
who  was  always  getting  into  some  kind  of  scrape. 
She  wasn't  dumb;  she  couldn't  be  dumb  and  sing 
like  that.  He  did  not  understand  that  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  Sarah  Jane  was  in  love,  richly, 
deeply,  violently  in  love  and  when  she  fell  in  love 
she  did  it  in  a  big  violent  way  as  she  did  everything 
else.  She  wasn't  only  doing  her  best  for  herself; 
she  was  working  to  put  over  Tommy's  songs  as 
well.  In  her  heart,  although  she  wanted  a  "break," 
she  didn't  really  care  about  herself.  She  was  strain- 
ing every  nerve  for  Tommy's  sake. 

Then  after  the  second  song  she  retired  to  the 
dining  room  and  there  was  another  wait  of  five 
minutes  and  then  suddenly  she  appeared  between 
the  dining-room  curtains,  a  Sarah  Jane  none  of 
them  but  Tommy  and  Maggie  had  ever  seen  before 
because  she  was  made  up  as  a  siren,  the  way  she 
had  been  the  day  she  came  downstairs  and  fright- 
ened Tommy  into  an  idea. 

The  sight  of  her  made  the  room  very  still  until 
she  again  leaned  against  the  end  of  the  old  square 
piano,  and  Tommy  said,  "This  one  is  called,  'I'm 
Nada  McSweeney,  the  Glamour  Girl.'"  And  then 
the  silence  was  broken  by  a  laugh,  a  loud  belly  laugh 
from  Mr.  Grasselli  who  had  seen  the  point. 

The  song  itself  was  funny.  Tommy  had  hit  it  and 
in  the  lyric  he  told  the  story  of  Mary  McSweeney 
who  had  been  "discovered"  and  put  into  pictures, 
and  how  they  blocked  out  her  mouth  and  stuck  on 
eyelashes  and  changed  eyebrows  and  taught  her  to 
speak  in  a  bass  voice,  and  altered  her  figure  and 
changed  her  name  to  Nada.  The  gestures,  the  in- 
tonations were  nothing  at  all,  the  mere  set  outlines, 


but  so  skillfully  were  they  done  that  in  turn  she 
created  Garbo  and  Marlene  Dietrich  and  Katharine 
Hepburn  and  Myrna  Loy  and  a  half  dozen  others  so 
that  everyone  in  the  room  except  Mrs.  Lefferty, 
even  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  who  only  knew  them  from 
his  movie  magazines,  got  exactly  what  she  was 
doing  and  began  to  laugh.  Mr.  Grasselli  laughed 
hardest  of  all. 

She  had  won  her  audience,  even  the  hostile  au- 
dience of  the  Nineties.  When  she  finished  there  was 
a  lot  of  applause  and  Mr.  Grasselli  kept  saying, 
"That's  great  .  .  .  Say,  I'd  never  have  thought  it. 
Say,  that's  great!" 

Led  by  Mr.  Grasselli  they  called  for  more  but 
there  wasn't  any  more,  because,  as  Sarah  Jane  said, 
"That's  all  we've  got  ready.  Tommy's  got  a  lot  more 
songs  but  I  haven't  got  them  worked  up." 

"Sing  them  over  again,"  said  Mr.  Grasselli,  so 
Sarah  Jane  sang  them  again,  but  this  time  differ- 
ently, imitating  a  different  star  with  each  verse, 
and  Mr.  Grasselli  laughed  so  hard  that  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty became  alarmed  for  fear  he  might  injure 
himself. 

IN  his  own  room,  Mr.  Grasselli  got  into  a  bathrobe 
and  as  he  opened  the  door  to  go  for  his  bath  he 
discovered  Miss  Flint  waiting  in  the  hallway  out- 
side. He  said,  "Oh,  hello!"  with  exaggerated  casual- 
ness  for  he  was  not  at  all  sure  what  she  wanted  or 
what  she  might  do.  At  sight  of  him  Miss  Flint 
giggled  and  said,  "I've  got  a  surprise  for  you." 

"What  d'you  mean,  a  surprise?" 

She  shook  her  finger  at  him.  "I  know  who  you 
really  are." 

Mr.  Grasselli  didn't  like  this.  He  looked  at  her 
for  a  moment  and  then  said,  "Well,  who  am  I?"  and 
Miss  Flint  opened  her  beaded  bag  and  pulled  out  a 
clipping  from  a  newspaper. 

"Look,"  she  said,  "I  found  it  in  the  kitchen." 

It  was  a  picture  of  the  missing  Monk  Maguire  but 
how  she  had  ever  divined  that  Monk  Maguire  and 
Mr.  Grasselli  were  one  and  the  same  man,  Mr. 
Grasselli  was  unable  to  discover. 

It  was  one  of  the  usual  pictures,  perhaps  a  little 
more  generous  than  most,  for  it  showed  about  a 
quarter  of  his  face  with  his  bad  eye. 

"I  knew  by  the  eye,"  she  said  in  a  voice  filled 
with  romantic  overtones.  Then  she  put  her  finger  to 
her  lips  and  the  long  earrings  jangled.  "But  I 
won't  tell,"  she  said,  "nobody  could  drag  it  from  me. 
I  can  keep  a  secret."  And  she  left  him  suddenly  and 
went  on  upstairs,  still  bridling  and  giggling,  to  the 
tiny  room  which  had  once  been  poor  Miss  Minnie's 
linen  closet.  In  bewilderment,  Mr.  Grasselli  stood 
there  until  she  was  part  way  up  the  stairway,  long 
enough  to  see  her  lean  over  the  rail,  shake  her  ear- 
rings at  him  once  more,  put  her  finger  to  her  lips 
and  say,  "Mum's  the  word."  Then  she  vanished, 
shaking  with  romantic  excitement.  She  was  feeling 
young  again  and  almost  up  to  date.  She  knew  a 
gangster. 

Inside  the  bathroom  Mr.  Grasselli  swore  loudly 
and  eloquently  while  he  waited  for  the  water  to  fill 
the  tub.  Now,  he  knew,  he  would  have  to  clear  out, 
for  his  instinct,  if  not  his  experience,  told  him  that 
Miss  Flint,  despite  all  her  breathless  promises  could 
never  keep  a  secret  like  that. 

When  he  had  finished  his  bath,  he  got  into  bed, 
turned  on  the  radio  and  took  up  the  papers  to  read 
about  himself.  And  while  he  read  and  looked,  he 
listened  to  the  radio,  turning  from  one  station  to 
another,  in  order  to  get  one  torch  singer  after  an- 
other for  he  wanted  to  see  whether  Sarah  Jane 
was  as  good  as  he  thought  she  was.  He  listened  to 
four  and  then  he  decided  that  he  was  right.  Sarah 
Jane  was  better  than  any  of  them  and  Tommy's 
music  was  a  lot  better  than  most  of  the  stuff  that 
was  coming  out  of  the  air.  And  suddenly  Mr.  Gras- 
selli's  great  idea  came  to  him. 

Once  the  inspiration  had  lost  its  novelty  he  was 
surprised  that  he  hadn't  thought  of  it  before.  It 
made  him  decide  to  stay  on  at  Mrs.  Lefferty's 
despite  even  the  peril  of  Miss  Flint.  With  the  great 
idea  under  way,  Mr.  Grasselli  wouldn't  have  to  be 
bored  any  longer. 

CHAPTER  IV 

THE  next  day   neither  Mr.   Boldini  nor  Mr. 
Grasselli  left  their  rooms. 
This  was  a  disappointment  to  Sarah  Jane 
for  she  had  meant  to  take  Grasselli  aside  and 
press  the  question  of  Tommy's  songs.     He 
had,   she   knew,  plenty   of   connections   and 
plenty  of  influence  along  Broadway.     He  could  get 
them  sung  and  even  published. 


BV    LOUIS   BROmFIELD 


m^ 


L   CBItlE   TRUE 


And  then  in  the  afternoon  just  as  she  and  Tommy 
had  begun  to  work,  Mrs.  Lefferty  appeared  with  the 
news  that  Mr.  Grasselli  would  like  to  talk  business 
with  her  in  his  bedroom. 

She  found  Mr.  Grasselli  surrounded  by  bicarbo- 
nate of  soda,  the  Daily  Mirror,  Variety,  and  a  lot  of 
legal  papers  which  "Mr.  Hirsh"  had  just  left.  As 
Sarah  Jane  entered,  he  turned  off  the  radio. 

She  sat  down  and  Mr.  Grasselli  said,  '"Well  I'm 
gonna  become  a  permanent,  I  guess,  unless  Nutsy 
Flint  chases  me  out." 

"Why?   What's  she  done?" 

"She's  found  out  who  I  am." 

"How?" 

"By  the  pictures  in  the  paper." 

"Never  mind,  I'll  fix  her." 

"How?" 

"I'll  tell  her  that  if  she  breathes  a  word  they'll 
take  her  for  a  ride." 

"Okay.  I've  got  an  idea.  My  givin'  money  to  the 
old  girls  ain't  gonna  save  the  place.  It's  got  to  be 
put  on  a  payin'  basis." 

"Yeah,"  said  Sarah  Jane.    "How?" 

"Well.   What  about  a  night  club?" 

"Are  you  crazy?  Can  you  imagine  Ma  and  Mrs. 
Lefferty  runnin'  a  night  club?" 

"They  wouldn't  run  it." 

"Who  would?" 

"I  would.  I  gotta  stay  shut  up  here  at  least  an- 
other six  weeks,  and  I  gotta  have  something  to 
amuse  me." 

"It'll  take  you  six  weeks  to  get  it  goin'." 

"Not  me.  I've  got  a  couple  of  guys  that'll  make  all 
the  changes  it  needs  in  ten  days.  Anyway,  that's 
not  so  tough.  I  don't  plan  to  make  a  lot  of 
changes." 

"What  are  you  gonna  do?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  plan  to  keep  it  pretty  much  as 
it  is.  I'd  kinda  like  to  get  the  atmosphere  we  had 
last  night  .  .  .  you  know,  kind  of  old-fashioned  and 
cosy,  a  sort  of  homelike  night  club." 

"And  then  I've  thought  of  a  good  name,  too."  He 
looked  at  Sarah  Jane  with  pride. 

"What?" 

"The  Golden  Nineties!  It  ain't  exactly  original.  It 
was  Mr.  Salmon's  poems  that  give  me  the  idea." 

"The  place  ain't  big  enough." 

"Yeah,  that's  just  it.  I  plan  to  keep  it  small  and 
exclusive,  see?  And  have  specialties  to  eat  .  .  . 
make  it  an  eating  place  where  you  get  good  food, 
not  just  one  of  these  dumps  where  you  pay  a  lot 
of  dough  for  bad  liquor  and  garbage.  I  wanta  make 
it  small  and  classy,  see?  With  just  a  couple  acts  to 
amuse  the  clients." 

"What,  for  instance?" 

"Well,  you  and  Tommy  doin'  four  or  five  songs. 
I'd  like  to  put  you  and  Tommy  on  and  Mr.  Boldini 
and  his  act." 

"Mr.  Boldini?" 

"Sure.  Just  the  way  he  was.  I  never  seen  any- 
thing funnier.  We  would  make  the  dog  the  star  of 
the  act  and  let  Mr.  Boldini  play  straight.  See? 
Make  them  speeches  just  the  way  he  does  with  that 
long  face  of  his  and  then  have  the  dog  spoil  his 
tricks  every  time." 

"You  mean,  make  the  Great  Boldini  into  a 
stooge?" 

"That's  it." 

"You're  crazy.   You'd  never  get  him  to  do  that." 

"Not  even  if  there  was  money  in  it?" 

"I  doubt  it." 

"You  gotta  bring  the  old  girls  around.  I've  got 
to  have  some  fun  or  I  gotta  find  a  new  boarding- 
house.  And  you  might  ask  Tommy  to  write  a 
coupla  Nineties  numbers.  I  can  kind  of  see  you 
all  dressed  up  singing  a  couple  of  old  sob  songs." 

OHE  couldn't  take  the  thing  up  at  once  with  Maggie 
and  Mrs.  Lefferty  because  Maggie  was  asleep  resting 
her  feet  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  across  the  street 
seeing  the  new  Hepburn  picture.  And  she  knew 
that  Mr.  Boldini  wasn't  in  any  mood  to  discuss  be- 
coming a  "stooge"  for  his  own  dog;  so  she  went 
downstairs  and  told  Tommy  all  about  it. 

He  listened  while  she  told  him  everything  and 
when  she  had  finished,  he  said,  "Well,  what's  the 
answer?" 

"What  d'you  mean?    What's  the  answer?" 

"Well,  what's  he  gettin'  out  of  it?" 

"Nothing  ...  I  guess,  but  amusement." 

Tommy  looked  at  her  sharply,  masterfully,  as  if 
he  were  already  married  to  her  and  beat  her  every 
time  she  looked  at  another  man. 

It  was  a  look  that  Sarah  Jane  loved. 

"What  about  working  up  a  couple  Nineties  songs 
like  he  suggested?  You  know  .  .  .  something  comic, 


like  'In  the  Baggage  Coach  Ahead'  or  'Down  By  the 
Wayside  She  Fell'  only  kind  of  modern  with  a  good 
tune  you  could  dance  to." 

"I  can't  turn  out  songs  like  sausages." 

"Well,  I  guess  it  won't  hurt  your  genius  this 
once.  It  don't  matter  if  they're  lousy  as  long  as 
they're  funny.  We've  got  three  or  four  good  songs 
already.  If  you  listen  to  me,  they'll  be  playing  'Tit 
for  Tat'  and  'Here  We  Are  in  Love'  over  every 
hick  station  all  over  the  country  before  we're  open 
a  week." 

"Okay." 

"You  get  to  work  on  the  songs,  I'll  do  the  rest 
of  it." 

"Okay." 

When  she  left  Tommy  she  went  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  went  through  the  whole  pile  of  Daily 
Mirrors  that  Maggie  kept  in  the  corner  to  start  the 
fires  with  each  morning.  Near  the  bottom  she  found 
what  she  wanted.  Then  she  poured  herself  a  cup 
of  tea  from  the  kettle  of  black  liquid  Maggie  kept 
stewing  all  day  on  the  back  of  the  stove  and  sat 
down  at  the  kitchen  table.  In  about  five  minutes, 
as  she  expected,  Miss  Flint  appeared  for  her  after- 
noon cup  of  tea,  and  from  the  way  she  entered, 
tossing  her  head  a  little,  Sarah  Jane  knew  that  she 
was  thinking  about  Mr.  Grasselli. 

"Oh,  hello!"  said  Miss  Flint,  very  flip  and  modern. 

"Hello,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "I  thought  I'd  join  you 
in  a  cup  of  tea." 

"That's  nice,"  said  Miss  Flint,  pouring  herself  a 
cup  of  Maggie's  witch's  broth. 

"I  just  had  an  idea,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "I  wanted 
to  talk  to  you  about  it." 

"Yes?"  said  Miss  Flint,  blowing  on  her  tea. 

"I  want  a  coupla  dresses  .  .  .  old-fashioned  ones 
.  .  .  you  know,  the  kind  they  used  to  wear  in  the 
Nineties.  It's  for  a  number  I'm  building  up.  You'd 
know  how  to  make  them,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I  guess  I  haven't  forgotten  how,"  said  Miss 
Flint. 


Grasselli  (Humphrey  Bogart) 
told  Sarah  Jane  his  plans 
for  starting  a  night  club 

"Can  you  draw?" 

"Yes  ...  a  little  bit." 

While  she  talked,  Sarah  Jane  kept  turning  the 
pages  of  her  newspaper,  looking  up  now  and  then 
to  watch  Miss  Flint. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "make  me  a  picture  of  a  coupla 
dresses.  Only  I  want  'em  funny.  You  know,  every- 
thing a  little  bit  exaggerated." 

Sarah  Jane  turned  a  page  of  her  Daily  Mirror 
casually  and  took  another  sip  of  black  tea.  "Isn't  it 
awful,"  she  said,  "what  goes  on  in  New  York?" 

"Why?"  said  Miss  Flint,  "what's  going  on?" 

"Just  listen  to  this"  and  Sarah  Jane  began  to 
read: 

"Workers  on  a  North  River  dredge  early  yester- 
day morning  made  a  gruesome  discovery  when  the 
shovel  of  the  dredge  dumped  on  to  the  deck  a  barrel 
containing  the  body  of  a  man  who  had  been  tor- 
tured, strangled  and  his  body  placed  in  the  barrel 
which  was  filled  with  liquid  cement.  Late  this  after- 
noon the  body  was  identified  as  that  of  Buzzy 
Leibowitz  alias  Buzz  the  Whizz  alias  Little  Hermy, 


a  member  of  the  notorious  Valparaiso  gang. 

"The  impact  of  the  barrel  striking  the  deck 
cracked  open  the  cement  which  encased  the  body, 
exposing  it,  naked  and  mutilated,  but  in  a  remark- 
able state  of  preservation  owing  to  the  cement  which 
shut  out  all  air." 

Sarah  Jane  looked  up  from  her  paper.  "Isn't  that 
terrible?"  she  asked. 

"Horrible,"  said  Miss  Flint  in  a  weak  voice. 

"But  listen  to  this!"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

"An  autopsy  showed  that  the  victim  had  been 
tortured  before  being  killed.  The  head  and  feet 
were  tied  together  and  the  body  covered  with  small 
wounds.  About  the  neck  there  still  remained  the 
wire  with  which  the  victim  had  been  garroted." 

"What  is  garroted?"  asked  Miss  Flint  in  a  whis- 
per. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "but  I  j 
think  it  means  slow  strangulation.  Listen!" 

"it  is  believed  by  the  police  that  the  victim  was 
murdered  for  squealing." 

"Squealing,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "means  betraying 
somebody."  With  one  eye  she  regarded  Miss  Flint 
and  saw  that  she  had  gone  quite  white.  The  rouge 
stood  out  on  her  cheeks  in  hard  spots  and  her  lips 
were  trembling  a  little.  She  had  forgotten  all  about 
her  tea. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  finish  your  tea?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  feel  like  it,"  said  Miss  Flint  in  a  whisper. 

"Listen,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  And  this  time,  al- 
though she  regarded  the  newspaper  again,  she 
allowed  her  fancy  to  insert  a  line  of  her  own  cre- 
ation: 

"It  is  believed,"  she  read,  "that  little  Hermy 
talked  too  much  and  let  slip  a  clue  by  which  the 
police  were  able  to  arrest  two  other  members 
of  the  gang.  The  body  was  identified  by  certain 
scars  and  dental  work.  The  gold  teeth  for  which 
little  Hermy  was  famous,  had  been  wrenched  from 
his  jaws,  probably  while  he  was  still  alive." 

Miss  Flint's  hand  went  quickly  to  her  jaw,  and 
little  beads  of  perspiration  came  out  on  her  fore- 
head. 

"Look,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  "Here's  the  picture  of 
the  barrel."  She  handed  the  paper  across  the  table 
but  Miss  Flint  recoiled  from  it. 

"No  ...  no  ...  I  couldn't  look  at  it,"  she  said 
and  then  rising  unsteadily,  she  added,  "I  think  I'll 
go  upstairs  and  lie  down.  I  don't  feel  very  well." 

WHEN  she  told  the  plan  to  her  mother,  Maggie 
looked  at  her  with  a  fishy  eye  untrained  by  Sarah 
Jane's  enthusiasm,  and  said,  "No  good  will  come 
of  it,  and  how  can  I  go  into  the  night-club  business 
at  my  age?" 

Mrs.  Lefferty  received  the  news  with  a  more 
open  mind,  warmed,  as  always,  by  the  romantic 
character  of  her  imagination. 

There  was  a  look  in  Mrs.  Lefferty's  blue  eyes,  the 
look  that  came  into  them  whenever  somebody 
offered  her  tickets  in  a  raffle,  or  sold  her  worthless 
stock  that  was  going  to  make  her  a  millionaire. 
Sarah  Jane  knew  that  look.  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  mak- 
ing up  stories.  She  knew  that  she  had  won. 

She  left  them  and  went  upstairs  to  Tommy,  whom 
she  found  working  on  the  new  songs.  When  she 
and  Tommy  had  gone  over  the  new  songs  a  couple 
of  times,  she  left  him  and  went  upstairs  to  report 
to  Mr.  Grasselli.  She  was  proud  of  her  progress. 
Everything  was  practically  set. 

Mr.  Grasselli  wrote  out  a  telegram.  "Take  that 
out  and  send  it  to  'Mr.  Hirsh',"  he  said,  "that'll  get 
things  started." 

Before  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  had  time  to 
consider  what  happened,  three  men  appeared  at  the 
kitchen  door.  Maggie  would  have  sent  them  away 
but  for  the  sudden  appearance  of  Sarah  Jane  who 
conducted  them  through  the  kitchen  and  showed 
them  where  they  were  to  go  to  work.  About  an  hour 
later  a  contractor  arrived  and  Sarah  Jane  and 
Tommy  took  him  through  the  first  and  second 
floors  showing  him  what  he  was  to  do. 

There  weren't  many  changes.  Poor  Miss  Minnie's 
Axminster  carpet  was  to  be  taken  up  and  a  floor  of 
hardwood  put  down  in  its  place  and  the  opening 
between  the  dining  room  and  the  tunnellike  draw- 
ing room  had  to  be  widened. 

As  for  Maggie,  she  took  up  an  embattled  position 
in  the  kitchen  and  surrounded  by  workmen  and 
dust  and  debris  refused  to  be  moved. 

Only  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  and  Miss  Flint  seemed 
to  be  disturbed,  for  even  Mr.  Boldini,  once  he  had 
been  brought  round,  grew  excited,  and  Mr.  Salmon 
seemed  to  take  on  a  new  youth,  for  he  became 
aware  presently  that  he  was  being  brought  up  to 
date  in  spite  of  himself.  Only  Miss  Flint  seemed  odd 


32 


and  depressed.  Except  at  rare  moments,  she  no 
longer  tossed  her  head  until  the  earrings  jangled, 
and  when  she  went  out  to  the  Women's  Exchange 
now  she  always  wore  a  veil,  a  relic  of  the  Nineties, 
so  thick  that  Sarah  Jane  wondered  how  she  could 
see  where  she  was  going.  Once  more  she  took  to 
being  "followed,"  only  now  it  was  not  by  young  men 
who  were  attracted  by  her  charms  but  what  she  re- 
ferred to  as  "rough  individuals"  who  were  bent  on 
dark  and  sinister  purposes. 

THE  "bringing-around"   of  Mr.  Boldini  was  ac- 
complished by  Sarah  Jane.  She  did  it  craftily,  wait- 
ing for  two  days  until  Mr.  Boldini  appeared  a  little 
less  yellow  and  depressed.  When  the  first  workman 
had  appeared  in  the  house,  she  allowed  Mrs.  Lefferty 
to  tell  him  that  Mr.  Grasselli  was  planning  to  turn 
the  place  into  a  night  club.   This  news  he  received 
with  dubious  enthusiasm,  for  he  was  still  feeling 
embittered  about  everything  even  faintly  connected 
with  the  show  business.    Then  Sarah  Jane  allowed 
him  a  day  of  reflection.    And  on  the  fourth  day, 
Sarah  Jane  knocked  and  bustled  into  his  room  full 
of  enthusiasm  and  excitement. 
"I've  got  news  for  you,  Mr.  Boldini,"  she  said. 
"What?"  he  asked  with  indifference. 
"I've  got  a  job  for  you." 
I     "What  kind  of  a  job?" 

"A  job  as  a  magician  ...  a  regular  job,  seven 
nights  a  week." 
He  began  to  display  a  faint  interest. 
"Yes,"  said  Sarah  Jane,   "Mr.  Grasselli  thought 
you  were  wonderful." 

"Mr.  Grasselli,"  said  Mr.  Boldini  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"laughed.  He  laughed  the  hardest  of  all." 

"He  wants  you  to  put  on  the  act  just  as  it  was, 
with  a  few  small  changes." 

She  saw  from  the  way  he  looked  at  her  that  he 
was  beginning  to  be  suspicious.  "What  changes?"  he 
asked,  in  the  same  hollow  voice. 

"Well,  you  see,  it's  like  this."  Then  suddenly  she 
found  that  she  had  begun  without  knowing  where 
she  was  going.  She  coughed  and  said,  "It's  difficult 
to  explain  .  .  .  but  you  see,  he  liked  the  finish.  He 
wants  to  make  it  all  like  that." 

"You  mean  the  part  where  everybody  laughed?" 
He  glanced  suddenly  at  Fanto's  basket  and  Fanto 
cowered  with  shame. 

"Well,  not  exactly,  only  he  wants  to  make  it  into 
a  laugh  act.  See?  He  thinks  it  would  be  one  of  the 
greatest  acts  ever." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Boldini  stared  at  her  as  if  he 
could  not  believe  his  ears. 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  asking,  young 
young  woman?  Asking  me,  the  Great  Boldini,  to 
make  a  prostitute  of  myself!" 

"All  Mr.  Grasselli  wants  you  to  do  is  to  do  your 
magician's  act  up  to  date  and  teach  Fanto  to  be  a 
clown." 

Mr.  Boldini  gave  Fanto  another  savage  look  and 
again  Fanto  cowered  with  shame.  "That's  easy 
enough.  That's  all  he  is — a  clown!  There  isn't  a 
drop  of  artist's  blood  in  him." 

"Clowns   can   be    artists,    Mr.    Boldini,   just   the 
same  as  you  and  me." 
"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  think  it  over." 
'I'll  tell  Mr.  Grasselli."    She  knew  Mr.  Boldini 
meant  to  do  it. 

As  she  left  the  room  she  noticed  that  there  was  a 
new  expression  in  Mr.  Boldini's  melancholy  face,  an 
expression  she  had  never  seen  there  before.  For  the 
first  time  he  looked  as  if  he  expected  something  a 
little  better  than  the  worst. 

1  HAT  afternoon  Mr.  Grasselli  himself  honored  Mr. 
Boldini  by  a  call  in  his  room  and  there,  after  Mr. 
Boldini  had  gone  through  another  fine  performance 
of  indignation  and  wounded  dignity  and  breast 
beating,  they  got  down  to  brass  tacks  and  discussed 
the  act.  The  trouble,  Mr.  Grasselli  knew  from  the 
beginning,  would  be  in  forcing  Mr.  Boldini  to  play 
"straight,"  to  suppress  his  jealousy  of  Fanto  and 
abandon  all  attempts  to  horn  in  on  Fanto's  success. 

They  went  to  work  at  once  and  for  days  they 
rehearsed  the  act  above  the  din  of  hammering. 

With  a  patience  he  had  never  known  before  Mr. 

Grasselli  labored  with  Mr.  Boldini  until  he  came 

to  the  verge  of  giving  up  the  whole  thing  as  a  bad 

;  job,  and  then  by  accident  he  found  out  how  he 

could  get  the  effect  he  wanted. 
"*.  "Listen,"  he  said,  with  exaggerated  patience.  "Get 
i^r  this  in  your  mind,  Mr.  Boldini.  I  know  it's  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  a  ham  to  play  a 
ham.  See?  You're  a  broken-down  ham  magician 
and  every  time  you  do  a  trick  your  dog  spoils  it 
and  that  makes  you  mad.    Get  me?" 


But  while  he  was  talking  an  expression  came 
over  Mr.  Boldini's  face  that  very  nearly  frightened 
Mr.  Grasselli. 

"So  I'm  a  ham,  am  I?"  he  cried.  "A  broken-down 
ham  magician  .  .  .  me!  The  Great  Boldini!  You 
tell  me  that?" 

Mr.  Grasselli  held  up  his  hand.  "Now,  listen,  Mr. 
Boldini  I  didn't  say  you  were  a  ham.  I  was  just  tell- 
ing you  you  must  think  of  yourself  as  a  ham.  That's 
what  acting  is,  ain't  it?  That's  what  great  art  is. 
Now  listen,  be  sensible  and  go  ahead  with  the  act." 

Fuming,  Mr.  Boldini  went  ahead  with  the  act  and 
miraculously  in  his  fury  and  wounded  vanity,  he 
gave  exactly  the  effect  that  Mr.  Grasselli  wanted. 
Crushing  out  his  cigar,  Mr.  Grasselli  lay  back  in 
bed  and  laughed,  very  nearly  as  hard  as  he  had 
laughed  on  that  first  night.  "That's  it!"  he  said, 
"that's  exactly  it!" 

Mr.  Boldini  beamed  and  Fanto,  the  clown,  aware 
that  he  had  at  last  got  the  laugh  he  wanted,  barked 
and  wagged  his  tail  frantically. 

"You're  a  great  artist,  Mr.  Boldini,"  said  Mr. 
Grasselli,  "when  you  do  it  like  that.  Let's  do  it 
again  and  see  if  we  can  hold  it." 

In  the  meanwhile  Tommy  and  Sarah  Jane  were 
making  progress  with  their  songs  and  Miss  Flint 
was  making  progress  with  Sarah  Jane's  dresses. 

Tommy  had  written  two  Nineties  songs.  One  was 
called  "The  Poorhouse  with  You"  and  the  other 
"She  Was  the  Bartender's  Sister."  Now  they  had 
five  good  songs.  Sarah  Jane  worked  at  them  giving 
them  everything  she  had. 

But  Tommy  didn't  seem  properly  excited  about 
their  debut.  When  Sarah  Jane  questioned  him  di- 
rectly he  said  it  wasn't  anything,  but  he  always 
looked  away  from  her  and  she  was  sure  again  that 
there  was  something  troubling  him. 

CHAPTER  V 

AND  then  suddenly  the  alterations  were 
all  finished  and  the  chairs  and  tables  in- 
stalled and  Maggie's  two  assistants  ar- 
rived and  in  the  afternoon  there  was  a 
final  rehearsal  of  cooks  and  waiters,  cap- 
tained by  Victor  Leontopopulos,  a  head- 
waiter  who  had  served  Mr.  Grasselli  at  the  open- 
ings and  closings  of  countless  night  clubs  and  speak- 
easies. And  at  three  o'clock,  behind  closed  and  cur- 
tained doors  in  poor  Miss  Minnie's  drawing  room, 
the  performers  held  a  rehearsal  under  the  eye  of 
Mr.  Grasselli,  the  impressario.  The  act  of  "Ryan 
and  Lefferty  in  a  Few  Songs"  went  perfectly,  but 
Mr.  Boldini  was  terrible.  Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy, 
watching,  were  aware  of  this  and  it  troubled  Sarah 
Jane  that  Mr.  Grasselli  either  did  not  notice  how 
terrible  it  was  or  he  did  not  seem  to  mind.  When 
she  drew  him  aside  after  the  rehearsal  and  said, 
"Old  Boldini  is  going  to  be  terrible,"  he  only  grinned 
at  her  and  replied,  "Never  mind.  He's  going  to  be 
great.   You  wait  and  see." 

"You're  nuts  if  you  think  that,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

Then  the  worst  happened  about  eight  o'clock  in 
the  evening  when  Tommy  didn't  come  down  to 
dinner.  He  sent  word  by  his  mother  that  he  didn't 
feel  very  well  and  wanted  to  lie  down  for  a  while 
in  the  dark.  When  Mrs.  Lefferty  told  her  the 
news,  Sarah  Jane  was  aware  that  all  along  she  had 
known  this  was  going  to  happen.  Her  instinct  had 
told  her  that  Tommy  was  still  a  broken  reed  that 
might  under  pressure  collapse  completely. 

When  she  had  eaten  a  quick  but  substantial  din- 
ner (for  Sarah  Jane  was  so  healthy  that  she  could 
not  work  on  an  empty  stomach  and  nothing  upset 
her  appetite)  she  hurried  up  to  Tommy's  room. 

She  found  him  lying  in  the  dark  on  his  bed.  He 
didn't  even  stir  and  made  no  effort  to  speak  until 
she  said,  "Well?" 

Then  he  said,  "It's  no  use.  I  can't  do  it.  You've 
got  to  find  another  piano  player." 

Fury  blazed  up  inside  her,  but  in  the  next  second, 
remembering  what  she  had  learned,  she  counted  ten 
before  speaking  and  then  said,  "You  must  be  crazy. 
I  can't  get  a  piano  player  at  this  hour.  And  any- 
way he  couldn't  do  those  songs  the  way  we  do  them. 
Not  even  Paderewski  could  do  it." 

"I  can't,"  said  Tommy,  "that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  don't  know  .  .  .  nerves,  I  guess  .  .  .  jitters. 
What  you  call  neurasthenia.    I'm  scared." 

Quietly  she  came  round  to  the  end  of  the  bed  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  it  by  his  side.  "Listen,"  she 
said,  "you  can't  do  that.  You  can't  let  us  all  down 
.  .  .  not  now,  when  everything  is  ready." 

"I  can't,"  said  Tommy  in  a  low  voice.  "I  guess 
I'm  going  nuts.    I've  been   trying  to  think  of  the 


music  and  I  can't  even  remember  it.  I  guess  I'm 
going  nuts.  If  I  went  on  to  play  I  wouldn't  know 
what  I  was  playing." 

He  said  almost  in  a  whisper.  "I  don't  want  to  act 
like  this.    I  can't  help  it.    It  isn't  my  fault,  Sally." 

Her  heart  suddenly  leapt.  He  had  called  her  Sally 
long  ago  when  they  played  together  in  the  back 
garden;  but  he  had  never  called  her  that  since  he 
came  home.  She  knew  suddenly  that  she  didn't  care 
about  "The  Golden  Nineties"  or  her  career  or  any- 
thing. She  only  cared  about  Tommy.  But  she 
knew  too  that  she  had  somehow,  to  make  him  go 
through  with  their  performance  for  his  own  sake 
more  than  for  any  other  reason.  She  had  to  make 
him  do  it  in  order  to  save  him. 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  said,  "I'm  nuts  or  some- 
thing." 

She  had  to  think  quickly  and  skillfully;  she 
knew  that  she  could  not  risk  making  a  mistake. 
After  a  little  silence  in  which  she  abandoned 
thought  and  allowed  her  instinct  to  tell  her  whot 
to  do,  she  asked,  "Is  it  on  account  of  something 
that  happened  while  you  were  away?" 

He  didn't  answer  her,  and  after  another  silence 
she  said,  "Was  it  something  you  did?"  and  in  a 
whisper,  he  said,  "Yes." 

Then  suddenly  she  took  his  hand. 
"Tell  me,"  she  said,  "it'll  do  you  good.  You  know, 
don't  you,  that  I'm  all  for  you?  .  .  .  that  I'd  do  any- 
thing for  you.   You  know  that,  don't  you,  Tommy?" 
After  a  long  silence,  he  said,  "I  was  in  jail." 
That  didn't  surprise  her,  because  it  was  what  she 
expected.    "What  for?"  she  asked. 
"Bootlegging  ...  in  Detroit." 
She  laughed.  She  couldn't,  in  her  relief,  help  her- 
self.   "That  doesn't  matter,"  she  said,  "bootlegging 
wasn't  any  crime.   Everybody  did  it  .  .  .  everybody 
was   guilty  .  .  .  people    who    drank    were    just   as 
guilty.  Nobody  cares  about  that." 

"I  beat  it,"  he  said.  "I  got  out  of  jail  by  a  trick 
and  beat  it." 

"Well,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  "that  was  very  smart 
of  you.    So  what?    All  that's  finished." 

"It  wasn't  only  that,"  said  Tommy.    "It  was  a  lot 
of  other  things  I  did." 
"What?" 

"It's  no  good  telling  you  some  of  the  things.  I'm 
ashamed  to.  I'm  ashamed  because  I  was  ashamed 
of  you  and  Ma  and  Maggie.  I  thought  I  was  too 
good  for  you  all  until  I  found  out  I  wasn't  good 
enough." 

"It  don't  matter,  now,"  said  Sarah  Jane.  "It's  all 
finished.  You  weren't  the  same  as  Ma  and  me  and 
your  Mother.  You're  kind  of  a  genius  too,  I  guess 
.  .  .  sensitive  like.  You  were  kind  of  different  and 
you  got  to  know  a  different  kind  of  people.  That's 
all  washed  up  now.  We're  both  down  to  brass 
tacks  again.  That's  why  I  know  everything  is  gonna 
be  swell  for  both  of  us.  I'll  bring  you  a  drink  and 
you'll  be  all  right." 

"No,"  said  Tommy,  with  a  sudden  return  of  hys- 
teria. "I  can't!  I  can't  sit  up  there  in  front  of  all 
those  people.  I  can't  remember  anything.  It's  all 
kind  of  come  back  at  once  in  a  heap.  I  can't  explain 
exactly — only  all  I  want  to  do  is  to  hide — like  this  in 
the  dark.". 

IjO  now,  she  knew,  there  was  only  one  thing  left 
to  do,  and  again  she  knew  that  she  mustn't  do  the 
wrong  tiling.  It  had  to  be  just  right.  Again,  she 
abandoned  thought  and  trusted  her  instinct. 

"Tommy,"  she  said. 

Out  of  the  darkness  his  voice  answered  her,  tired 
and  frightened,  "Yes?" 

"Tommy,  would  you  marry  me?" 

There  was  a  silence  and  then  he  asked,  "Do  you 
really  mean  that?    You're  not  kidding  me?" 

"I  never  meant  anything  so  much  in  my  life.  I've 
always  been  in  love  with  you,  I  guess.  Anyway 
since  I  was  about  sixteen  years  old.  Now,  there  it 
is!    How  do  you  feel  about  it?" 

He  pulled  her  hand  up  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 
"There,"  he  said.  "That's  how  I  feel.  I  guess  I  al- 
ways felt  the  same  way  about  you,  only  I  was  a  fool. 
I  didn't  know  it  till  just  lately  ...  I  wanted  to  ask 
you,  only  I  didn't  dare." 

Then  suddenly  he  put  his  arms  about  her.  He 
didn't  speak  at  all  but  only  kept  saying,  "Sally!  My 
God,  Sally!" 

Then  they  both  knew  that  it  had  been  waiting  for 
them  all  along,  all  the  time,  for  years,  and  now 
when  it  came  to  them  it  was  better  than  anything 
they  had  dreamed  of  because  they  knew  each  other. 
They  had  known  each  other  always.  There  wasn't 
any  strangeness.  There  wasn't  anything  they  had 
to  find  out  about  each  other. 


BV    LOUIS    BROmFIELD 


33 


■■■-"".•-■''■■         ..  -     ■  "--■_  '   -:-■■- 


At  about  eleven-fifteen  the  first  clients  began  to 
arrive,  and  about  a  quarter  to  twelve  poor  Miss 
Minnie's  drawing  room  and  dining  room  were  filled 
to  capacity.  Victor  Leontopopulos  had  even  set  up 
two  small  tables  in  the  hall  and  one  against  the  back 
of  the  piano  itself.  There  was  a  special  table  re- 
served for  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  the  boarders,  and  here 
early  in  the  evening  Miss  Flint  and  Mr.  Salmon  had 
installed  themselves. 

Mr.  Salmon,  in  a  dinner  jacket,  but  still  wearing 
his  flowing  tie,  sat  by  the  side  of  Miss  Flint  at  the 
center  of  the  table.  Mr.  Salmon,  watching  her,  from 
time  to  time  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  noticed 
that  her  "subconscious"  was  troubled  by  something. 
Her  mouth  and  eyes  twitched,  worse  than  ever. 

A  moment  or  two  after  they  were  seated  Victor 
Leontopopulos  came  over  to  the  table  and  asked 
them  what  they  would  have  to  eat,  handing  them  a 
menu  filled  with  a  list  of  Maggie's  specialties  which 
made  them  feel  all  at  the  same  time  at  home  and 
very  strange,  because  it  was  the  first  time  in  all  the 
years  they  had  been  here  that  they  had  seen  Mag- 
gie's dinners  set  down  in  cold  print.  When  they 
said  they  would  wait  for  the  others,  Mr.  Leonto- 
populos invited  them  to  have  a  bottle  of  champagne, 
tactfully  adding  that  he  had  received  instructions 
that  they  were  to  have  everything  and  that  it  would 
all  be  "on  the  house."  So  they  had  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  and  presently  Mrs.  Lefferty,  with  old 
Mr.  Van  Diver  in  tow,  appeared  through  the  passage 
from  behind  the  screen  and  joined  them. 

Mrs.  Lefferty  wore  a  fine  purple  dress  with  poor 
Miss  Minnie's  seed  pearls  and  looked  very  hand- 
some, handsomer  than  Mr.  Salmon  had  ever  seen 
her  look,  and  Old  Mr.  Van  Diver  wore  a  white  tie 
and  an  odd  old-fashioned  tail  coat  which  had  turned 
a  little  green  along  the  seams  and  been  restored 
to  something  of  its  original  color  by  Mrs.  Lefferty 
with  the  aid  of  a  bottle  of  India  Ink. 

Mr.  Grasselli,  opener  and  closer  of  night  clubs  and 
speakeasies,  had  done  his  work  well.  The  room  was 
full  of  important  people — agents  and  actors,  motion- 
picture  people,  columnists  and  newspapermen,  rack- 
eteers and  chiselers,  and  people  generally  who  were 
in  the  "know."  Taken  as  an  audience,  as  a  picture 
as  a  whole  they  frightened  Mr.  Salmon  and  Mrs. 
Lefferty;  made  no  impression  whatever  on  Mr.  Van 
Diver,  and  only  added  to  the  terror  of  poor  Miss 
Flint,  whose  eyes  and  mouth  took  to  twitching 
harder  than  ever  at  sight  of  them.  And  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty, with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  suddenly  under- 
stood what  had  happened.  Suddenly  it  wasn't  fun 
and  exciting  like  making  up  a  story.  She  didn't  like 
any  of  their  faces  any  more  than  Miss  Flint  liked 
them.  They  weren't  poor  Miss  Minnie's  kind  or  her 
own.    They  were  cheap. 

Mr.  Leontopopulos  brought  another  bottle  of 
champagne.  They  were  all  enjoying  it  and  Mrs. 
Lefferty  said  it  was  kind  of  him  to  think  of  them. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Miss  Flint  had 
ever  tasted  champagne  and  she  thought  it  was 
lovely.  Mr.  Salmon  filled  her  glass  twice  and  then 
three  times  and  then  four.  And  then  suddenly 
without  warning,  from  behind  the  screen  which  hid 
the  dumb-waiter  just  beside  them,  appeared  a  face 
which  was  at  once  terrifying  and  familiar.  It  was 
Miss  Flint  who  saw  it  first  and  she  gave  a  faint 
scream,  which  attracted  the  notice  of  the  others. 
What  she  saw  was  like  something  out  of  a  night- 
mare, out  of  one  of  these  dreams  which  she  had 
been  having  night  after  night,  of  late.  It  was  Mr. 
Grasselli,  but  a  Mr.  Grasselli  none  of  them  had  ever 
seen  before.  His  hair  and  new-grown  mustache 
were  dyed  black,  not  a  natural  kind  of  black,  but 
the  black  of  shoeblacking,  and  he  wore  a  pair  of 
dark  glasses  which  made  it  impossible  to  tell  that 
he  was  walleyed.  The  whole  face  resembled  more 
than  anything  else,  the  face  of  a  walking  corpse. 

Miss  Flint  stifled  her  scream  and  Mr.  Salmon 
pressed  upon  her  another  glass  of  champagne,  and 
then  the  spectral  face  of  Mr.  Grasselli  disappeared. 

IT  disappeared  at  the  presence  in  the  hallway  of 
Mr.  Boldini  in  his  Roman  costume  accompanied  by 
a  panting  and  whimpering  Fanto,  a  number  of 
wands  and  rings  and  colored  handkerchiefs  and  a 
bowl  of  live  goldfish.  Fanto  was  scarcely  more  ex- 
cited than  Mr.  Boldini,  but  the  magician  managed  to 
conceal  his  excitement  beneath  an  expression  of 
such  smugness  that  at  sight  of  him  Mr.  Grasselli 
thought,  "I'll  have  to  make  him  mad  as  Hell  or  he's 
gonna  be  terrible." 

Then  Tommy  appeared,  looking,  Mr.  Grasselli 
thought,  like  a  stranger.  He  looked  very  smart  and 
he  held  himself  very  straight  and  there  was  color  in 
his  face  and  a  challenging  twinkle  in  his  blue  eyes. 


Mr.  Grasselli  looked  at  him  hard;  this  couldn't  be 
the  Tommy  who  a  couple  of  hours  before  had  been 
too  sick  with  stage  fright  to  join  the  others  at  din- 
ner.   Then  he  drew  Tommy  aside. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  "I  forgot  all  about  a  master  of 
ceremonies.  You've  got  to  be  it.  You've  got  to  in- 
troduce old  Boldini." 

Tommy  gave  a  signal  to  the  tiny  orchestra  that 
sat  pressed  against  the  piano  and  there  was  a  roll 
of  drums  and  he  stepped  forward  into  the  tiny  space 
left  just  before  the  widened  doorway  from  the 
drawing  room  into  the  dining  room. 

With  the  greatest  of  professional  airs,  he  waited 
for  the  murmur  to  die  away.  Then  he  said,  "Ladies 
and  Gentlemen:  I  thank  you  in  behalf  of  the  man- 
agement, the  performers,  the  staff  and  myself  for 
coming  here  tonight.  As  you  see  (here  he  looked 
all  around  the  room),  we  are  crowded  to  the  doors. 
In  spite  of  every  effort,  we  have  had  to  turn  away 
a  large  crowd.  We  are  doing  our  best.  I  hope  you 
will  like  the  place  and  that  you  find  the  food  as 
good." 

From  the  back  of  the  room  a  voice  said,  "Great!" 
and  from  another  corner  a  second  voice  said, 
"Swell!"  Listening  behind  the  screen,  Maggie  heard 
these  compliments  and  beamed. 

Then  Tommy  went  on,  "I  hope  you  will  like  our 
performers  of  whom,"  he  said  modestly,  "I  am  one. 
In  any  case  the  management  hopes  to  give  you 
something  new.  The  first  number  on  the  program 
will  be  The  Great  Boldini  and  his  dog,  Fanto." 
(From  behind  the  screen  came  the  sound  of  a  joy- 
ous bark,  quickly  stifled.)  "There  he  is  now,"  said 
Tommy. 

Then  he  made  a  little  bow,  received  a  round  of 
applause,  and  retired. 

Mr.  Boldini  did  not  come  out  at  once,  but  that 
was  because  Mr.  Grasselli  was  preparing  him  for 
his  appearance.  In  the  half- darkness  behind  the 
screen  Mr.  Grasselli  said,  "Now  listen,  you  old  ham. 
Remember  you're  a  lousy,  broken-down  magician 
and  this  is  your  chance  to  come  back.  Get  on  there 
and  do  your  stuff.  And  for  God's  sake,  try  not  to 
it!" 


After  her  second  song,  the 
audience  called  for  Sarah 
Jane  and  Tommy  to  come  back 

A  look  of  fury  crossed  the  bloodhound  face.  The 
mouth  opened  to  speak,  but  no  words  came  out,  be- 
cause before  he  could  speak  Mr.  Grasselli,  with  the 
aid  of  his  foot,  sent  him  through  the  doorway  onto 
the  tiny  stage,  preceded  by  a  barking,  joyous  Fanto. 

The  entrance  of  Mr.  Boldini  savored  less  of  pomp 
and  dignity  than  of  rage. 

There  was  a  wave  of  laughter,  and  when  Mr. 
Boldini  glared  at  the  audience  in  rage,  they  took  it 
as  a  part  of  his  role  and  began  to  laugh  all  over 
again.  In  a  fury  he  went  through  the  whole  act, 
feeling  against  Fanto  the  same  genuine  resentment 
he  had  felt  on  the  night  when  Fanto  ruined  every- 
thing. And  each  time  the  audience  laughed  at  his 
anger,  the  laughter  served  only  to  increase  it.  Fanto 
was  perfect,  for  he  liked  an  audience.  He  made  all 
the  men  laugh  and  he  charmed  the  women,  and  the 
minute  Mr.  Boldini  turned  his  back  for  a  moment, 
to  make  one  of  his  pompous  speeches,  Fanto  turned 
a  somersault  or  stood  on  his  head  to  attract  attention 
to  himself.  The  goldfish  trick  was  a  triumph,  and 
when  Fanto  upset  the  bowl  on  the  floor,  there  was  a 
tempest  of  laughter  and  applause. 

The  act  was  suddenly  over  and  Mr.  Boldini  and 
Fanto  were  called  back  again  and  again.  It  was  only 
then  that  Mr.  Boldini  grasped  the  fact  that  he  had 


been  a  success,  and  he  was  never  aware  that  all  the 
time,  while  he  was  playing  the  act  in  a  blind  rage, ; 
the  audience  had  believed  that  the  rage  was  acting. 
And  now  as  the  lovely  sound  of  applause  came  roll- 
ing back  to  him,  everything  was  changed;  he  forgot 
his  anger  and  convinced  himself  that  he  had  meant-^ 
it  that  way.  He  had  not  been  really  angry;  he  was^j 
only  acting.    He  even  forgave  Mr.  Grasselli. 

As  for  Fanto,  he  was  beside  himself,  and  after  Mr. 
Boldini  had  taken  his  last  bow  and  was  turning  to  J 
go  up  the  stairs,  Fanto  turned,  ran  past  him  and  had.^ 
a  final  bow  in  which  his  master  played  no  part.    Itf 
was,  after  all,  his  right  as  the  star. 

At  the  boarders'  table  everyone  drank  another  j 
glass  of  champagne  to  the  health  of  Mr.  Boldini  and 
Fanto,  and  a  moment  later  Mr.  Grasselli  appeared 
to  take  a  chair  exactly  opposite  Miss  Flint  with  his 
back  to  the  audience. 

IN  the  corner,  by  the  door,  Mr.  Malkowsky,  the 
great  foreign  movie  director  and  his  assistant,  took 
a  sudden  interest  when  Sarah  Jane  appeared.  He 
noticed  that  when  she  walked,  there  was  in  her  walk 
a  kind  of  beauty  which  a  lot  of  actresses  spent  their 
lives  working  to  acquire.  He  noticed  the  shrewd- 
ness with  which  she  had  costumed  herself,  wearing 
a  simple  dress  which  revealed  the  beauty  of  her 
body,  but  threw  the  attention  to  her  face,  and  when 
she  began  to  sing,  he  noticed  that  her  voice,  which 
was  not  a  great  voice,  had  in  it  a  quality  that  sent  a 
thrill  down  your  spine.    He  noticed  all  these  things. 

His  assistant  noticed  none  of  them.  He  knew  the 
signs  of  Mr.  Malkowsky's  enthusiasm.  So  when 
Sarah  Jane  had  finished  her  first  song,  the  assistant 
said  it  first.    He  said,  "She's  great,  isn't  she?" 

'Yes,"  said  Mr.  Malkowsky,  keeping  his  eye  on 
Sarah  Jane. 

Then  Sarah  Jane  sang,  "Here  We  are  in  Love," 
the  second  of  her  numbers,  and  at  the  end  they 
would  not  let  her  go  away  but  kept  calling  to  her 
and  Tommy  to  come  back.  There  were  cries  of 
"Sal!  We  want  Sal!"  They  all  knew  her.  They 
were  friendly  toward  her  as  a  Broadway  character 
and  now  when  they  were  surprised  by  what  she 
could  do,  they  were  pleased. 

When  they  would  not  let  her  go  she  retired  for  a 
moment,  and  returned  with  her  special  make-up  to 
sing,  "I'm  Nada  McSweeney,  The  Glamour  Girl." 

This  came  as  a  surprise  to  Mr.  Malkowsky,  who 
had  not  thought  of  her  as  a  comedienne,  but  when 
she  finished,  "I'm  Garbo,  I'm  Dietrich,  I'm  Hepburn, 
I'm  Loy,"  he  pounded  his  fat  hands  together  hys- 
terically, and  his  assistant  pounded  his  in  imitation. 

Then  Tommy  announced  that  they  would  return 
shortly  with  a  couple  of  more  songs,  and  the  public 
tried  again  to  dance  and  again  gave  it  up. 

At  their  table  in  the  corner,  Mrs.  Lefferty  and 
Maggie  and  the  boarders,  all  save  Miss  Flint,  were 
delirious  with  excitement.  It  was  all  better  than 
they  had  hoped,  better  even  than  anything  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty had  made  up  in  her  story.  She  turned  to  Mr. 
Grasselli  and  said,  "Is  it  always  like  this?" 

And  Mr.  Grasselli  said,  "No,  I  never  seen  any- 
thing like  it  before."  Then  he  leaned  over  and  whis- 
pered to  Mrs.  Lefferty,  "Maybe  you'd  better  do 
something  about  Miss  Flint.  She  looks  to  me  as  if 
she  was  gonna  be  sick." 

Mrs.  Lefferty  looked  at  her  and  had  the  same  idea. 
Miss  Flint  was  staring  sullenly  through  eyes  that 
were  a  little  glazed,  directly  at  Mr.  Grasselli.  She 
had  been  staring  at  him  like  that  for  a  long  time, 
her  face  frozen,  except  for  the  twitch  of  the  eyes 
and  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  It  was  rather  a 
terrifying  look,  and  it  made  Mr.  Grasselli  feel  very 
uncomfortable. 

"Maybe  you'd  better  take  her  up  and  put  her  to 
bed,"  he  whispered  to  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"Maybe  I  had,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty.  Then  she  got 
up  and  bent  over  Miss  Flint  and  suggested  that  they 
both  go  upstairs  and  have  some  bicarbonate  of  soda, 
and  Miss  Flint,  strangely  enough,  agreed  with  do- 
cility. But  once  in  the  room  that  had  been  poor 
Miss  Minnie's  linen  closet,  she  refused  to  go  to  bed. 

"No,"  she  kept  saying,  "I'll  be  feeling  better  in  a 
little  while.  Just  leave  me  alone."  She  lay  down 
on  the  bed  fully  corseted  and  dressed.  "No,"  she 
said,  "I  won't  go  to  bed.    I'll  be  all  right." 

So  at  last  Mrs.  Lefferty  closed  the  door  and  left 
her,  and  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Lefferty  had  gone,  Miss 
Flint  rose  and  put  on  her  raincoat  over  her  evening 
dress  and  put  on  her  hat  and  her  thick  veil  right  on 
top  of  the  rhinestone  butterfly.  Then  she  opened 
the  door  a  little  way  and  peered  out,  and  when  she 
saw  there  was  no  one  about,  she  went  out. 

At  each  turn  of  the  stairway  she  executed  the  same 
reconnoitering  tactics  until  she  reached  the  first 


- 


34 


floor  where  in  an  unsteady  dash,  she  went  through 
the  door  and  down  the  front  steps,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  the  doorman  who  had  noticed  no  one  who 
even  faintly  resembled  her  entering  the  house. 

THE  Nineties  songs  had  the  same  success  as  the 
earlier  ones,  and  in  his  corner  Mr.  Malkowsky's  en- 
thusiasm grew.  At  the  end  he  turned  to  his  assist- 
ant and  said,  "Veil,  vot  do  you  tink  of  her?" 
!"What  do  you  think?"  asked  the  assistant. 
"She's  vunderful.  She's  just  vot  ve've  been  look- 
£>vj£i  ing  for." 
^  So  Mr.  Bergman,  the  assistant,  went  over  to  the 
boarders'  table,  where  Tommy  and  Sarah  Jane  had 
gone  to  join  the  others.  The  table  was  surrounded 
now  by  old  friends  of  "Sal,"  by  people  who  pre- 
tended they  were  old  friends,  by  people  who  wanted 
to  know  her,  by  people  who  had  given  her  an  extra 
push  when  she  was  on  the  way  down,  but  Sarah 
Jane  wasn't  deceived  by  any  of  it,  because  she'd 
B  been  in  the  game  too  long. 

What  she  did  know  was  that  this  was  success. 
When  they  came  running  like  that,  it  meant  the 
real  stuff,  more  than  compliments  and  applause  and 
everything. 
t  Mr.  Bergman,  the  assistant,  made  his  way  through 
the  throng  and  bent  over  her.  "Excuse  me,"  he 
said.  "I'm  assistant  director  with  Colossal  Pic- 
tures. I've  got  Mr.  Malkowsky,  the  great  foreign 
director,  with  me,  and  he  wants  to  know  if  you'll 
have  a  glass  of  champagne  with  him." 
1      "Sure,"  said  Sarah  Jane,  rising. 

The  moment  she  saw  Mr.  Malkowsky,  she  thought, 
"He's  a  phony."  She  could  tell  it  by  the  black 
Assyrian  beard,  by  the  unctuous  voice,  by  the  way 
he  rose  and  kissed  her  hand.  But  almost  at  once 
she  thought,  "So  what?  Even  if  he  is  a  phony, 
mebbe  I  can  use  him.  I'll  feed  him  up.  What's  the 
-  difference,  if  he  'discovers'  me?" 

So  she  fed  him  up,  playing  up  to  the  shiny  beard 

f-  and  the  hand-kissing  and  the  unctuous  voice,  and 

when  she  left  the  table,  Mr.  Malkowsky  said,  "Veil, 

I  expect  you  then  to  have  lunch  vit  me  tomorrow 

at  vun  at  the  Valdorf." 

"I'll  be  there,"  said  Sarah  Jane. 

When  she  had  gone,  Mr.  Malkowsky  said,  "She's 
vonderful!    I  tink  I  make  a  discovery." 

"She's  marvelous,"  said  Mr.  Bergman,  the  assist- 
ant. "Colossal!  You've  got  a  wonderful  eye  for 
talent." 

When  she  got  back  to  the  table  Mr.  Grasselli  had 
disappeared,  because  success  had  attracted  to  the 
table  too  many  people  who  knew  him.  People  came 
and  went.  Agents  suggested  meetings  and  one 
revue  producer  talked  about  a  show  he  had  in  the 
fall,  if  Sarah  Jane  was  "interested."  She  said  she 
didn't  know.  She  could  tell  him  later.  She  had  a 
good  many  plans  to  consider. 

Finally  about  four  in  the  morning  there  wasn't 
anyone  left  in  the  room  but  Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy 
and  a  couple  of  tired  waiters.  They  had  expected 
that  Mr.  Grasselli  would  return,  but  he  never  did, 
so  Sarah  Jane  said,  "Let's  go  up  and  see  him." 

In  the  upper  hallway,  Tommy  suddenly  put  his 
arms  about  her  and  said,  "Well,  we  pulled  it  off, 
didn't  we?" 

"I'll  say  we  did." 

"And  none  of  'em  knew  why  we  were  so  good." 

Sarah  Jane  laughed  and  kissed  him  and  he  said, 
"There  was  even  a  song  publisher  playing  around. 
*£..  .  .  Old  Herman  from  Beck  and  Herman." 

She  went  to  Mr.  Grasselli's  door  and  knocked,  and 
when  there  was  no  answer,  Tommy  pushed  it  open. 
Still  there  wasn't  any  sign  of  Mr.  Grasselli  and 
when  they  turned  on  the  lights,  the  room  was  empty. 

"That's  funny,"  said  Tommy. 

"Maybe  he's  in  the  bathroom." 

But  he  wasn't  in  the  bathroom.    They  went  all 
over  the  house,  but  they  couldn't  find  any  trace  of 
§ '  Mr.  Grasselli.    Then  it  occurred  to  Tommy  to  ask 
the  doorman. 

Tommy  described  Mr.  Grasselli's  appearance,  his 
black  hair  and  mustache. 

"Sure,"  said  the  doorman,  "I  seen  him  goin'  out. 
A  coupla  cops  had  him.  He  looked  kinda  familiar 
to  me,  only  funny." 

If  the  cops  had  him  there  wasn't  any  use  pretend- 
ing any  longer  that  Mr.  Grasselli  wasn't  Monk 
Maguire,  so  Tommy  said,  "You  know  who  he  was, 
don't  you?" 

"No,  who?" 

"It  was  Monk." 

"Jeez!"  said  the  doorman.  "I  knew  he  was  fa- 
miliar." 

Tommy  went  off  alone  around  the  comer  to  the 
police  station.    He  found  the  sergeant  and  a  couple 


of  sleepy  policemen,  and  when  he  asked  for  Monk 
Maguire,  the  sergeant  said,  "And  what  d'you  wanta 
see  him  for?" 

"Because  I  work  for  him." 

"How?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

"I  play  the  piano  in  his  joint." 

"Oh,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Well,  that's  different. 
He  ain't  here." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"They  took  him  to  headquarters,  but  there  ain't 
no  use  in  going  way  down  there.  You  couldn't  see 
him.    Better  wait  till  the  morning." 

"Okay,"  said  Tommy.    "Thanks." 

As  he  turned  to  leave,  the  sergeant  said,  "Wait  a 
minute.  Mebbe  you  could  tell  us  about  the  old 
dame  we've  got  shut  up  here." 

"Mebbe,"  said  Tommy.  "What  does  she  look 
like?" 

The  sergeant  described  her,  dyed  red  hair,  lots 
of  paint,  a  heavy  veil  and  a  kind  of  diamond  butter- 
fly in  her  hair. 

"Sure,"  said  Tommy.  "I  know  who  she  is.  She 
lives  at  my  mother's  boardinghouse.  How  did  she 
get  here?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  sergeant.  It  seemed 
that  Miss  Flint,  in  a  state  of  hysteria,  came  into  the 
police  station  and  asked  to  be  locked  up.  When  they 
asked  why  she  wanted  to  be  locked  up,  she  said  it 
was  because  she  was  scared.  When  they  asked  by 
what,  she  said  she  was  always  being  followed  and 
that  they  were  trying  to  take  her  for  a  ride.  At  first, 
because  of  poor  respectable  Miss  Flint's  appearance, 
they  believed  her  story,  only  they  couldn't  think  of 
any  joint  in  the  neighborhood  that  had  a  madame 
who  resembled  Miss  Flint.  They  began  to  question 
her.  At  last,  after  a  half  hour  of  questions  in 
which  she  nearly  drove  them  crazy  trying  to  follow 
her,  they  discovered  that  she  knew  where  Monk 
Maguire  was  and  that  she  was  scared  out  of  her 
wits  by  her  knowledge.  So  finally  they  broke  her 
down.  She  said  nobody  in  the  boardinghouse,  but 
herself,  had  guessed  the  secret,  but  if  they  wanted 
to  get  him,  they  could  go  right  over  there  now  and 
pick  him  up,  only  they  had  to  remember  that  he  had 
dyed  his  hair  and  mustache,  and  was  wearing  dark 
glasses. 

Then  the  sergeant  thanked  her  and  told  her  she 
might  as  well  go  home,  but  she  begged  instead  that 
they  shut  her  up.  She  wouldn't  feel  safe  outside 
of  jail.  She  wouldn't  be  able  to  close  an  eye.  She'd 
heard,  she  said,  that  Monk's  gang  meant  to  strangle 
her  and  put  her  body  in  a  barrel  filled  with  cement. 
So  in  the  end  they  yielded  and  locked  her  up  in  a 
cell  and  almost  at  once  she  had  gone  to  sleep. 

"Mebbe  I'd  better  have  a  look  at  her,"  said 
Tommy. 

They  went  along  a  corridor  and  at  last  came  to  the 
cell  where  Miss  Flint  was  locked  out  of  harm's  way. 
She  was  asleep,  very  sound  asleep.  The  police  had 
taken  off  her  hat  and  coat  and  veil  and  put  a  blan- 
ket over  her.  The  butterfly  of  rhinestones  still  glit- 
tered jauntily  in  the  flaming  hair. 

When  Tommy  returned,  the  sergeant  said,  "Better 
let  her  stay  here  tonight  and  sleep  it  off.  We'll 
bring  her  home  in  the  morning." 

"Thanks,"  said  Tommy.    "Good  night." 

Tommy  understood.  The  champagne  and  Mr. 
Grasselli's  strange  make-up  had  been  too  much  for 
her.  It  would,  he  thought,  have  been  too  much  for 
almost  anybody. 

TOMMY  didn't  wake  until  noon  and  by  then  Mrs. 
Lefferty  and  Maggie  had  already  discovered  the  dis- 
appearance of  Mr.  Grasselli  and  Miss  Flint.  An 
elopement,  they  decided,  was  scarcely  likely,  so  Mrs. 
Lefferty  went  round  to  the  police  station,  and  there 
for  the  first  time  she  learned  the  true  identity  of 
Mr.  Grasselli.  It  came  as  a  shock,  such  a  shock  that 
she  had  to  sit  down  and  have  some  brandy  and  be 
fanned.  They  knew  her  at  the  station  house,  so  they 
didn't  have  any  suspicions  that  she  had  been  con- 
sciously providing  the  notorious  Monk  Maguire 
with  a  place  of  refuge. 

Then  when  she  had  recovered  from  the  first  shock, 
she  found  out  all  about  Miss  Flint.  Miss  Flint,  the 
day  sergeant  said,  was  still  sleeping  peacefully,  but 
by  now,  he  thought,  she  ought  to  be  able  to  go  home. 
So,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Lefferty,  they  went  to  the 
cell  and  roused  Miss  Flint.  She  waked  slowly,  and 
at  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Lefferty,  burst  into  tears  and 
flung  herself  into  Mrs.  Lefferty's  plump  arms. 

"Never  mind,  dearie,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty,  patting 
her  back.  "We're  going  home  now.  They've  told 
me  the  whole  story.    It's  going  to  be  all  right." 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Flint.    "We  can't  go  home  alone." 

"Why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty. 


"They'll  surely  get  us  now." 

"Who'll  get  us?" 

"Mr.  Grasselli's  mob,"  sobbed  Miss  Flint. 

Here  the  sergeant,  grinning,  intervened.  "Sure, 
don't  you  worry,  Mrs.  Lefferty,"  he  said.  "I'll  send 
Officer  Leibowitz  around  with  you.  That'll  keep  her 
quiet." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  ashamed  of  myself,"  sobbed  Miss 
Flint.  "I  don't  know  what  came  over  me  ...  to 
get  you  into  all  this  trouble." 

"There  ain't  any  trouble,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty,  con- 
tinuing to  pat  Miss  Flint's  skinny  back.  "Sure, 
dearie,  stop  your  worryin'." 

Officer  Leibowitz  came  forward  to  escort  the  two 
ladies  home.  He  was  a  respectable  Jewish  police- 
man, with  a  large  family,  and  after  he  had  taken  a 
good  look  at  Miss  Flint,  painted  and  dyed  and  still 
bedecked  in  a  ball  gown,  with  the  diamond  butter- 
fly in  her  Titian  hair,  he  went  up  to  the  sergeant 
and  began  whispering  to  him. 

"Sure,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Take  'em  home  in  a 
taxi.    I  guess  the  city  can  pay  for  it" 

DUT  at  home  there  was  a  fresh  calamity,  one  which 
to  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  was  far  worse  than  the 
scandal  of  Mr.  Grasselli's  identity  and  the  night 
spent  by  Miss  Flint  in  a  cell  at  the  police  station, 
for  in  this  new  calamity  there  was  a  tragedy  which 
touched  them  both  and  destroyed  forever  the  few 
remnants  of  joy  that  remained  over  the  success  of 
the  opening  of  the  Golden  Nineties. 

After  Mrs.  Lefferty  and  Maggie  had  put  Miss  Flint 
to  bed  and  given  her  calming  medicines,  they  met 
Mr.  Boldini  on  the  stairs.  He  had  been  looking  for 
them.  His  bloodhound  countenance  was  the  apo- 
theosis of  melancholy,  and  the  tears  streamed  from 
his  eyes. 

"A  terrible  thing  has  happened,"  he  said.  Then 
he  began  to  sob,  and  it  took  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty quite  a  little  while  to  calm  him.  Then  he  said, 
still  sobbing,  "Fanto  is  dead!" 

"Dead!"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty.  "But  what  was  the 
matter  with  him?  He  was  in  wonderful  spirits  last 
night." 

She  leaned  against  the  stair  rail  trying  to  realize 
what  it  was  that  Mr.  Boldini  was  telling  her.  Fanto 
couldn't  be  dead,  not  the  Fanto  who  had  been  so 
joyous  only  last  night. 

"When  I  woke  up  this  morning,"  said  Mr.  Bol- 
dini, "he  was  still  in  his  basket,  curled  up  the  way 
he  always  was,  but  when  I  called  him  he  didn't 
get  up.  He  didn't  even  open  his  eyes  and  wag  his 
tail.  I  went  over  to  him  and  ...  he  was  dead!" 
And  Mr.  Boldini  began  to  sob  again.  "He's  been 
with  me  for  fourteen  years  .  .  .  ever  since  he  was 
a  puppy  .  .  .  my  best  friend!" 

And  then  the  three  of  them,  without  speaking, 
went  softly  along  the  hall  to  Mr.  Boldini's  room  and 
opened  the  door. 

There  in  his  basket,  curled  up  as  he  had  always 
been,  lay  Fanto.  He  looked  happy.  He  looked, 
Maggie  said,  as  if  he  had  died  wagging  his  tail. 

"Sure  he  had  a  good  time,"  said  Maggie,  "and  he 
had  fun  last  night." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Boldini.  "He  never  had  such  a 
success  before." 

"It  must  have  been  the  excitement,"  said  Mrs. 
Lefferty. 

"Sure,"  said  Maggie,  "with  his  rheumatism.  It 
was  too  much  for  his  heart."  She  leaned  down  and 
touched  Fanto's  head.  It  was  her  way  of  saying 
good-by  to  him.  She  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  were  think- 
ing the  same  thing.  Fanto  wouldn't  be  there  any 
more  to  help  Mrs.  Lefferty  make  the  beds.  He 
wouldn't  ever  again  give  them  a  performance,  wag- 
ging his  tail,  and  turning  somersaults  and  standing 
on  his  head. 

AFTER  Tommy  had  risen  and  had  some  breakfast 
and  heard  about  Miss  Flint  being  home  and  Fanto 
being  dead,  he  went  to  police  headquarters  to  see 
Mr.  Grasselli.  He  found  him  in  a  cell  having  a  late 
lunch  which  he  had  sent  out  for,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  taking  the  whole  affair  philosophically. 

"It  didn't  make  any  difference,"  he  said.  "I  was 
gonna  give  myself  up  anyway  on  Monday.  It  was 
all  fixed.  'Mr.  Hirsh'  had  it  all  arranged.  He  says 
everything  is  gonna  come  out  all  right.  A  coupla 
days  don't  make  any  difference.  Say,  but  that  was 
a  swell  opening,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Tommy. 

"I  guess  you  and  Sarah  Jane  otta  be  pretty  well 
fixed.  You  two  got  a  break  anyway.  You  otta  be 
gettin'  contracts  right  along  now." 

"It  looks  kinda  good,"  said  Tommy. 

"I  guess  even  old  Boldini  will  get  a  break  out  of 


r  o  m  f  Min^Ki 


M$M 


- 


35 


this  if  he  don't  lose  his  head  and  ham  it" 

"No,"  said  Tommy.    "That's  finished." 

"How  finished?" 

"Fanto  is  dead." 

"Dead  .  .  .  that  dog?" 

Something  like  a  tear  appeared  in  Mr.  Grasselli's 
eye.  "Say,  that  was  a  wonderful  dog,"  he  said. 
"That  was  the  swellest  dog  I  ever  seen.  He  was  al- 
most youman." 

There  was  a  little  silence  and  then  Mr.  Grasselli 
looked  up  from  his  lunch  and  said,  "There's  one 
thing  I'd  kinda  like  to  ask  you?" 

"What?" 

"What  happened  to  you  last  night  between  eight 
o'clock  and  eleven?  I  never  seen  such  a  change  in 
anybody." 

Tommy  grinned.  "Well,"  he  said,  "it  was  like 
this."  And  he  told  Mr.  Grasselli  about  what  had 
happened  between  him  and  Sarah  Jane. 

When  he  had  finished,  Mr.  Grasselli  grinned  back 
at  him.    "So  that  was  it?" 

Lunch  scarcely  happened  at  all  that  day.  Both 
Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy  were  absent,  Miss  Flint 
was  indisposed,  and  Mr.  Boldini  didn't  feel  like  eat- 
ing anything,  so  in  the  end  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty  sat  down  with  old  Mr.  Van  Diver  and  Mr. 
Salmon  to  a  meal  in  which  none  of  them  save  old 
Mr.  Van  Diver  found  any  pleasure. 

It  was  Maggie's  brooding  that  worried  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty.  She  hadn't  brooded  like  this  in  years,  and 
when  she  brooded,  Mrs.  Lefferty  always  knew  that 
an  explosion  was  certain  to  follow.  Maggie,  brood- 
ing, was  a  terrifying  spectacle. 

Even  when  Sarah  Jane  returned  home  filled  with 
the  news  of  her  interview  with  the  Great  Foreign 
Director,  Mr.  Malkowsky,  it  didn't  cheer  her.  She 
showed  no  joy  at  the  news  that  Sarah  Jane  already 
practically  had  a  contract  for  Hollywood  and  that 
she  had  already  had  two  offers  to  sing  in  night  clubs. 
Even  when  Tommy  came  in  with  the  news  that  very 
likely  three  of  his  songs  were  going  to  be  published 
and  would  be  sung  over  the  radio,  she  did  not  show 
any  signs  of  joy. 

And  when  at  last  Tommy  and  Sarah  Jane  told  her 
and  Mrs.  Lefferty  that  they  were  going  to  be  mar- 
ried at  City  Hall,  she  merely  said  grimly,  "Well,  it's 
about  time  you  made  up  your  minds.  And  you're 
not  gonna  be  married  in  City  Hall.  No  daughter  of 
mine  is  gonna  be  married  outside  the  church. 
You're  gonna  be  married  by  Father  McGuffy,  a 
proper  marriage  that  is  a  marriage." 

Mrs.  Lefferty  did  not  brood.  She  was  merely 
frightened.  She  was  frightened  by  all  that  had 
happened  and  what  still  lay  ahead  of  them  and  she 
was  frightened  by  Maggie's  brooding.  But  most  of 
all  she  was  frightened  because  the  story  she  had 
made  up  had  run  away  with  her  and  she  didn't  like 
it.  It  made  her  nervous.  And  like  Maggie,  she 
didn't  like  the  cheap,  unhealthy  people  that  success 
had  brought  into  their  lives  .  .  .  people  like  Mr. 
Grasselli,  and  Victor  Leontopopulos  and  Mr.  Mal- 
kowsky, the  big  foreign  director,  and  all  those  peo- 
ple who  had  crowded  about  the  table  to  congratu- 
late Sarah  Jane.  Now  she  wanted  to  stop  the  story 
where  it  was.    It  had  gone  far  enough. 

CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  Maggie  who  stopped  it! 
The  look  in  her  eye  became  a  little  fiercer, 
and  suddenly  she  left  the  room  without  a  word 
and  went  directly  to  the  kitchen. 
At  a  table  in  the  far  end,  her  two  assistants,  a 
pair  of  men  whom  Victor  Leontopopulos  had 
engaged,  were   busy  preparing  corned  beef  hash. 
The  sight  of  them  was  too  much  for  Maggie. 

She  advanced  toward  them,  "Get  out  of  here,  both 
of  you,  as  fast  as  your  legs  can  carry  you." 

The  timider  of  the  two  rose  and  went  to  the  sink 
to  wash  his  hands.  The  bolder  said,  "You  can't  fire 
us  like  that.    What  have  we  done?" 

But  Maggie  had  already  taken  up  a  strategic  po- 
sition by  the  stove.  She  took  up  a  kettle  filled  with 
boiling  water  and  advanced  on  the  objector. 

"Don't  argue  with  me.  Get  out  of  here  before  I 
scald  you  both." 

That  made  him  give  in.  The  boiling  water  was 
bad  enough,  but  the  embattled  look  in  Maggie's  eye 
was  worse.  Both  assistants  reached  for  their  hats 
and  coats  and,  keeping  close  along  the  wall,  well  out 
of  Maggie's  range,  they  slunk  out  of  the  door  into 
the  areaway. 

When  they  had  gone,  Maggie  locked  the  door  and 
then  went  to  the  stove  where  the  Irish  stew  was 
boiling  in  three  large  kettles.  One  by  one  she 
emptied  these  into  the  large  garbage  cans  that  Mr. 


Grasselli  had  had  installed.  When  she  had  done 
that  she  took  the  corned  beef  hash  and  likewise  did 
away  with  it.  Then  she  poured  herself  a  cup  of 
"tea"  from  the  kettle  of  black  liquid  on  the  back  of 
the  stove  and  rang  the  bell  that  she  used  to  sum- 
mon Mrs.  Lefferty  from  abovestairs. 

When  Mrs.  Lefferty  appeared,  she  said,  "Tell 
the  boarders  not  to  come  down  tonight." 

"Why?"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"Because  it  ain't  gonna  be  safe.  I'll  fix  up  some 
cocoa  and  bread  and  butter  and  jam  and  you  can 
take  it  up  to  'em.  There  ain't  gonna  be  anything 
else  to  eat  come  out  of  this  kitchen  tonight." 

"What  about  upstairs?"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"They  might  as  well  call  it  off.  There  ain't  gonna 
be  any  night  club.  Anyway  there  ain't  gonna  be 
anything  to  eat." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty.  She  knew  now  that  the 
storm  had  broken. 

In  a  little  while,  as  Maggie  expected,  there  was 
the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  the  unmistak- 
able hated  sound  of  the  feet  of  Mr.  Leontopopulos, 
who  had  dared  to  put  on  airs  and  try  to  order  her 
in  her  own  kitchen.  Stimulated  by  the  black  tea, 
she  listened  until  his  unsuspecting  feet  reached  the 
bottom  step  and  then,  just  as  he  opened  the  door, 
she  flung  a  plate  with  all  her  might.  But  Mr.  Leon- 
topopulos saw  it  coming  and  ducked. 

When  the  crash  had  died  away,  the  head  waiter 
opened  the  door  an  inch  or  two,  but  before  he  could 
speak,  another  plate  struck  it  so  hard  that  it  was 
flung  shut  in  his  face.  The  third  time  he  made  no 
attempt  to  communicate  with  Maggie  face  to  face, 
but  spoke  from  behind  the  shelter  of  the  door. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Mr.  Leontopopulos, 
very  grand  in  his  safety  behind  the  door,  "by  dis- 
charging your  helpers." 

"You'd  better  not  come  in  here  unless  you  want 
your  head  broke,"  said  Maggie. 

"Where's  the  supper?"  asked  Mr.  Leontopopulos. 

"In  the  garbage  can,"  said  Maggie. 

Mr.  Leontopopulos  considered  this  disaster  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  said,  "Either  you  get  the  supper 
or  get  out  and  let  someone  else  get  it." 

"Nobody  is  coming  into  this  kitchen  tonight,"  said 
Maggie.    "There  ain't  gonna  be  any  supper." 

"What's  the  matter?"  in  a  conciliatory  tone. 

"Never  mind  what's  the  matter.  It's  none  of  your 
business  what's  the  matter." 

Another  silence  and  then  Mr.  Leontopopulos  de- 
cided to  take  a  firmer  tone. 

"I'm  the  manager  of  this  place,"  he  said,  "and 
you're  under  my  orders.  Mr.  Grasselli  has  left  me 
in  charge." 

"That  jailbird!"  said  Maggie  scornfully.  "He's  in 
the  cooler,  where  he  belongs." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Leontopopulos.  "I'll  get  the  po- 
lice.   A  contract  is  a  contract." 

"Sure,"  said  Maggie,  "a  contract  is  a  contract, 
only  there  ain't  any  in  this  affair.  This  is  my  house 
and  my  kitchen  and  nobody's  coming  into  it." 

So  Mr.  Leontopopulos  retired  temporarily.  A 
little  later  he  returned  and  again  tried  arguing 
through  the  door,  but  with  no  greater  success,  and 
at  last  he  appealed  to  Tommy  and  Sarah  Jane,  but 
this  did  no  good  whatever  because  in  her  brooding 
Maggie  conceived  the  idea  that  after  all  they  were 
to  blame  because  it  was  on  account  of  them  that 
Mr.  Grasselli  and  all  these  other  people  got  into  the 
house. 

"Sure,"  said  Maggie.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  you 
that  Grasselli  would  never  have  come  here  at  all." 

The  siege  continued,  without  result,  until  about 
eleven-thirty,  when,  not  Maggie,  but  Mr.  Leontopo- 
pulos gave  in.  He  was  forced  to  tell  the  arriving 
patrons  that  there  wasn't  any  food  but  sandwiches 
which  he  sent  out  for  at  a  neighboring  restaurant; 
and  at  last,  about  midnight,  he  decided  to  surrender 
entirely  and  announce  that  "owing  to  a  disagree- 
ment in  the  management"  the  place  was  closed. 

So  among  all  Mr.  Grasselli's  speakeasy  and  night 
club  ventures,  the  Golden  Nineties  held  a  record. 
It  had  opened  one  night  and  closed  the  next,  and 
never  had  a  club  had  a  greater  prospect  of  success. 

When  Tommy,  a  little  shamefacedly,  told  Mr. 
Grasselli  the  story  in  a  cell  at  the  tombs,  Mr.  Gras- 
selli laughed  hard  and  long  at  the  story  of  Maggie  in 
the  kitchen  drinking  black  tea  and  throwing  plates 
every  time  Mr.  Leontopopulos  put  his  head  in  the 
door.  He  laughed  almost  as  hard  as  he  had  laughed 
at  Mr.  Boldini's  first  performance. 

"That's  the  first  time  anybody  ever  fixed  Victor 
Leontopopulos.  He's  the  toughest  egg  in  the  whole 
racket."  Then  when  his  mirth  had  died  down  a 
little,  he  said,  "Well,  mebbe  it  was  a  nut  idea  any- 


way .  .  .  the  whole  thing.  The  Nineties  is  buried 
and  I  suppose  we  otta  let  'em  stay  buried." 

Three  weeks  later  Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy  were 
properly  married  by  Father  McGuffy.  Nobody 
came  to  the  wedding  except  Maggie  and  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty and  the  boarders. 

The  rest  of  the  story  came  out  just  as  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty imagined  except  for  Mr.  Grasselli.  What  hap- 
pened to  him  was  a  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  who 
knew  that  he  wasn't  really  a  villain  but  good  at 
heart,  thought  they  treated  him  badly.  She  didn't 
know  exactly  what  she  meant  by  "they,"  but  any- 
way "they"  wouldn't  let  him  out  on  bail  and  after 
a  short  trial,  "they"  found  him  guilty  of  evading  in- 
come tax  and  "they"  gave  him  seven  years  in  At- 
lanta. The  truth,  which  Mrs.  Lefferty  never  quite 
grasped,  was  that  "mobsters"  like  Mr.  Grasselli  were 
already  a  little  out  of  date.  Juries  and  judges 
weren't  afraid  of  them  any  longer.  Like  Mr.  Sal- 
mon, Miss  Flint  and  Mr.  Van  Diver,  they  had  be- 
gun to  belong  to  an  epoch. 

On  the  day  he  went  off  to  Atlanta,  just  as  he  was 
boarding  the  train,  a  messenger  boy  came  running 
along  the  platform  shouting,  "Mr.  Maguire!  Mr. 
Maguire!"  He  had  two  packages  for  Mr.  Grasselli. 
One  was  a  large  box  of  cigars  with  Sarah  Jane's  card 
in  it  and  the  other  was  a  tiny  bouquet  of  flowers. 
When  he  opened  them,  Mr.  Maguire  found  inside 
a  card  on  which  was  written  in  precise,  even  fin- 
icky handwriting,  "Bon  voyage,  from  Malvina  Flint." 

Sarah  Jane  got  her  contract  from  Mr.  Malkowsky 
and  made  a  lot  of  money  in  the  meanwhile  singing 
in  a  couple  of  night  clubs,  and  Tommy  got  his  songs 
published  and,  largely  through  Sarah  Jane's  con- 
nivings,  got  a  contract  for  the  Coast.  Two  or  three 
days  before  they  left,  the  final  chapter  of  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty's  story  "happened"  exactly  as  she  had  pictured 
it.  There  was  a  ring  at  the  door  and  Tommy  was 
standing  there  all  dressed  in  fine  clothes  and  he 
said,  "You  and  Maggie  put  on  your  hats  and  come 
on  for  a  ride."  And  then  she  saw,  waiting  at  the 
foot  of  the  stoop,  a  fine,  shiny  new  automobile. 

It  wasn't  quite  as  big  as  she  had  pictured  and  the 
light  in  the  top  wasn't  cut  glass;  it  was  only  frosted. 
But  Mrs.  Lefferty  thought  maybe  that  was  better. 
It  kept  the  story  in  hand. 

It  was  the  first  ride  Maggie  had  ever  had  in  an 
automobile,  and  the  first  Mrs.  Lefferty  had  had  if 
you  didn't  count  the  ride  home  from  the  station 
house  with  Miss  Flint  and  Officer  Leibowitz.  On 
the  way  home  Tommy  said,  "As  soon  as  Sally  and  I 
get  our  bearings  in  Hollywood  we're  gonna  send  for 
you  both.    It's  a  wonderful  place.    I've  been  there." 

"When?"  asked  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"When  I  was  away,"  said  Tommy. 

She  and  Maggie  didn't  talk  much  more  but  seemed 
to  fall  into  a  silence  from  which  it  was  impossible 
to  rouse  them,  and  when  at  last  they  drove  up  again 
in  front  of  poor  Miss  Minnie's  house,  Mrs.  Lefferty 
said,  "It's  a  wonderful  automobile,  and  it's  kind  of 
you  and  Sarah  Jane  to  think  about  taking  us  to 
Hollywood,  but  we  couldn't  go." 

"No,"  said  Maggie.    "It  ain't  possible." 

"What  would  become  of  Miss  Flint  and  old  Mr. 
Van  Diver  and  Mr.  Boldini?" 

lHAT  night  after  supper  Miss  Flint  poured  the  cof- 
fee while  Mrs.  Lefferty  helped  Maggie  with  the 
dishes,  and  as  soon  as  dinner  was  over,  Mrs.  Lef- 
ferty got  out  "the  old  gentleman's"  gaming  table  and 
the  perpetual  rummy  score  and  said,  "You  begin 
dealing,  Miss  Flint." 

The  room  was  almost  the  way  it  had  always  been, 
save  that  beneath  poor  Miss  Minnie's  Axminster 
carpet  there  was  now  a  floor  of  hard  wood  and  the 
opening  between  the  dining  room  and  the  drawing 
room  was  wider  than  it  used  to  be.  Mr.  Boldini  won 
the  first  game  and  Mrs.  Lefferty  the  second.  In  his 
corner,  Mr.  Van  Diver  looked  at  the  picture  maga- 
zines and  chortled  to  himself,  and  about  eleven 
o'clock  Mrs.  Lefferty  went  downstairs  to  fetch  beer 
and  sandwiches.  Nothing  was  changed  except  that 
poor  Fanto  wasn't  there.  There  was  a  new  poodle, 
a  puppy  called  "Flic,"  which  Sarah  Jane  and  Tommy 
had  bought  to  comfort  Mr.  Boldini.  And  now  they 
had  a  radio  because  Mr.  Grasselli  said  he  wouldn't 
need  the  one  he  had  in  his  room  and  they  might  as 
well  keep  it. 

While  they  ate  and  drank  Mrs.  Lefferty  turned  to 
what  was  known  as  "Sarah  Jane's  station"  and  in  a 
little  while  Sarah  Jane  was  singing  "Here  We  Are 
in  Love"  right  there  beside  them — "just  as  if  she 
was  in  the  room." 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,"  said  Mrs.  Lefferty. 

"Yes,"  said  Maggie.  "If  only  poor  Miss  Minnie 
could  be  here." 


36 


SPEAKS 


yt 


argo,"  title  of  the  new 
t i  ri_    __•    Li  .1 x 


as  well  be 

Fink  "on-location"  shot — with  that 

auota  of  whiskers  Clark's  carrvina! 


. 


/ 


fv 


\ 


// 


*V. 


i 


ON     THIS     AND     THE     FOLLOWING 


PAGES     PHOTO 


BRINGS    YOU 


HOLLYWOOD    AT    ITS    PICTORIAL    BEST 


i 


Most  PopularGirl — and 
Most  Genuine:  Ginger 
Rogers.  "Physically  and 
mentally  attractive  .  .  . 
a  magnificent  sense  of 
humor. ..a  good  sport" 


Most  Popular — and  Wittiest 
Man:  David  Niven.  "Sal- 
vation from  boredom,  in  im- 
peccable white  tie  and  tails 
.  .  .  worth  his  weight  in 
caviar  to  any  occasion" 


The  Girl  Most  Likely  to 
Succeed:  Geraldine  Fitz- 
gerald. "A  piquant  beauty 
not  common  to  the  screen, 
great  personal  charm — and 
greater    dramatic    talent" 


The  Man  Most  Likely  to 
Succeed:  Lee  Bowman.  "All 
he  needs  is  opportunity.  To 
me,  he's  a  tall,  young 
edition  of  Fredric  March 
— which    is   saying    plenty" 


Most  Ambitious:  Orson 
Welles.  "This  amazing 
young  man  wants  to  di- 
rect, write,  produce, 
and  enact  two  or  three 
roles     in     his     pictures" 


Most  Beautiful  Girl  .  .  . 
"This  depends  on  what 
you  mean  by  beauty.  No 
one  can  equal  Hedy  La- 
ma rr  —  photogenically" 


.  .  .  "But,  for  spiritual 
beauty,  Loretta  Young 
comes  first."  Also  the 
Best  -  Natured  Girl  —  and 
probably  the  best  off- 
screen    feminine    dancer 


.  .  .  "For  character  of  face, 
Joan  Crawford."  Also  the 
Most  Ambitious  Girl — the 
Most  Generous  Star — "and 
you  will  never  catch  her 
grandstanding    about    it!" 


.  .  .  "For  allure,  Marlene 
Dietrich."  Also  the  Best 
Woman  Cook — "Incredible 
for  one  so  lovely,  but  you 
should  taste  her  roulade 
of    veal    in    white    port!" 


.  .  .  "Claudette  Colbert 
for  the  best  figure." 
Also:  Best  Woman  Ath- 
lete— "It  surprised  me, 
too,    but   she's    a   whiz" 


The  Handsomest  Man 
.  .  .  "Here,  too,  there 
must  be  classification. 
For  perfection  of  fea- 
ture, Ty  Power  is  tops" 


.  .  .  "For  strong  character 
of  face,  Spencer  Tracy." 
Also:  Most  Genuine  Man — 
"He  is  what  he  is,  take 
it  or  leave  it;  I'll  take 
it"  —  and  the  Best  Actor 


.  .  .  "For  rugged  individu- 
alism,  Gary  Cooper  wins" 


.  .  .  "For  dash,  the  mascu- 
line equivalent  of  allure, 
young    Douglas    Fairbanks" 


The  Wittiest  Girl:  Ann 
Sothern.  "Her  wit  is  a 
sheer  delight  —  trigger 
fast,  and  always  apt, 
but     never     malicious" 


V        ^ 


Girl  with  Most  Charm: 
Irene  Dunne.  "She  has 
that  magnetic  some- 
thing which  inspires  the 
genuine  admiration  of 
everyone     about    her" 

38 


Man  with  the  Most  Charm: 
Brian  Aherne.  "Like  Irene, 
he  has  a  blend  of  gentil- 
ity, kindness,  serenity, 
and  tolerance — but  spices 
it     with     Irish     devilment!" 


The  Best-Dressed  Woman: 
Constance  Bennett.  "This 
isn't  just  family  loyalty 
—  aside  from  her  ability 
to  wear  clothes  well,  she 
has    taste    and    judgment" 


The  Best-Dressed — and  the 
Brainiest  —  Man:  Adolphe 
Menjou.  "Exceptionally 
well-informed;  the  world, 
not  just  Hollywood,  is 
Dolphe's      mental     oyster" 


Brainiest  Girl:  Bette 
Davis.  "All  of  us  are 
born  with  a  brain,  but 
she's  taken  the  trouble 
to  develop  hers."  Also 
wins    as    Best    Actress 


The  Most  Tactful  Star: 
Ronald  Colman.  "Always 
says  and  does  the  right 
thing,  without  losing 
his  objective — a  major 
triumph   in   Hollywood!" 


Laziest  Girl:  "It  should  be 
Joan  Bennett;  only  my 
strong  character  makes  me 
do  anything!  But  if  I  ever 
abdicate,  I'll  pass  the 
crown    to    Virginia    Bruce" 


Laziest  Man:  Bing  Crosby. 
"Even  Bing  himself  would 
never  argue  this,  for  it 
would  be  too  much  trouble 
— and  he  would  be  right!" 


v*< 


The  Most  Attractive  Girl: 
Merle  Oberon.  "More  than 
beauty,  attractiveness  is 
beauty  combined  with  win- 
someness,  sweetness,  and 
amiability.    That's     Merle" 


Most  Attractive  Man: 
Clark  Gable.  "In  a  man 
it's  good  looks,  charm 
and  all-around  appeal. 
That's  Clark."  (Also 
the  Best  Man  Athlete) 


JOAN   BENNETT'S 


"Who's  What  in  Hollywood?"  Devastating 
ratings  by  "Editor"  Bennett,  transcribed 
— with  a  trembling  hand — by  Kay  Proctor 


SUPPOSE  Hollywood  were  to  publish  a  Year  Book 
for  1939,  who  would  win  the  nomination  for  the 
most  popular  personality?  The  most  ambitious? 
The  brainiest? 

Joan  Bennett  knows  the  answers  she  would  print  if 
she  were  editing  the  book.  The  Hollywood  Year  Book 
was  her  idea.  Secretly,  I  suspect,  she  was  intrigued 
with  the  possibilities  it  offered  to  toss  some  fragrant 
bouquets  at  her  fellow  players. 

You  know,  of  course,  what  the  ordinary  Year  Book 
is.  Annually,  at  the  close  of  the  high  school  or  college 
year  the  thick  volume  containing  the  record  of  the  year's 
activities  is  issued.  The  highlight  of  the  book,  however, 
always  is  that  section  in  which  the  editor  dares  to  ex- 
press his  personal  opinion  of  his  fellow  students.  It  is 
the  real  Who's  Who  of  the  class. 

Joan's  Year  Book  similarly  is  the  low-down  on  Holly- 
wood personalities  as  seen  by  a  fellow  star.  Come  what 
may,  here  are  her  selections  and  her  reasons  for  them. 


Best  Man  Cook:  Eugene 
Pallette.  "Fat,  jolly, 
he's  the  personifica- 
tion of  good  living.  His 
souffle  St.  Moritz  is 
a    poem    of    ecstasy!" 


Girl  with  Most  to  Live  Up 
To:  Ann  Sheridan.  "Photo- 
finish with  Hedy  Lamarr — 
both  of  them  have  been  so 
overexploited  that  it's 
jeopardized    their   careers" 


Man  with  Most  to  Live  Up 
To:  William  Holden.  "Bill 
faces  the  danger  of  other 
films  being  anticlimactic — 
through  no  fault  of  his — 
after   'Golden    Boy'    glory" 


Best  Off-Screen  Masculine 
Dancer:  George  Murphy. 
"He's  divine  on  the  dance 
floor!  A  heavenly  leader, 
as  smooth  as  silk,  with  a 
perfect    sense    of    rhythm" 


Done  Most  for  the  Pro- 
fession: Jean  Hersholt. 
"His  life  has  been  ex- 
emplary; his  acting, 
consistently  fine;  his 
relief     work,     inspiring" 

39 


. 


\ 


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Itse 
as  I 
"Ne 
speak 

time,    hi 
Bruce   and- 


more  than  a  year  betwi 

rom  many  a  wistful  rea 

reunites  Nelson  and 

ie  first  time  since  nis 

en    doing    his    screen 

ecently — 


WUlintcr 


40 


r  •  4'%  '* 


* 


This  opening  scene  of  "Hula,"  some  twelve 
years  ago,  was  designed  to  show  Clara  Bow 
as  a  girl  "who  prefers  the  outdoors  while 
her    father    engages    in    cinematic  orgies"! 


Before  that,  critics  were  already  yawning 
over  "Three  Weeks,"  even  though  the  story 
had  beautiful  Aileen  Pringle  running  away 
from  her  beastly  husband  to  get  herself  an 
heir  (that's  where  Conrad   Nagel  came  in) 


Once  before,  after  the  world  had  suffered 
slaughter  and  destruction,  movie  morals 
went  hang — with  the  neurotic  results 
pictured  here.  Will  history  repeat  itself? 


LL  WE  LET 


In  "doughboy"  days,  "Cleopatra"  (with 
Fritz  Leiber  as  Caesar)  had  eye-happy 
spectators  wondering  if  the  few  beads 
in  each  of  Theda  Bara's  fifty-odd  cos- 
tumes were  a  question  of  "war  economy" 


A  year  or  two  later,  a  screen  heroine  wasn't  even  safe 
with  her  husband!  Exhibit  A:  James  Kirkwood,  mad  with 
jealousy,  lust  and  drink,  uses  "The  Branding  Iron"  on 
movie  wife  Barbara  Castleton,  before  he  learns  that  she 
hasn't   been   unfaithful— despite   those   post-war  scenarios 


At  that  same  period,  the  risque  boudoir 
farce — familiar  to  more  sophisticated 
Broadway  playgoers — made  its  appear- 
ance on  the  screen,  as  in  "Parlor,  Bed- 
room and  Bath,"  starring  Eugene  Pallette 


. 


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<'SA 


tȣ*.  A 


s  < 


The  censors'  shears  fell  on  Italian  import  "Quo  Vadis" — with  its  "decadence  of  the  Roman  Empire  under  Nero" — but  not  as  heavily  as  they  might! 


T  HAPPEN  AGAIN? 


Julia  Faye  throws  in  the  sponge — to  Gloria  Swanson — in 
the  first  DeMille  bathtub  scene.  The  film's  title  was 
"Male  and  Female,"  showing  what  current  tastes  did  to 
the  Barrie  play,  "The  Admirable  Crichton."  It  was  re- 
leased   just   after   the   first   Armistice    Day   celebration 


The  same  year  of  the  famed  screen  bath,  Swanson  was  in  the  choreographic 
clutches  of  dancer  Ted  Shawn  in  "Don't  Change  Your  Husband."  After  more 
than  two  decades,  it's  hard  to  figure  out  what  this  scene  had  to  do  with  a 
"comedy"  about  an  unhappy  wife  who  had  three  marriages  and  two  divorces 
in  one  scenario — but  if  a  feverish  world  wanted  movie  orgies,  it  got  'em! 


THE 


OF 

WRATH 

Presenting  a  new  Photoplay  pre- 
showing — the  dramatic  picture 
story  of  the  most  vital  documen- 
tary book  of  many  seasons  and 
the  most  discussed  film  of  the 
month,  the  20th  Century-Fox 
production  starring  Henry  Fonda 


His  prison  sentence  finished,  Tom  Joad 
(Henry  Fonda)  headed  for  home.  En  route 
ex-preacher  Jim  Casy  (John  Carradine) 
joined  him.  But  the  house  was  deserted. 
From  Muley  (John  Qualen)  they  learned  why 


Dust  storms,  year  after  year,  had  ruined  the  crops. 
The  tenant  farmers  had  been  encouraged  to  borrow 
from  the  banks,  but  when  they  could  not  make  pay- 
ments, they  were  driven  out — giant  tractors  pushed 
down  the  houses  of  those  who  proved  recalcitrant 


For  mile  after  mile  they  saw  nothing  but  deserted  farms — people  in 
flight  streamed  along  the  highways — pitching  their  tents  at  night, 
camping  near  a  stream.  The  first  tragedy  on  the  long  trek  was  when 
Grandpa  died.  A  legal  funeral  would  have  drained  them  of  the  money 
needed  for  food;  their  only  alternative  was  to  bury  him  in  the  woods 


The  little  band  that  had 
set  out  with  such  high 
courage  could  not  —  or 
would  not  —  believe  the 
tales    of    these    men  .  .  . 


Treated  as  outcasts,  tempers  ran  high,  and  when  the  deputy 
pulled  his  gun  fists  flew.  Tom  put  out  his  foot  to  trip 
him;  a  woman  screamed — her  hand  had  been  shattered  by  a 
bullet  from  the  deputy's  gun.  As  he  attempted  to  fire 
another  shot,  the  Reverend  Casy  kicked  him.  To  protect 
Tom,  because  of  his  parole,  Casy  took  full  blame 
44 


But  the  government  camps,  where  the  Joads  found  haven  for  a  time, 
were  a  different  story.  They  were  organized  and  clean.  The  camp  man- 
ager looked  over  these  poor  unfortunates  and  a  community  spirit  pre- 
vailed. These  migrants,  striving  for  just  enough  food  to  keep  them 
alive,  were  eager  for  amusement — here  they  got  it,  with  their  own 
little  dance   bands,  stories  and   jokes  around  the  campfires   at  night 


Tom's  family  had  moved  in  with  Uncle  John  preparatory  to 
their  migration  to  California — that  land  of  plenty  (or  so 
they  believed  because  of  what  the  handbills  said).  But  Mrs. 
Joad  (Jane  Darwell)  was  disturbed  when  she  realized  that 
Tom  would   be   breaking   parole   by  accompanying  them 


By  selling  their  farm  implements,  they  were  able  to  buy  a  second 
hand  truck  that  would  accommodate  all.    Clothing,  cooking  uter 
sils,  bedding  were  sifted  and  resitted — only  the  bare  necessitic  '< 
could  go.   All  night  they  worked  and  by  dawn  they  were  ready  t 
start  their  two  thousand  mile  journey — with  little  more  than  hop 


. . .  men  who  had  been  to  California 
and  were  now  returning  home  with 
reports  of  poor  wages,  starvation 
that  awaited  thousands  of  mi- 
grants— because  of  those  handbills 


The  long  weary  trip  through  insufferable  heat  and 
harassment  by  state  border  patrols  reached  its  peak 
when  Rosasharn  (Dorris  Bowdon)  and  Ma  tried  to 
make  Grandma's  last  days  comfortable.  But  just  as 
they   reached   California   she   breathed   her   last 


Realization  came  to  the  Joads  when  they  were  un- 
able to  find  work  and  were  forced  to  move  from 
one  camp  to  another — literally  forced  when  con- 
tractors came  with  armed  men  and  offered  them 
work  at  starvation  wages  or  removal  from  camp 


>ugh  Ma  managed  as  best  she 
lid,  she  could  never  satisfy  the 
iw  of  hunger  of  men  who  had 
'ked  all  day — picking  peaches 
cotton,  digging  potatoes,  on 
pittance    they    received 


When  work  petered  out  they  were  forced  to  move 
on.  At  a  peach  ranch  Tom  ran  into  Casy,  now  re- 
leased from  jail.  But  Casy  warned  of  trouble — a 
strike — for  the  men  were  being  paid  just  half  what 
they  had  been  promised.  That  night  Casy  was  killed 
by  a  strike-breaker,  and  Tom  felled   his  assailant 


It  had  been  too  dark  for  Tom  to  tell  whether  he 
had  killed  the  man,  but  he  told  Ma  that  he  must 
leave.  It  was  a  bitter  end  to  their  migration,  yet 
there  was  hope  in  the  future,  for  Casy's  death 
had  shown  Tom  that  he  must  carry  on  the  work  of 
alleviating    the    suffering    of    his    fellow    migrants 


COVE 


J 


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>*v^ 


aax 


I 


0m 


Over  on  the  "We  Shall  Meet  Again" 
set,  Pat  O'Brien  and  George 
Brent  get  taken  for  a 
ride — in  Chinese 


Cooper  makes  Tom  Tyler  "bite  the  dust"  (figura- 
tively speaking!)  in  "The  Westerner."  But  then — 
believe  it  or  not — a  horse  did  the  same  for  Gary! 


A  matinee  idol  takes  up  ballet,  a 
comic  takes  to  Westerns — in  fact, 
all  Hollywood's  playing  Turnabout 


IF  you  think  there's  nothing  new  under  the 
Hollywood  sun,  you  should  take  a  look 
around  the  studio  lots  this  month.  You'll  get 
the  surprise  of  your  life! 

Screen  type  casting  traditions  are  tumbling 
like  tenpins.  Everybody's  trying  something 
new.  Maybe  Marlene  Dietrich  started  it  by 
trading  poise  for  a  punch  in  "Destry  Rides 
Again."  Maybe  it's  the  war,  maybe  it's  the 
weather.  Anyway,  when  we  find  Ginger  Rogers 
trying  tragic  drama  minus  make-up;  Anna 
Neagle  going  gay  and  modern  in  a  Cinderella 
story;  Gene  Autry  getting  kissed;  and  Jack 
Benny  riding  a  bucking  horse — well,  all  we  can 
say  is,  "Comes  the  Revolution!" 

We  get  our  first  surprise  at  RKO,  where  the 
biggest  things  in  Hollywood  are  afoot  this  month 


'< 7">9  A 


\ 


*o„  Vi 


"*,. 


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'v. 


'«e, 


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it* 


and  more  coming  up  every  minute.  One  of 
them  is  "The  Primrose  Path,"  and  the  surprise 
package  there  is  Ginger  Rogers,  who  is  doing 
a  Duse  in  one  of  the  most  starkly  dramatic 
screen  chores  of  the  season.  She  doesn't  dance, 
she  doesn't  sing,  she  doesn't  dress  up,  she 
doesn't  even  use  good  English.  She  just  suf- 
fers and  suffers  in  the  pretty  grim  story  of  a  gal 
whose  mother  wants  to  make  a  shady  lady  out  of 
her  until  true  lover  Joel  McCrea  comes  along 
with  nobler  ideas.    Cute? 

Doing  "February  Hill,"  superstrong  stuff  even 
as  a  book,  was  a  joint  daring  inspiration  of  Gin- 
ger's and  Director  Gregory  La  Cava's,  and  when 
we  see  Ginger,  we  simply  don't  recognize  the 
girl.  Her  hair  is  dyed  dark.  There's  not  a 
smudge  of  grease  paint  or  lipstick  or  eye  shadow 


'" 


i 


— or  anything — on  her  plain  little  face.  An  out- 
landish costume,  including  a  scarlet  pancake  hat 
and  a  skirt  that's  too  terrible  to  mention,  squares 
off  with  Joel  McCrea's  awning-stripe  suit.  Part 
of  the  time,  too,  she  wears  a  boy's  cap,  pigtails 
and  a  sweat  shirt! 

"Ain't  I  a  dish,  kid?"  grins  Ginger.  "I  got  the 
whole  works  for  eighteen,  seventy-three!" 

After  all  the  thousands  spent  on  gowns  for  her 
dancing  pictures,  Ginger  whipped  over  to  a 
mail-order  store  and  walked  out  with  her  ward- 
robe and  change  from  a  twenty-dollar  bill! 


46 


STUDIOS 


BY  JACK  WADE 


All  in  all,  it  looks  as  if  Ginger  is  taking  her 
"drama"  seriously.  It  makes  us  a  little  sad  to 
contemplate  a  good  girl  gone  dramatic,  as  we 
sit  on  a  baggage  truck  at  the  railroad  station 
where  La  Cava  has  his  company  getting  some 
train  shots.  La  Cava  hands  Joel  and  Ginger  and 
Queenie  Vassar  some  slips  of  paper.  "All  right," 
he  says,  "there's  your  scene."  All  of  them  walk 
over  to  their  canvas-backed  chairs,  boxes, 
trunks  and  baggage  trucks  and  go  into  brown 
studies.  That's  a  trick  of  La  Cava's.  He  won't 
let  his  actors  know  what  they  say,  until  right 
before  they  say  it.  A  quick  study  hour  and 
boom — the  scene  is  over  with  spontaneity.  La 
Cava  yells,  "Okay,  let's  do  it!"     But  Ginger's 


chair  is  empty!  Then  up  puffs  a  switch  engine 
with  a  grimy  engineer  leaning  out  the  cab  win- 
dow and  Miss  Virginia  Bernhardt  Rogers  at  the 
throttle. 

"Don't  want  to  be  no  actress,"  shouts  Ginger. 
"Want  to  run  a  switch  engine!" 

"Do  you  know  your  lines?"  yells  La  Cava. 

"Sure,"  replies  Ginger.  "I  tried  them  out  on 
Jake."  And  the  engineer  bobs  his  head,  grin- 
ning. 

In  a  minute  they're  deep  in  a  scene.  We  have 
a  hunch  Ginger  isn't  taking  her  new  dramatic 
status  too  seriously! 

UN  the  other  hand,  Anna  Neagle  seems  to  have 
given  period  plays  and  tragedy  a  firm  shaking 
in  the  gay,  tuneful  "Irene."  Anna  is  not  only 
one  of  the  prettiest  but  one  of  the  most  fascinat- 
ing of  newcomers  to  Hollywood.  And  in  her 
carroty  wig,  daring  low-necked  and  wasp- 
waisted  satin  gown  she  looks  actually  naughty. 
Since  we  always  think  of  Anna  and  Queen  Vic- 
toria in  one  frame,  it's  a  little  shocking. 


Neagle's  quiet,  courteous  British  Svengali, 
Director  Herbert  Wilcox,  who  won't  say  whether 
they're  married  or  not,  is  not  at  all  reticent  on 
the  subject  of  "Irene."  He  shows  us  all  around 
the  dressy  set  and  explains  everything.  It's  the 
old-time  Broadway  musical  immortal,  you 
know,  and  you'll  hear  the  classic,  "Alice  Blue 
Gown,"  "Irene,"  "Castle  of  Dreams,"  and 
"Something  in  the  Air,"  in  Anna's  soprano.  On 
the  book  side  of  the  show,  the  plot  is  strictly 
Cinderella — Anna's  a  pretty  shopgirl  in  New 
York,  Ray  Milland's  a  wealthy  young  Lochin- 
var.  At  a  fashion  salon  he  falls,  secretly  finances 
Anna  in  the  luxury  wrap  business.  Fame  and 
fortune  arrive  but  the  love  bubble  bursts.  Wil- 
cox himself  admits  he's  going  in  for  straight 
love  and  sentimental  romance  in  this  one. 

We  see  the  ultramodern  fashion  salon  set 
where  Anna,  Alan  Marshall,  Billie  Burke  and 
Roland  Young  are  gathered.  It's  a  decorator's 
dream,  blue  and  white,  with  quilted  cushions, 
satinesque  walls,  white  moderne  statuary  and 
gorgeous  full-length  mirrors  all  over  the  place. 
Ray  Milland  walked  into  one  of  them  the  first 
day  and  now  faces  seven  years  of  bad  breaks, 
which  doesn't  seem  possible  for  such  a  tall, 
handsome  and  clever  fellow. 

We  surprised  Ray  in  the  fitting  room  next 

door,  bobbing  up  and  down  on  his  toes  like 

Pavlowa.     He's  taking  ballet  lessons  he  blush- 

(Continued  on  page  72) 


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^Mhim*' 

D  ■ 

i 

■w; 


We'll  start  you  off  on  an  easy  one: 
Don't  look  now,  but  this  two-sided 
trio,  very  candidly  photographed  at 
the  Trocadero,  is  made  up  of  Loret- 
ta  Young,  Barbara  Stanwyck — and,  oh 
yes,  Jimmy  Stewart!  Can  your  eagle 
eye  detect  the  breach  of  etiquette? 


Soft  lights  ...  a  garden  party  .  . . 
romance  . . .  and  the  Pat  O'Briens 
dance  to  the  lilting  strains  of 
Hollywood  music.  Maybe  all  the 
social  rules  are  off  when  you've 
been  happily  married  as  long  as 
Pat  and  Eloise  have  . . .  and  yet . . . 


Joan  Blondell  certainly  sticks  her  chin 
out  for  this  one,  with  husband  Dick 
Powell  at  a  dinner  party.  You  may 
discover  you're  guilty  of  this,  too, 
when  you  spot  it — but  we  wager  you 
all  (including  Joan)  will  reform  after 
looking    at    this    object    I  e  s  s  o  n  I 


Are  you  better  Emily  Post-ed  than  the 
stars  ?  Pick  out  the  social  errors  that 
you  would  never  make — but  they  did 


They  really  ought  to  be  dancing 
with  fears  in  their  eyes  —  still, 
Sandra  Shaw  (Mrs.  Gary  Cooper) 
and  Ray  Milland  appear  to  be 
completely  unconscious  of  what's 
wrong  with  this  picture  from  the 
Trocadero.   But  maybe  you're  not 


The  Jimmie  Fidlers,  Andrea  Leeds,  Martha 
Raye  (a  blonde,  at  that  moment)  and  her 
husband,  Dave  Rose,  gather  'round  for  a 
dish  of  Hollywood  low-down,  at  the  Troc. 
It  must  be  good — they're  so  oblivious  of 
this  blunder  in  etiquette.  Gosh,  are  the 
girls  going  to  be  blamed  for  everything? 


Well,  this  should  soothe  the  girls 
down  a  bit  if  it  doesn't  break  their 
hearts  to  find  Tyrone  Power  guilty  of 
a  slight  lapse  of  courtesy,  as  he  and 
Annabella  emerge  smilingly  from  their 
honeymoon  home.  Ready  to  check 
your  answers?     Just  turn  to  page  70 


\        i  1                 ^fl 

/r*hl 

^^       'tils 

Irene  Dunne  sets  the  rest  of  us  a  fashionable  pace  for  the 
midseason  in  her  chic  dressmaker  suit  of  grey  woolen  strikingly 
set  off  by  black  quilted  silk  jersey  muff  and  visor  beret.  The 
skirt  with  gathered  front  fullness  is  contrasted  by  a  fitted  jacket 
which  is  belted  and  trimmed  with  black  silk  braid.  Miss  Dunne 
currently  is  at  work  in  the  RKO  picture,  "My  Favorite  Wife" 

dyar-engslead 


Merle  Oberon,  on  the  other  hand,  is  the  crisp 
"suit-type"  who  likes  to  travel  "light"  and  is  apt 
to  turn  up  at  El  Mirador  in  Palm  Springs  or  at  the 
new  Arrowhead  Springs  Hotel  in  this  chic  little 
beige  tweed  dressmaker  suit,  nipped  at  the  waist, 
flared  at  the  skirt,  and  picked  up  by  Miss  Ober- 
on's  own  exciting  accessories — a  criss-crossing 
black  crepe  scarf  with  pocket-kerchief  to  match, 
and  a  staggering  lapel  clip  of  gold  and  diamonds 
to  match  her  beautiful  wide  bracelet  and  her 
giant  pinky  ring.  This — in  case  you  want  to  know 
it — is  how  smart  women  make  their  suits  look  dif- 
ferent from  everybody  else's.  Merle  will  soon 
be   seen   in   Warners'    "We   Shall   Meet   Again" 


PATRICIA  MORISON,  who  is  appearing  in 
Paramount's  "Untamed,"  satisfies  her  wan- 
derlust with  a  trip  to  Sun  Valley.  As  she 
started  on  her  merry  way  we  photographed  her 
aboard  the  "Streamliner"  to  give  you  wardrobe 
hints  for  your  travels. 

"Adios,"  says  Pat,  in  a  Matara  brown  Alaska 
sealskin  swagger  coat  (opposite  page) — a  casual 
knee-length  coat  you  can  wear  for  day  or  eve- 
ning. From  Willard  George,  Los  Angeles. 
Around  $450.00.  East  or  West,  you'll  find  a 
fur  coat  indispensable  in  February  and  March. 
Pat  purposely  chose  a  small  hat — a  pert  pillbox 
of  brown,  quilted  suede  jersey  with  gold  clip 
and  brown  veil,  a  "Studio  Style"  originated  by 
Style  Millinery.  Around  $12.50  at  Blooming- 
dales,  New  York;  Marshall  Field,  Chicago,  and 
The  Broadway,  Hollywood.  Pat's  snaky  lug- 
gage is  California-made  and  exclusive  with  J. 
W.  Robinson,  Los  Angeles.  Overnight  case, 
$47.50;  hat  box,  $75.00;  18-inch  case,  $65.00; 
make-up  case,  $40.00. 


a     ^a 
a 


\ 


Under  her  fur  coat,  Pat  wears  Viola  Dimmitt's 
sweater  dress  (below)  of  Shagrain  (spun  rayon 
and  wool)  in  moss  green  with  matching  angora- 
type  cardigan.  Slot  pockets,  matching  belt  and 
binding  add  to  its  charms,  with  a  Talon-fastener 
to  permit  the  neck  to  be  worn  casually  low  or 
high.  Around  $20.00  at  Carson  Pirie  Scott  and 
Company,  Chicago,  and  Desmond's,  Los  An- 
geles. This  little  two-timer  boards  the  train 
sans  sweater  under  Pat's  fur  coat,  but  takes  to 
its  cardigan  for  lounge  or  dining  car. 

Pat  relaxes  in  Linda's  smart  white  rayon 
"Flannel-eze"  fitted  travel  coat  embroidered  in 
colored  yarn  and  trimmed  and  belted  with  flam- 
ing red  satin  (center).  Around  $16.95  at  Auer- 
bach's,  Salt  Lake  City;  Denwitt's,  Beverly  Halls, 
and  Crosby  Bros.,  Topeka,  Kansas.  Pat  chose 
white,  but  this  dashing  coat  may  be  duplicated 
in  black  or  navy  blue.  But  make  sure  your 
coat  is  Talon-fastened  from  neck  to  hem,  for 
you'll  find  it  a  great  convenience  when  dressing 
in  a  hurry. 

Pat's  smart  luggage  contains  more  stunning 
clothes,  as  well  as  any  number  of  things  helpful 
for  gadabouts:  Mules  without  heels,  to  keep 
you  from  teetering  .  .  .  bed  jackets  for  reading 
in  bed  ...  a  folding  iron  .  .  .  dark  glasses  to 
protect  your  eyes  ...  a  rain  cape  and  toe  rub- 
bers .  .  .  handkerchiefs,  slips  and  stockings — 
you  can't  have  enough  of  these  when  you  travel 
.  .  .  and  tons  of  tissue  paper — if  you  slip  it  in 
the  folds  of  your  frocks  and  stuff  it  tightly  into 
the  sleeves,  you'll  find  no  wrinkles  when  you 
arrive. 

With  all  these  travel  tips  to  help  you,  why 
not  call  for  travel  foldei's  and  plan  a  trip? 

Speaking  of  tips — though  they  are  the  bete 
noire  of  many  women  they  are  really  very 
simple.  Budget  travelers  may,  without  any 
embarrassment,  tip  by  this  accepted  standard: 
Red  caps,  10c  a  bag;  dining-car  waiter,  5%  of 
total  cost  of  all  meals;  Pullman  porter,  50c  for 
a  coast-to-coast  trip  or  25c  a  night.  Average 
travelers  tip  according  to  this  established  prece- 
dent: Red  caps,  10c  a  bag;  dining-car  waiter, 
10fc  of  total  cost  of  all  meals;  Pullman  porter, 
35c  a  night.  De  luxe  travelers  may,  of  course; 
tip  as  lavishly  as  they  pi 


SOPHISTICATE  by  DA 


SIREN  by  NIGHT 


A  suit  with  an  air!  The  dazzling  Dietrich  dons 
giant  grey  and  white  checks  to  greet  the  first 
robin.  Note  the  new  longer-length  nipped-in 
jacket  with  the  very  new  dig-down  pockets 
and  the  box-pleated  skirt  for  the  easy  fullness 
which  American  women  adore.  The  amusing 
stovepipe  hat  is  of  black  felt,  the  spat  shoes 
of  black  patent  leather  and  grey  suede  and 
the  gloves  and  ascot  are  stark  white  — just 
Marlene's  way  of  saying,  "Spring  is  coming!" 


Perfect  example  of  the  new  "cover  up"  code 
of  dressing  for  dinner— Dietrich's  sheathlike 
dull  black  jersey  dinner  dress.  The  skirt  is  a 
masterpiece  of  harem  drapery  which  de- 
mands the  exotic  black  hairline  turban  top- 
ped by  a  massive  twist  of  green  and  fuchsia 
yarn,  sprinkled  with  golden  sequins  and 
shadowed  by  a  gossamer  veil  which  parts  to 
show  a  perfect  profile.  Marlene  is  appearing 


Rides  Aaain' 


CALIFORNIA 


Rosalind  Russell  plays  in  plaids,  and  picks 
her  plaids  patriotically  in  red,  white  and 
blue  slacks  of  rayon  *  and  wool.  Her  mannish 
open-neck  shirt  is  white  rayon  *  broadcloth 
with  smart  flap  pockets  and  the  new  longer 
sleeves  that  have  become  such  a  big  spring 
fashion.  Rosalind's  ghillie  play  shoes  from 
Joyce  are  on  the  patriotic  side  too,  combin- 
ing uppers  of  white  bucko  with  lacings,  wedge 
soles  and  vamp-decorations  of  flag  red. 
Rosalind  is  now  co-starring  with  Cary  Grant 
in  Columbia's  "His  Girl  Friday."  Her  slack 
suit  was   studio   designed    by   Robert   Kalloch 


*  Crown  Tested 
The  fabrics  were  designed  by  Pierre 
Sillan    of   American    Viscose 


PLAYS 


Paulette  Goddard,  appearing 
in  Paramount's  "The  Ghost 
Breakers,"  follow-up  on  their 
thriller  "The  Cat  and  the  Ca- 
nary," takes  her  sunshine 
in  a  charmingly  casual  frock 
of  brown,  white  and  paper- 
bag  tan  striped  linen,  for 
stripes,  you  know,  are  now 
streaking  their  way  like  mad 
across  the  spring  horizon. 
Paulette  cinches  her  tiny  waist 
with  a  brown  raffia  belt,  masses 
her  skirt-fullness  toward  the 
front  and  depends  on  pockets  to 
add  to  the  hidden  charms  of 
her   chic   but   simple   frock 


Paulette's  shoes  *  tell  a  fashion 
story,  too — brown  alligator  and 
white  buck  walled-last  ties  with 
lots  of  room  for  wiggling  toes 


*Paris  Fashion 


V\asi-non's  little 


orgive  us  our  pun!  Mae  West,  starring  with  W.  C. 
Fields  in  Universale  forthcoming  film,  "My  Little 
Chickadee,"  is  fashion's  little  checkadee  in  this  period 
costume  designed  for  her  role  in  the  picture.  Smack 
out  of  the  Gay  Nineties  are  the  checked  taffeta 
flounces  and  ruffjes  on  La  West's  wasp-waist  gown  of 
satin  back  c©€oa-brown  crepe.  And  here's  something 
to  surpjy'ffgyou — Mae's  draped  skirt,  caught  into  a  bow 
k,   has   been   copied   for   some   of  the   smartest 

pring  fashions.  While  sJje'Vas  at  it,  Vera  West  made 
this  adaptation  of  Ma«  s  ,pe"riod  gown — smart  for  sum- 
mer wear  in  cheokeg  gTnghaxn  with  eyelet-embroidered 
organdie  oyfftypfr.  And  befc-j^k  summer's  over  you'll  be 
sportirjgi^1^ie^big^'Sffaw-(b^^  and  checked  parasol! 


S,f  Of  |Q\.H 


Relatively  Speaking 


THEY  sat  in  a  booth  at  the  Beverly  Brown 
Derby  with  "tourist"  written  all  over  their 
eager  faces  as  they  scanned  the  diners  for 
celebrities.  When  one  appeared,  they  put  their 
heads  together  to  chatter  in  some  foreign  tongue 
and  eagerly  yet  shyly  looked  at  the  star. 

Finally  a  photographer  became  so  interested 
in  the  little  group  he  paused  at  their  table  to 
say,  "That's  Don  Ameche  over  there  by  the 
wall."     They  "ohed"  and  "ahed"  and  thanked 


him  kindly.  "We  are  such  strangers,"  one  of  the 
group  spoke  in  broken  English.  "We  are  from 
Sweden." 

"Oh,"  said  the  photographer.  "We  have  a 
great  star  in  this  country  from  Sweden.  Her 
name  is  Greta  Garbo.    She — " 

"Yas,"  interrupted  the  young  man.  "We 
know.  I  am  her  brother.  This  is  my  wife.  And 
this  is  Greta's  mother." 

The  statement  was  made  simply  and  straight- 
forwardly. The  photographer  gripped  the  ta- 
ble's edge  and  hung  on.    They  all  shook  hands, 


Cary  Grant  smiles,  but  Orson  Welles  and  Lili 
Damita  look  as  gloomy  as  the  rain  that  nearly 
spoiled  the  Beverly  Wilshire  charity  entertainment 


Femme  huddle:  Gracie  Allen, 
Sally  Eilers,  Mary  Livingstone 
— at  Hal  Roach's  party 
following   "Of  Mice  and   Men" 


The  pulse  beat  of  Hollywood 
taps  out  a  coc/e  all  its  own, 
but  our  operator  has  the  key 

PHOTOGRAPHS     BY     HYMAN     FINK 


smiled,    and   beamed   and   thanked   him   again. 
He  still  isn't  over  it.    And  he  names  the  Gus- 
tafssons  the  friendliest  family  in  all  America. 


Hundred  Per  Cent  American 

ONE  member  of  the  cast  in  "Gone  with  the 
Wind"  can  qualify  for  first  honors  on  that  score. 
He's  Carroll  Nye  who  plays  the  role  of  Frank 
Kennedy,  Scarlett  O'Hara's  second  husband. 

The  seventy-sixth  man  to  be  tried  out  for  the 
role,  Carroll's  ancestors  fostered  the  Spirit  of 
'76  which  founded  the  United  States  of  Amer- 
ica. He  is  a  direct  descendant  of  General  Rufus 
Putnam,  builder  of  the  fortifications  at  West 
Point.  His  mother,  Myra  Nye,  first  woman's  de- 
partment editor  on  the  Los  Angeles  Times,  still 
treasures  a  foot- stove  used  by  George  Washing- 
ton and  General  Putnam. 

The  roots  of  his  family  tree  are  firmly  planted 
in  the  soil  of  America  and  Americanism.  And 
its  branches,  for  good  measure,  reach  into  both 
the  North  and  the  South.  On  his  mother's  side 
of  the  family,  he  is  a  direct  descendant  of  Jeffer- 
son Davis,  Confederate  leader.  And  his  Grand- 
father Nye  was  in  the  ranks  that  listened  to 
President  Lincoln's  last  speech  when  he  dis- 
banded the  Northern  regiments  after  the  Civil 
War. 


59 


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After-theater  dancing 
— Lon  ("Lennie")  Cha- 
ney,  Jr.,  and  his  wife 


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Oa<*e 


Born  in  the  same  state  (Ohio),  the  same  year 
as  Clark  (Rhett  Butler)  Gable,  Carroll  smiled 
when  a  hefty  dowager,  who  dotes  on  Simon 
Pure  American  family  trees,  cornered  him  at  a 
Hollywood  cocktail  party  not  so  long  ago,  and 
gushed  over  his  illustrious  ancestors.  For  Car- 
roll has  lived  in  California  ever  since  he  was  six 
weeks  old,  and  considers  himself  a  typical  West- 
erner. True,  he's  proud  of  being  an  American, 
but  he  agrees  heartily  with  that  eminent  Amer- 
ican statesman,  Benjamin  Franklin,  who  re- 
marked that  bragging  about  one's  ancestors  was 
just  one  way  of  admitting  that  most  of  your 
good  is  under  ground. 

ASfcut  Faces! 

HE  can't  wait  to  tell  Charles  Laughton  (who 
has  a  terrific  sense  of  humor)  the  latest  gag  we 
heard  about  him.  It  happened  right  after  the 
preview  of  "The  Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame." 

Two  women  were  standing  in  the  lobby, 
studying  their  programs  and  looking  at  the  hor- 
rible face  of  the  hunchback  as  affected  by 
Laughton. 

"You  know,"  said  one  of  the  women,  "I  can't 
for  the  life  of  me  decide  which  face  I  like  less 
on  Mr.  Laughton.    His  own  or  this  one." 

On  the  Record 

THERE  seems  no  way  of  escaping  them;  it  sounds 
as  if  the  only  film  music  the  melody  makers  are 
really  concerned  with  comes  from  Paramount's 
"Gulliver's  Travels."  All  of  which  is  probably 
just  as  well  since  you  can  now  match  your  fa- 


60 


vorite  tunes  with  your  favorite  batoneers.  If  you 
want  swing,  you  can  have  Benny  Goodman 
clarineting  and  Mildred  Bailey  vocalizing 
"Bluebirds  in  the  Moonlight"  and  "Faithful  For- 
ever." (Columbia  35289).  For  sweet,  there's 
Guy  Lombardo  with  "Bluebirds — "  and  "It's  a 
Hap-Hap-Happy  Day."  (Decca2834).  And  then, 
yours  for  the  asking  is  swing-and-swaying  by 
Sammy  Kaye  on  "I  Hear  a  Dream"  and  "Blue- 
birds—." (Victor  26422).  Take  your  pick. 

One  of  the  best  buys  of  the  wax-makers'  sea- 
son is  a  "Judy  Garland  Souvenir  Album."  If 
any  singer  deserves  to  be  neatly  packaged  in  a 
pleasant  offering  like  this,  it's  M-G-M's  talented 
prodigy.  You  have  Judy  at  her  best  in  six  rec- 
ords. There's  "Figaro,"  as  she  sang  it  in  "Babes 
in  Arms,"  her  famous  "Dear  Mr.  Gable:"  from 
"Broadway  Melody  of  1938,"  "In-Between,"  a 
product  of  "Love  Finds  Andy  Hardy,"  plus  three 
other  Garland  gems.     (Decca  Album  76). 

"That's  Right,  You're  Wrong,"  RKO's  musical, 
is  another  Hollywood  product  causing  a  stir  in 
the  record  studios.  Kay  Kyser,  who  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  picture,  we  hear,  has  waxed 
the  cute  novelty,  "The  Little  Red  Fox."  Turn 
him  over  and  Ginny  Simms  sings  "Fit  to  Be 
Tied."  (Columbia  35295).  In  the  swing  depart- 
ment, Bob  Crosby  performs  "Happy  Birthday  to 
Love"  and  "The  Answer  Is  Love,"  and  the  boys 
must  have  worked  with  a  love  light  in  their 
eyes.  (Decca  2824). 

Since  Tenor  Allan  Jones  does  such  noble 
work  in  an  opus  called  "The  Great  Victor  Her- 
bert," what  more  natural  than  Mr.  Jones'  mak- 
ing a  record  of  "I'm  Falling  in  Love  with  Some- 
one"  and   "Thine  Alone"?    (Victor  4446).     He 


Z/, 


t\<5- 


,&v 


sings  both  of  them  in  the  picture.  And  if  you'd 
like  to  own  something  unique  in  platters,  Ray- 
mond Massey's  "Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois"  Album 
is  recommended.  Massey,  as  you  know,  is  star- 
ring in  the  picture  version  of  the  very  successful 
Broadway  play.  Captured  for  good  are  the  most 
dramatic  scenes  from  "Abe  Lincoln."  Put 
down  your  needle  and  you'll  hear  Lincoln  pro- 
posing to  Ann  Rutledge,  replying  to  Stephen  A. 
Douglas  and  three  other  fine  Massey  bits.  (Vic- 
tor Album  M-591). 

Busy  Kay! 

IF  you've  been  wondering  about  Kay  Francis 
lately  and  where  she  is  and  what  she's  doing — I 
have  the  answer  for  you.  She's  being  useful  and 
is  happier  than  she's  ever  been  in  her  life. 

"I  had  so  much  time  on  my  hands  and  I  felt 
such  a  desire  to  do  something  useful,  I  called  up 
our  local  Red  Cross  and  asked  for  information 
about  work  as  a  First  Aider,"  Kay  told  me. 
"They  were  so  kind  and  co-operative  I  began 
my  lesson  next  day,  working  five  days  a  week." 

And  when  Kay  had  finished  that  course,  she 
went  on  to  the  Advanced  Course  and  when  her 
two  cards  were  presented  to  her,  Kay  was  ac- 
claimed for  receiving  one  of  the  highest  averages 
ever  given  an  Advanced  Course  student — 95.2. 

When  others  heard  of  her  efforts  they  flocked' 
in  droves  to  take  up  the  work  and  every  week 
the  clubroom  of  the  Westside  Tennis  Club  is 
crowded  with  such  stars  as  Claudette  Colbert, 
Virginia  Bruce  and  Sally  Eilers,  learning  First 
Aid. 

Next,  sewing  classes  were  organized  with  Kay 
lending  her  aid  and  supervising  one  of  the 
classes. 

As  secretary  and  treasurer  of  the  Motion  Pic- 
ture Auxiliary  Number  Two  of  the  Red  Cross, 
Kay  Francis  is  the  busiest  woman  in  Holly- 
wood. And  because  she  has  dedicated  her  time 
to  usefulness  and  to  the  purpose  of  aiding  her 
fellow  man  in  any  sort  of  distress,  Kay  has  never 
been  happier  in  her  entire  life.  Cal  says,  more 
power  to  her. 

Cupid  Thwarted 

"Our  engagement  is  over."  It  took  just  those 
four  words  uttered  by  Phyllis  Brooks,  regard- 
ing her  announced  betrothal  to  Cary  Grant,  to 
throw  Hollywood  into  a  first-class  tailspin. 

A  few  months  before  Cary  sailed  to  Europe  to 
meet  Phyllis   last  summer,   he  announced   the 


marriage  would  take  place  very  soon.  Later  the 
story  was  changed.  Cary  wanted  to  be  married 
in  the  United  States,  according  to  printed  state- 
ments. And  finally,  back  in  Hollywood,  it  was 
over. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  these  two  were  in 
love.  Now,  not  even  his  closest  friends  dare 
mention  the  broken  engagement  to  Cary.  Phyl- 
lis, too,  says  little,  but  she  is  going  right  on  with 
her  work,  having  signed  a  new  contract  with 
RKO. 

To  add  to  the  buzz-buzz,  Cary  and  Phyllis 
still  occasionally  appear  together  at  parties, 
proving — well,  I  don't  know  what  unless  it's  that 
Hollywood  still  continues  to  be  the  most 
astounding  town  in  the  land. 

Last  Minute  Round-Up 

HEDY  LAMARR  is  back  at  M-G-M  after  her 
recent  battle  without  the  wage  increase  she 
asked  for.  But  the  studio  is  doing  a  remake 
of  "I  Take  This  Woman,"  and  Hedy  feels  that 
with  Spencer  Tracy  as  leading  man,  she  can  af- 
ford to  forego  raises;  a  Spencer  Tracy  picture 
being  worth  the  sacrifice.  Hedy's  got  something 
there. 

John  Garfield  did  not  separate  from  his  wife 
when  he  moved  into  a  Sunset  Boulevard  apart- 
ment as  reported.  Mrs.  Garfield  had  merely 
taken  their  baby  to  New  York  in  advance  to 
get  her  used  to  the  cold  weather  before  Papa 
John  joined  them.  John  will  do  a  play  on  Broad- 
way.   So  there. 

George  Raft  continues  to  astound  the  natives 
by  becoming  involved  in  a  night-club  brawl,  at- 
tending lectures  on  cultural  advancement,  din- 
ing with  the  Charles  Boyers  and  Norma  Shearer 
and  playing  bridge  all  night  with  the  boys — all 
in  one  week.    Boy,  that's  mixing  it  up. 

Good— Or  Else 

GREAT  excitement  out  at  20th  Century-Fox 
over  Shirley  Temple's  latest  screen  epic,  "The 
Blue  Bird" — the  kind  of  excitement,  we  might 
add,  which  savors  of  nervousness  and  strain. 
The  thing  is,  this  picture  of  Shirley's  better  be 
good,  since  our  Shirley,  growing  up,  as  kids 
have  a  way  of  doing,  hasn't  been  of  late  what  she 
used  to  be  at  the  box  office.  And  if  "The  Blue 
Bird"  doesn't  click  and  click  in  a  big  way,  she 
(Continued  on  page  80) 

Salutations  —  assistant  Rosalind  Russell,  Bette 
Davis  (who  had  dinner  served  in  the  bar,  after 
"crashers"  took  her  table),  Robert  Montgomery 


On  the  ballroom  stairs,  Beverly 
Wilshire  Hotel— Allan  Jones.Bob 
Young,  Irene  Hervey  (Mrs.  Jones^ 


Hostess'  aide  and  guest — 
Kay  Francis,  Louis  Brom- 
field.  Real  hostess  (Mrs. 
Basil  Rathbone)  couldn't 
come;  doctors  ordered  her 
to    bed — for   overworking 


•  MEXICAN  SPITFIRE-RKO-Radio 

IT'S  hard  to  imagine  Lupe  Velez  in  anything  but 
slapstick.  Well,  this  is  slapstick.  There's  no  com- 
promise with  subtlety  or  insinuation:  they're  out. 
Lupe  comes  to  the  Big  City  from  Mexico  as  the 
bride  of  Donald  Woods,  scion  of  a  rich  family.  They 
give  her  the  lorgnon  treatment  and  at  the  same 
time  Donald  makes  a  radio  deal  with  an  English 
lord,  an  eccentric  fellow  played  by  Leon  Errol. 
Errol  also  plays  Uncle  Matt,  who  is  the  only  mem- 
ber of  the  family  who  likes  Lupe.  You  have  the 
impression  that  everyone  in  the  cast,  as  well  as  the 
director,  went  into  the  business  of  making  this  movie 
with  a  lot  of  cheerful  gusto  and  joie  de  vivre.  Elisa- 
beth Risdon  and  Linda  Hayes  play  Donald's  nasty 
aunt  and  previous  fiancee,  and  are  quite  excellent. 


«E>. 


*  HIGH  SCHOOL-20th  Century-Fox 

IOU  can  expect  to  see  your  favorite,  Jane  Withers, 
in  at  least  one  picture  dealing  with  school  per  year. 
This  first  of  Jane's  academic  features  plants  her  at 
San  Antonio's  famous  Jefferson  High.  She  has  been 
the  most  important  personality  on  a  Texas  ranch 
before  being  brought  to  Jefferson,  where  her  uncle 
is  principal,  and  naturally  she's  pretty  unbearable 
until  the  other  kids  snub  her  down  to  her  size. 
Then  she  rallies  and  practically  takes  over  the  in- 
stitution. The  picture  has  a  combination  of  good 
comedy  and  pathos,  always  basic  entertainment 
factors,  and  a  new  player,  Joe  Brown,  Jr.,  adds  ma- 
terially to  the  film's  merits.  Cliff  Edwards,  Lillian 
Porter,  and  Lloyd  Corrigan  work  well  together  in 
supporting  roles. 


MOTION     PICTURE 


•  THE  FIGHTING  69th-Warners 

I  HIS  story  of  the  famous  New  York  regiment  fea- 
tures a  tremendous  cast  headed  by  Pat  O'Brien, 
James  Cagney,  George  Brent,  Frank  McHugh,  Jef- 
frey Lynn,  Alan  Hale,  Dick  Foran,  Dennis  Morgan, 
William  Lundigan,  and  "Big  Boy"  Williams.  Cag- 
ney, as  a  rookie  at  Camp  Mills,  is  a  cocky,  undis- 
ciplined and  heartily  disliked  toughy.  He  boasts 
about  what  he  intends  to  do  to  the  Germans,  but 
when  he  reaches  the  war  front  he  is  hard-ridden 
by  fear,  a  new  emotion  for  him.  His  desire  for  color 
rather  than  grim  war,  leads  him,  against  orders,  to 
send  up  a  flare,  bringing  death  to  many  of  his  com- 
rades. His  superior  officer,  George  Brent,  is  dis- 
suaded from  transferring  Cagney  out  of  the  regi- 
ment at  the  insistence  of  Pat  O'Brien  who,  as  Father 
Duffy,  is  sure  there  must  be  some  gold  in  Jimmy's 
hard-rock  make-up.  But  when  Cagney  is  sent  out 
with  a  reconnoitering  party  and  through  his  craven 
fear  brings  death  to  more  of  his  comrades,  he  is 
court-martialed  and  sentenced  to  die.  Father  Duffy 
O'Brien  offers  him  divine  solace,  but  is  rebuffed 
with  the  usual  Cagney  bad  manners.  When  the  lit- 
tle French  town  is  bombed,  O'Brien  lets  Cagney  out 
of  prison  to  escape  or  to  join  his  comrades  at  the 
front.  Brent  is  excellent  as  the  commanding  officer, 
and  James  Cagney  plays  the  recalcitrant  rookie  in 
his  memorable  style,  but  the  performance  of  Pat 
O'Brien,  as  Father  Duffy,  will  leave  a  lasting  im- 
pression on  any  audience.  Altogether  a  splendid 
picture,  "The  Fighting  69th"  is  something  just  a 
little  more  than  an  evening's  entertainment. 


*  CONGO  MAISIE-M-G-M 

lYI-G-M  cracks  loose  with  some  gorgeous  comedy  in 
"Congo  Maisie."  It  stars  Ann  Sothern  and  John 
Carroll,  capably  backed  up  by  Rita  Johnson  and 
Shepperd  Strudwick.  The  scene  is  laid  at  the  med- 
ical post  of  a  rubber  plantation  in  West  Africa 
where  the  natives  are  not  quite  tamed.  John  Carroll, 
a  doctor  who  was  formerly  head  of  the  medical  cen- 
ter until  the  lure  of  quick  money  made  him  give  up 
his  profession,  and  Ann  Sothern,  a  show  girl  who 
took  the  wrong  boat,  are  put  ashore  when  their 
small  steamer  suffers  an  accident.  Shepperd  Strud- 
wick and  Rita  Johnson,  the  doctor  and  his  wife  who 
are  now  in  charge,  welcome  visitors  at  their  remote 
little  hospital.  After  a  few  days  Rita  decides  to  leave 
her  husband  for  John  Carroll,  but  Ann  makes  her 
see  that  her  affliction  is  boredom  with  her  manner 
of  life,  rather  than  love.  Despite  Carroll's  rather 
nasty  disposition,  Ann  finds  herself  working  pretty 
hard  trying  to  keep  from  falling  in  love  with  him. 
When  he  performs  an  emergency  appendectomy  on 
Shepperd,  Miss  Sothern  decides  that  he  should  re- 
turn to  his  profession  instead  of  planting  rubber 
trees,  and  when  he  handles  a  mob  of  unruly  natives 
who  attack  the  medical  post,  she  is  sure  his  place 
is  right  there.  The  way  she  helps  him  subdue  the 
mayhem-minded  witch  doctors  and  their  followers 
makes  it  pretty  certain  that  she  belongs  there,  too. 
Miss  Sothern  is  at  her  hard-boiled  best  as  Congo 
Maisie,  and  John  Carroll  is  just  tough  enough  to 
handle  her.  The  fast-moving  story  is  punctuated 
by  delicious  humor  and  clever  dialogue. 


*  BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY-Warners 

I  HE  baby  was  born,  but  not  seen,  in  "Brother  Rat" 
so  that  this  sequel  was  all  set  up  before  ever  you 
cracked  that  rib  at  the  original.  Goodness  knows 
there's  not  enough  plot  here  to  worry  about:  Wayne 
Morris,  the  "fixer"  of  those  zany  children  who  some-"' 
how  managed  to  be  graduated  from  V.  M.  I.,  takes  it 
upon  himself  to  get  Eddie  Albert  a  coaching  job  at  a 
military  academy.  Eddie,  you  remember,  had  got 
everybody  in  a  terrible  mess  by  getting  secretly 
married  to  Jane  Bryan  and  fathering  a  child,  which 
meant  expulsion.  The  baby  was  born  just  at  com- 
mencement, so  they  named  it  "Commencement" — 
and  this  incredible  offspring,  played  by  Peter  B. 
Good,  gums  everything  up  almost  as  much  as  his 
old  man  did.  You  see  Wayne  has  the  bright  idea 
that  the  military  academy  will  be  more  likely  to 
hire  Eddie  if  he  is  a  settled  family  man;  and  it  is 
little  Peter  who  starts  a  chain  of  incidents  not  cal- 
culated to  help  the  impression.  Priscilla  Lane, 
Morris'  girl  friend,  doesn't  have  a  large  role  but  she 
plays  it  with  her  usual  gaiety.  Jane  Wyman  is  ex- 
cellent and  so  is  Ronald  Reagan,  who  injects  a  note 
of  sobriety.  The  sideline  romances,  so  nicely  con- 
cluded in  "Brother  Rat,"  are  revived  with  further 
complications  and  carried  on  to  anticlimax  clinches 
to  the  tune  of  belly-laughter.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
the  entire  piece  is  delicious  comedy,  and  simply  that 
— which,  among  the  slew  of  heavy  offerings  and  the 
general  depression  of  daily  news  reports,  you  will 
find  immensely  welcome.  It  may  well  be  that  audi- 
ences will  stand  up  after  seeing  it  and  yell  "More!" 


62 


*  MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE-RKO-Radio 


You 


remember  RKO  has  the  reputation  for  produc- 
ing, occasionally,  an  inexpensive,  unassuming  pic- 
ture with  a  little  more  emotion,  a  little  better  act- 
ing, a  little  finer  direction  than  many  larger  epics. 
"The  Informer,"  was  one  of  these.  "Married  and  in 
Love"  is  no  match  for  that  great  film  but  by  any 
standard  it's  superior  cinema.  It's  just  the  story 
of  a  married  woman  trying  to  get  back  an  old 
sweetheart,  and  his  struggle  to  keep  faith  with  his 
unglamorous  little  wife.  Helen  Vinson  is  the  other 
woman,  Alan  Marshall  the  man,  Barbara  Read  the 
wife;  none  of  the  roles  is  easy  and  each  player  works 
with  finesse  and  an  intellectual  understanding  of 
character  which  makes  each  individual  stand  out 
with  clarity.     Recommended  especially  for  women. 


GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN-Warners 

IF  you  read  "Johnny  Got  His  Gun,"  you  may  find 
a  certain  irritation  when  you  discover  that  this 
play  on  the  title  disguises  a  support-B  featuring 
May  Robson.  Muzzy  May  is  cast  as  an  indom- 
itable old  woman  who  fights  for  the  safety  and 
happiness  of  a  granddaughter,  Margot  Stevenson. 
Margot  establishes  residence  in  Gold  City,  Nevada, 
to  divorce  her  husband,  Hardie  Albright.  Half- 
way along  in  the  film  it  all  turns  into  a  murder 
mystei'y,  because  Albright  is  slain;  whereupon  Miss 
Robson  tries  to  take  the  blame.  The  picture  seems 
to  be  much  ado  about  people  who  aren't  very  nice, 
it's  well-directed,  and  lovable  May  troupes  away 
in  a  manner  to  decry  her  years.  Harry  Davenport 
has  the  role  of  Granny's  childhood  sweetheart. 


•  SLIGHTLY  HONORABLE-Wanger-U.A. 

I  WO  murders  are  committed  in  this  slightly 
whacky  comedy,  but  you're  too  busy  laughing  at 
the  gay  dialogue  to  care  who  killed  whom.  Pat 
O'Brien  is  the  engaging  attorney  plotting  the  down- 
fall of  crooked  political  boss  Edward  Arnold  when 
Arnold's  sweetheart,  Claire  Dodd,  is  found  mur- 
dered and  O'Brien  is  suspected.  When  Eve  Arden. 
Pat's  independent  and  wisecracking  secretary,  is 
found  with  a  knife  in  her  back,  matters  look  even 
worse  for  him.  Ruth  Terry,  naive  little  singer,  pur- 
sues Pat  all  over  the  place.  You'll  be  mad  about 
her.  She's  really  delightful.  Broderick  Crawford 
is  O'Brien's  helpful  law  partner.  The  plot  gets 
wilder  and  wilder  and  if  you  suspect  the  least  likely 
member  of  the  cast,  you'll  find  the  murderer. 


SAVESYOUR 

PICT 

U  R  E    TIME     AND     MONEY 

THE    BEST   PICTURES   OF  THE    MONTH 

Mexican   Spitfire 

High  School 

The  Fighting  69th 

Congo  Maisie 

Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby 

Married  and  in  Love 

Slightly  Honorable 

Sidewalks  of  London 

The  Shop  Around  the  Corner 

Entente  Cordiale 

Raffles 

Swanee  River 

The  Earl  of  Chicago 

The  Invisible  Man  Returns 

BEST   PERFORMANCES    OF    THE    MONTH 

Lupe  Velez  in  "Mexican  Spitfire" 
Leon   Errol   in   "Mexican   Spitfire" 

Jane  Withers  in  "High  School" 

James  Cagney  in  "The  Fighting  69th" 

Pat  O'Brien  in   "The   Fighting   69th" 

Ann   Sothern   in   "Congo   Maisie" 

Eddie  Albert  in  "Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby" 

Barbara   Read  in  "Married   and  in  Love" 

Pat  O'Brien  in  "Slightly  Honorable" 

Ruth  Terry   in   "Slightly   Honorable" 

Charles    Laughton    in    "Sidewalks   of   London" 

Vivien  Leigh  in  "Sidewalks  of  London" 

Margaret  Sullavan  in   "The  Shop  Around  the 

Corner" 

James  Stewart  in  "The  Shop  Around  the  Corner" 

Frank  Morgan  in  "The  Shop  Around  the  Corner" 

Victor   Francen   in   "Entente   Cordiale" 

Robert   Montgomery   in   "The   Earl   of  Chicago" 

Charles  Laughton  in   "The  Hunchback  of  Notre 

Dame" 


*  SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON— 

Mayflower- 


We  will  bet  a  Buffalo  nickel  that  one  of  David 
Selznick's  G-Men  saw  this  English  film  last  year 
while  the  epic  search  for  Scarlett  O'Hara  was  on. 
For  "Sidewalks  of  London"  was  made  before  Vivien 
Leigh  went  to  Hollywood  for  G.W.T.W.;  and,  in  the 
role  of  Liberty,  Miss  Leigh  is  the  same  tempestuous, 
heartless  creature  as  the  vixen  of  Tara.  Even  with 
the  doughty  Charles  Laughton  playing  opposite  her, 
she  manages  to  hold  her  own.  She  is  a  gifted 
actress.  It's  the  old  story  of  a  girl  who  by  ruthless 
determination  succeeds  in  rising  above  her  lowly 
station.  Nothing  more  than  a  common  street  waif 
with  a  pretty  face  and  nimble  toes,  she  is  taken  in 
by  Charles  Laughton.  He  is  a  "Busker" — one  of  the 
sidewalk  entertainers,  who  makes  his  living  amus- 
ing London  theater  queues.  The  pair  work  up  an 
act  with  two  other  Buskers,  Larry  Adler  and  Ty- 
rone Guthrie,  but  Liberty  isn't  content  with  her 
progress.  When  a  young  and  prosperous  songwriter, 
Rex  Harrison,  "discovers"  her  and  offers  her  a  mu- 
sical comedy  career,  she  walks  out  on  her  original 
benefactor,  with  the  added  insult  of  belittling  his 
Busking  profession.  There  are  some  magnificent 
scenes  between  Leigh  and  Laughton — she  is  alter- 
nately tender,  cruel,  childlike,  calculating;  he  gives 
a  poignant  and  restrained  portrayal  of  a  man  beaten 
by  life,  yet  with  a  pathetic  dignity  and  fierce  pride. 
There  is  excellent  support  from  the  rest  of  the  cast. 
We  might  mention,  too,  the  work  of  Director  Tim 
Whelan  in  making  this  film  top-notch  screen  drama. 


*  THE  SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER-M-G-M 

ERNST  LUBITSCH'S  second  picture  for  M-G-M 
(the  first  was  "Ninotchka")  is  a  gem  of  a  movie, 
packed  with  charm,  finely  drawn  characters  and 
superb  acting.  It's  directed  with  the  touch  of  in- 
sight and  of  delicate  humor.  It  is  unlikely  that  you 
will  roar  with  laughter,  or  burst  into  tears,  yet 
throughout  the  film  you  will  struggle  with  a  desire 
to  cry  a  little  and  catch  yourself  chuckling  instead. 
It  takes  something  approaching  genius  to  create  an 
effect  like  that.  Lubitsch  has  owned  the  play  for  a 
long  time — a  simple  story  about  the  lives  of  a  few 
employees  working  in  a  luggage  and  gift  shop.  Most 
important  among  the  characters  are  Jimmy  Stew- 
art, star  clerk  at  the  store,  and  Margaret  Sullavan, 
a  new  member  of  the  staff.  Both  are  bored  with 
life  and  find  a  kind  of  romance  by  writing  to  an 
unknown  sweetheart  through  a  correspondence 
agency.  Of  course  it  is  finally  discovered  they  are 
writing  to  each  other.  Stewart  turns  on  his  usual 
brand  of  boyish  charm  with  enormous  success,  while 
Miss  Sullavan  plays  to  perfection  the  almost  drab 
Klara  whose  spirit  is  superb,  and  whose  pseudo- 
sophistication  is  pathetic  but  comic.  Frank  Morgan, 
in  a  straight  role  as  the  shop  owner,  offers  a  truly 
sterling  performance,  as  do  Joseph  Schildkraut  and 
all  the  others.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to  find 
anything  wrong  with  this  picture.  It  is  a  gentle 
study,  never  boisterous  or  in  bad  taste,  nor  does  it 
sacrifice  anything  to  the  stock  Hollywood  illusions 
about  audience  intelligence. 

(Continued  on  page  89) 


63 


With  the  aid  of  his  "persuader"  Tony  became  guardian  of  the  peace  while  Donaldson  told  them  off 


BY  GENE  TOWNE  and  GRAHAM  BAKER 


EDITOR'S  NOTE:  Proudly  we  present 
the  comedy-fiction  scoop  of  the 
month  —  an  hilarious,  movie-wise 
novelette  by  Toivnc  and  Baker,  Hol- 
lywood's best-known  and  certainly 
its  most  madcap  team  of  writers. 
Adding  another  string  to  their  boiv, 
they  are  now  making  their  debut  as 
producers.  For  their  first  RKO- 
Radio  release,  "Siviss  Family  Rob- 
in Son,"  they  have  'assembled  one  of 
the  screen's  best  cast  of  characters, 
including,  among  others,  Thomas 
Mitchell,  Edna  Best,  Freddie  Bar- 
tholomew, Tim  Holt,  Terry  Kilbum 
and    baby    Bobby    Quillan.—E.V.H. 


HOWARD  DONALDSON  was  sitting  on 
top  of  the  world.  His  position  as  pro- 
duction head  of  Atlas  Pictures  gave  him 
wealth  and  power.  Since  he  had  earned  them 
by  hard  work  and  ability  they  hadn't  gone  to 
his  head,  so  he  was  rated  a  swell  guy  by  men 
and  a  lamb  by  the  female  population,  a  goodly 
percentage  of  which  had  attempted  from  time  to 
time  to  annex  his  name  and  his  bankroll.  These 
attempts  Howard  had  side-stepped  neatly,  only 
to  fall  in  love  with  Brooksie,  his  Carole  Lom- 
bard-ish  secretary.  He  hadn't  got  around  to 
proposing  to  Brooksie,  but  both  of  them  knew 
he  was  working  up  to  it  and  Brooksie,  at  least, 
knew  that  he  would  be  accepted. 

Then  his  brother-in-law  and  nephews  de- 
scended upon  him.  They  invaded  sets,  threw 
casts  and  technicians  into  a  frenzy,  wrecked 
equipment.  Ralph,  Howard's  brother-in-law, 
was  taken  for  $2600  by  gambler  Tony  Spangler 


and  Howard  not  only  had  to  cover  the  loss  but 
had  to  sit  in  Tony's  office  until  the  check  was 
safely  cashed.  He  was  still  sitting  there  when 
police  raided  the  joint  and  in  spite  of  his  pro- 
tests of  innocence  he  was  carted  off  to  jail.  The 
raid  made  page  one  in  newspapers  from  coast 
to  coast,  as  a  result  of  which  Howard  found  him- 
self in  for  some  tall  explaining  to  John  Wood, 
president,  and  Frank  Swain,  chairman  of  the 
board  of  Atlas  Pictures.  But  worst  of  all,  How- 
ard's sister  Christine,  a  dominating  busybody 
whom  he'd  avoided  for  years,  arrived  and  set 
to  work  wrecking  what  little  was  left  of  his 
career  and  his  romance. 

At  this  point  Brooksie  decided  to  take  a  hand. 
She'd  bawled  him  out  plenty  for  getting  himself 
into  such  a  jam,  but  only  over  her  dead  body 
would  Wood,  Swain  and  Howard's  subnormal 
family  put  him  on  the  spot.  So  Brooksie  called 
on  Tony  Spangler  at  his  gambling  club.     The 


lookout  refused  to  let  her  in.  Brooksie  only 
snarled,  "Open  that  door  or  I'll  make  you  eat 
it!" 

THE  lookout  was  a  tough  lad,  who  had  expertly 
cut  many  a  throat  in  his  day,  but  he  wasn't  as 
tough  as  Brooksie  sounded.  He  opened  the 
door,  pointed  to  a  stairway  which  led  to  the 
Spangler  apartment  above  the  gambling  house. 

Brooksie  marched  into  Spangler's  bedroom 
and  found  the  gambler  snoring  athletically. 
She  called  to  him,  and  he  only  turned  over. 
She  shook  him,  and  he  only  moaned.  Drastic 
measures  were  necessary.  She  found  some  ice 
in  the  kitchen,  wrapped  it  in  a  towel  and  began 
to  beat  Tony  over  the  face  with  it. 

This  did  the  trick.  Spangler  awakened  with 
a  start,  instinctively  threw  a  .punch — which 
Brooksie  had  been  expecting,  and  consequently 
ducked — sat  up  in  bed,  and  asked: 


64 


mm 


Though  battered  and  bruised,  it  took  just  one  dra- 
matic split  second  for  Howard  Donaldson  to  prove  that 
the  worm  could  turn  and  bite  the  feet  that  trod  on  it 


"What  goes  on  here?" 

"Get  up,"  Brooksie  said,  in  the  same  tone  of 
voice  she  customarily  used  on  Donaldson. 

"Listen,  sis,"  Spangler  said,  blinking  a  time 
or  two,  "I  don't  know  who  you  are  and  care 
less.  I  don't  know  how  you  got  in  here,  but 
if  you  don't  blow  in  about  six  seconds.  .  .  ." 

"Listen,  brother,"  Brooksie  mimicked,  "I'm 
Howard  Donaldson's  secretary.  .  .  ." 

"So  what?"  Spangler  asked,  thinking  he  had 
coined  an  original  phrase. 

"So  just  this,"  Brooksie  went  on.  "You're  go- 
ing to  help  fish  him  out  of  a  jam." 

"I  am  going  to  fish  him  out  of  a  jam?"  Span- 
gler asked  in  the  same  tone  of  voice  he  would 
have  used  if  some  one  had  told  him  he  had  been 
appointed  to  the  Supreme  Court.  "Baby,  the 
deeper  I  can  get  that  guy  into  a  jam,  the  better 
I'll  like  it.  Who  was  it  got  me  thrown  in  the 
can — Howard  Donaldson,  no  less." 

"Howard  Donaldson  didn't  get  you  thrown 
into  jail,"  Brooksie  said.  "His  dilly-minded 
brother-in-law  did." 

"Guys  shouldn't  have  brother-in-laws  like 
that."  Spangler  said. 

"Now  just  a  moment.  He  said  he'd  pay  his 
brother-in-law's  check  for  $2600,  didn't  he?" 

"Yeah." 

"Well,  he  did,  didn't  he?" 

Tony  Spangler  thought  this  one  over  for  a 
minute. 

"Yeah,  I'll  grant  that." 

"All  right,"  Brooksie  said,  "then  the  nicest 
thing  you  can  do  is  help  him  out  of  a  bad  situa- 
tion. He's  about  to  lose  his  job  as  producer 
at  the  Atlas  studio  because  of  this  mix-up.  All 
I'm  asking  is  that  you  go  to  his  boss  and  explain 
the  whole  thing — that  he  wasn't  in  any  trou- 
ble—" 

"I'm  sorry,  lady,"  Spangler  said,  "but.  .  .  ." 

"Please,  Mr.  Spangler,"  Brooksie  pleaded,  "if 
you'd  only  talk  to  Mr.  Wood  and  Mr.  Swain.  .  .  ." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  Spangler  said,  suddenly  in- 
terested, "Mr.  Swain  .  .  .  Mr.  Frank  Swain,  the 
movie  financier?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"If  you'll  just  step  out  in  the  other  room  while 
I  pull  on  a  pair  of  pants,"  Tony  said,  "I'll  be 


practically  half  way  to  wherever  this  Mr.  Swain 
is." 

nT  almost  this  precise  moment,  Howard  Don- 
aldson, despairing  of  Brooksie's  either  returning 
to  the  studio  or  calling,  decided  the  logical  place 
to  find  her  was  at  home.  He  sought  his  auto- 
mobile and  drove  away. 

There  is  a  very  curious  intersection  of  streets 
in  Hollywood,  where  three  thoroughfares  join. 
The  streets  are  named,  for  no  particular  reason, 
Cahuenga,  Yucca  and  Franklin. 

Upon  this  occasion  Donaldson  was  coming 
south  on  Cahuenga,  bent  on  finding  Brooksie; 
Christine  was  coming  east  on  Yucca  bound  for 
the  Colossal  Broadcasting  Studio.  Brooksie 
and  Spangler,  on  their  way  to  see  Wood  and 
Swain,  were  headed  west  on  Franklin.  All  three 
cars  met  at  the  intersection  at  the  same  time. 
None  saw  the  other.  If  they  only  had,  things 
might  have  been  different,  but  each  driver  was 
too  busy  trying  to  beat  the  traffic  signal. 

Christine,  plus  family,  was  the  first  to  arrive 
at  a  destination — the  broadcasting  studio. 

"I'm  Howard  Donaldson's  sister,"  she  an- 
nounced, and  so  completely  awed  the  doorman 
that  she  was  passed  right  in,  Ralph  and  Junior 
in  pursuit. 

Donaldson  finished  second.  He  arrived  at 
Brooksie's  home  to  find  she  was  not  there.  He 
determined  to  wait  in  his  car  until  she  did  come 
home  and,  to  kill  the  time,  turned  on  his  radio. 
This  was  a  mistake. 

The  first  words  he  heard  were  an  an- 
nouncer's: 

"You  are  about  to  hear  an  address  on  the 
future  of  the  motion-picture  industry  by  that 
world-known  producer,  Howard  Donaldson." 

Donaldson  took  a  quick  look  in  the  rear- 
vision  mirror  to  assure  himself  that  he  was 
really  he.  Somebody,  he  felt  sure,  was  wrong, 
but  he  wasn't  positive  it  was  the  radio  an- 
nouncer until  he  had  checked  up. 

Then  he  recalled  that  Brooksie  had  made 
such  a  radio  engagement  for  him,  and  he  began 
to  realize  just  how  much  his  public  and  private 
life  depended  on  her.  The  awfulness  of  not 
having    Brooksie    around    became    clearer    and 


HOLLYWOOD 


ILLUSTRATED      BY      WALLACE      MORGAN 


clearer  to  him.  These  hasty  thoughts,  however, 
were  quickly  blotted  out  by  what  followed  over 
the  radio. 

The  announcer  said:  "And  now,  ladies  and 
gentlemen,  Mr.  Donaldson." 

"If  I  hear  my  own  voice  coming  through 
now,"  Donaldson  told  himself,  "I'm  going  to  give 
myself  up." 

There  was  a  complete  silence  on  the  radio  for 
what  seemed  hours  and  was  actually  thirty  sec- 
onds. Then  Donaldson  was  horrified  to  hear 
Christine's  unmistakable  voice  say: 

"Well,  where  is  Mr.  Donaldson?" 

"This  is  no  time  to  ask  n?e  riddles,"  the  an- 
nouncer said.  "I  thought  you  had  him  with 
you.  That's  the  only  reason  I  let  you  in  the 
broadcasting  room." 

"Don't  lie  to  me!  I'm  looking  for  my  brother 
and  you've  got  him  hidden  somewhere!"  Chris- 
tine howled. 

"Lady,"  said  the  announcer,  "you  can  go  nuts 
if  you  want  to,  but  not  on  a  national  broad- 
cast. .  .  ." 

"You  can't  talk  about  my  mother  that  way," 
said  Junior,  and  popped  the  announcer  on  the 
nose,  which  happened  to  be  a  mistake,  because 
the  announcer  formerly  had  been  a  Notre  Dame 
halfback.  He  slugged  Junior  with  the  micro- 
phone, but  not  before  Christine  had  managed 
to  yell  into  it: 

"I'm  Howard  Donaldson's  sister,  and  I'll  say 
what  I  have  to  say  whether  we're  on  the  air  or 
not!  I  want  the  whole  world  to  know  that 
wherever  my  brother  is,  he's  being  held  by  a 
designing  little  typist  who's  trying  to.  .  .  ." 

Someone  in  the  control  room  pulled  a  switch 
at  this  point.  Millions  of  listeners  from  border 
to  border  and  coast  to  coast  and  on  the  ships 
at  sea  are  still  wondering  where  and  how  Don- 
aldson was  being  held.  As  a  matter  of  solemn 
fact,  he  was  held,  at  that  moment,  in  the  throes 
of  shame  and  humiliation.  His  only  hope,  just 
then,  was  that  never  would  he  again  see  any- 
one that  he  knew.  He  thought  of  growing  a 
beard,  changing  his  name  to  Schicklegruber. 
and  joining  the  Foreign  Legion.  If  Brooksie 
would  only  turn  up.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile,  the  fun  in  the  broadcasting  station 
was  reaching  a  climax. 

The  announcer,  having  dismantled  the  micro- 
phone, was  trying  to  wrap  it  around  Junior's 
neck  and  the  sound  engineer,  having  presented 
Ralph  with  what  was  to  become  a  splendid  black 
eye,  was  trying  to  strangle  Christine. 

Cooler  heads  prevailed.  A  hastily  formed 
bouncer  squad  decided  the  best  thing  to  do  was 
to  eject  these  invading  maniacs.  Christine. 
Ralph  and  Junior  were  given  the  bum's  rush 
into  a  taxicab. 

"Where'll  I  take  'em?"  the  driver  asked. 

The  leader  of  the  bouncers  said: 

"My  vote  is  for  some  place  between  the  Sieg- 
fried and  the  Maginot  Lines." 

(Continued  on  page  76) 


65 


S^//£^ 


BY  FRANCES  HUGHES 


FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


1.  SOAP  STORY 

Bathing,  you  know,  can  be  an  awful 
bore!  Or  you  can  turn  it  into  some- 
thing you  look  forward  to  with  pleas- 
ure. The  soap  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence. Try  sloshing  around  with 
Wrisley's  "Bath  Superbe"  and  you'll 
know  just  what  we  mean.  Four 
gargantuan  cakes  to  a  box — some- 
thing substantial  to  hang  onto  in  the 
tub,  and  a  heavenly  smell  besides, 
to  make  you  flower-fresh  for  the 
day.   $1.00. 


2.  FEELING  FLUSH? 

You'd  better  be,  if  you  plan  to  give 
the  "little  woman"  this  very  special 
Carole  Stupell  breakfast  tray.  Your 
pampered  darling  will  love  eating 
off  silk!  Pink  mousseline  de  soie  to 
be  exact,  with  a  dainty  pink  napkin 
to  match,  at  $6.50  for  the  set.  But 
that's  only  the  half  of  it!  The  modern 
lucite  tray  costs  $42.50;  the  baby 
blue  crystal  breakfast  set,  $35.00. 
Expensive,  but  worth  it! 


3.  FOR  MEN  ONLY! 

Our  men  are  up  in  arms  against  be- 
ing treated  like  stepchildren.  They 
too  want  a  pleasant  rubdown  to  use 
after  the  bath,  and  a  fine,  stimulat- 
ing astringent  to  tighten  pores  after 
shaving.  So  Faberge  up  and  de- 
canted some  elegant  colognes  for 
men — rugged,  he-man  versions  of 
"Aphrodisia"  and  "Woodhue,"  in 
streamlined  flasks  with  leather  tops 
and  coaster  bottoms.  In  three  sizes, 
from  $1.50  to  $5.00. 


4.  DOUBLE  DUTY  FOR  BEAUTY 

Have  you  seen  Dorothy  Gray's  new 
vanity?  What  efficiency!  Lipstick 
anchored  to  vanity  and  no  fishing 
in  handbags  when  you're  in  a 
hurry.  Folks  are  falling  for  "The 
Swashbuckler" — a  handsome  case 
that  looks  like  gilded  lizard  or  alli- 
gator, with  loose-powder  well,  fine 
sguare  mirror,  and  firmly  anchored 
lipstick — complete  for  $3. 


5.  IT'S  IN  THE  BAG 

What's  in  the  bag?  The  clue  to 
your  first  spring  costume.  A  "Lead- 
ing Lady"  handbag  to  match  your 
first  spring  shoes.  Start  with  a  femi- 
nized suit  of  fawn-beige  or  navy  blue 
twill.  Wear  spat-shoes  of  turftan  calf 
and  fawn  suede  and  swing  this 
matching  "Leading  Lady"  melon  bag 
from  your  wrist.  No  one  in  the  world 
would  suspect  it's  just  $1.00. 

6.  SPRING  STOCKING  STORY 

So  you're  one  of  the  gals  who  has 
trouble  keeping  the  seams  of  her 
stockings  straight  .  .  .  grouses  over 
garter  runs  and  goes  crazy  looking 
for  stockings  that  can  take  it?  Mojud 
was  made  for  you.  That's  what  the 
famous  "Thigh-Mold"  feature's  for — 
a  clever  top  with  four  knitted  strips 
that  take  lots  of  strain  and  like  it! 
Ask  for  the  new  spring  colors.  Pretty 
special  at  $1 .25. 


7.  HULA  HULA 

Everybody's  "going  Hawaiian"  these 
days.  Name  the  most  popular  night 
spot  in  New  York!  .  .  .  the  Hawaii- 
an Room  at  the  St.  Regis  of  course. 
And  the  most  popular  perfume? 
"Miahati" — Oceanic's  Hawaiian  ex- 
tract of  tropical  flowers — in  thrilling 
blue  glass  bottles— $3.50  and  $5.00. 


Feeling  a  post-holiday  letdown?  Don't  let  it  get  you.  Perk  up!  We 
did,  as  we  snooped  through  the  shops  and  stumbled  on  these  little  treas- 
ures. You  may  have  to  hock  your  all  for  some  of  them,  but  believe  your 
weary  scout,  they're  worth  it!  Others  are  yours  for  the  proverbial  song, 
or  fifty  cents  in  cold  hard  cash.  Begin  at  the  beginning,  make  careful 
notes  and  write  to  the  Fashion  Secretary,  Photoplay,  122  East  42nd 
Street,  New  York  City,  for  the  name  of  the  shop  that  carries  the  little 
number  you  can't  live  without. 


{For  More  Shopping  Neus,  See  Page  85) 


8.  KNOW  A  TRAVELING  MAN? 

Send  him  away  with  a  smile  plus 
Pinaud's  handy  little  travel  kit  for 
men,  commonly  known  as  "The 
Jaunt."  What's  in  it?  The  three 
Pinaud  preparations  the  boys  all 
swear  by — Lilac  Vegetal,  Lilac  Talc 
and  Eau  de  Quinine  Hair  Tonic, 
neat  as  a  pin  in  a  pig-grained  kit 
with  a  handsome  burgundy  lining. 
Extra  pockets  for  combs  and  stuff, 
too.  A  satisfactory  send-off  for  a 
slight  $2.00. 


9.  WHO  COLLECTS  MINIATURES? 

Yardley  is  out  with  something  ele- 
gant for  collectors  of  miniatures — 
three  new  miniature  models  of  their 
lovely  flower  perfumes,  "April  Vio- 
lets," "Fragrance"  and  "Orchis." 
Thank  you,  Yardley.  It's  swell  to  be 
able  to  get  a  dram  of  perfume  in  an 
original  sealed  package  for  as  little 
as  $1.50.  The  bottles  and  boxes  are 
copy-cats  of  the  bigger  sizes,  some- 
thing Yardley  fans  will  appreciate, 
because  when  Yardley  puts  up  a 
perfume,  it's  good  to  look  at,  as  well 
as  smell!     Try  it  and  see. 


10.  YOURS  FOR  A  "SMALLWAIST" 

Flexee's  takes  a  very  smooth  stand 
on  the  question,  "to  lace  or  not  to 
lace."  They  whittle  your  waist  in- 
stead with  horizontal  bands  that 
cinch,  not  pinch.  You'll  like  the 
sleek  satin  ribbed  lastique  fabric 
.  .  .  the  dainty  but  uplifting  lace 
bra,  and  the  tactful  back-panel  of 
ribbed  satin  that  stretches  vertically 
only,  to  give  you  the  pancake  der- 
riere  you  crave.  $15.00  will  stream- 
line you  stunningly  for  spring. 


11.  "DROP  IT  ON,"  WHY  DON'T  YOU? 

Isn't  La  Cross  wonderful?  They've 
just  figured  out  a  way  to  take  off 
nail  polish  without  the  usual  fuss 
and  muss!  It's  all  so  beautifully  sim- 
ple too.  They  give  you  a  small  glass 
dropper  with  every  bottle  of  Glycer- 
ated  Polish  Remover.  You  fill  it,  let 
one  drop  dribble  onto  each  nail,  give 
one  strong  wipe  and — presto!  your 
nails  are  clean  and  your  disposi- 
tion's perfect!  25c  buys  remover 
and  dropper,  and  we're  pretty  sorry 
we  didn't  think  of  it  ourselves! 


12.  MEET  "MINIKINS" 

Of  course  you  want  a  streamlined 
chassis.  But  do  you  know  how  to 
go  about  getting  it?  Blue  Swann 
figured  it  out.  The  answer  is  "Mini- 
kins," the  last  word  in  the  least 
amount  of  underwear  a  girl  could 
wear  and  get  by  the  censors.  "Mini- 
kins" go  over  or  under  your  girdle 
— take  your  choice — and  you'll  be 
buying  them  by  the  half  dozen  soon, 
for  they're  only  39c  a  pair. 


66 


PHOTOPLAY 


Lux  Soap  is  a 

WONDERFUL 
BEAUTy  care! 
FIRST  PAT  ITS 
ACTIVE  LATHER 

LIGHTLy  INTO 
yOUR  SKIN 


Use  cosmetics  all  you 
like -but  don't  risk 
Cosmetic  Skin 

Try  Loretta  Young's  ACTIVE-LATHER 
FACIALS  for  30   days!   You'll  find 
this  care  really  works— helps  guard 
against  the  dullness,  little  blemishes, 
enlarged  pores  that  mean  Cosmetic 
Skin.  Use  Lux  Toilet  Soap  during 
the  day  for  a  quick  freshener,  and 
at  night  to  give  skin  the  protection 
of  perfect  cleansing— protection  it 
needs   for   beauty.   Begin  your 
ACTIVE-LATHER  FACIALS  now ! 
For  extra  economy,  buy  3  cakes. 


MEXT  RINSE  WITH 
WARM  WATER, 

THEM  COOL.  YOUR 

SKIN  IS  LEFT 
REALLY  CLEAN 


NOW  DRy  THE  FACE 

with  quick  light 
pats.  it  feels 
softer,  smoother, 
see  how  fresh  it 
looks! 


W/-SI  I  want  to  have  the  charm  of 
TUU  smooth,  lovely-to-look-at 
skin.  So  don't  fail  to  remove  dust,  dirt 
and  stale  cosmetics  thoroughly— don't 
risk  Cosmetic  Skin.  Let  Lux  Toilet  Soap's 
ACTIVE  lather  give  your  skin  protection 
it  needs  to  stay  lovely. 


~DL? 


9  out  of  10  Screen  Stars 

use  Lux  Toilet  Soap 


MARCH,     19  4  0 


This  Woman  Has  Loved! 


Glamorous  Hollywood 
Styles  reproduced  for 
you  in  JOLENE  Shoes. 
All  are  influenced  by 
the  new  innovations 
seen  by  JOLENE  at 
filmland's  favorite 
rendezvous.  Insist  on 
JOLENE  Shoes  this 
Spring! 


A  HOLLYWOOD  PATTERN 
FOR  "SMART"  AFTER- 

HOONS  ...  featuring  the 
ne~  shirred  front  trend. 


FREE   BOOKLET 

"A  DAY  AT  THE  STUDIO 
WITH  JOlENt" 


J 


STYLED  IN  HOLLYWOOD  §**&• 

Manufactured  and  Distributed  by 

TOBER-SAIFER  SHOE  CO.  •  ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 


them.  "Come  back  after  you  have  seen 
your  mother  and  your  father  and  your 
sister  and  your  home,"  they  told  her. 
"Come  back  and  you  will  get  part  of 
our  land,  just  as  if  you  were  our  own 
child." 

Ilona  wept  too.  "Thank  you  .  .  . 
Thank  you  .  .  ."  she  told  them.  "Per- 
haps I  can  come  back.    I'll  try!" 

She  didn't  know  how  swiftly  and  fully 
life  would  bear  in  upon  her,  that  she 
would  have  no  time  to  go  back,  that 
always  she  would  be  absorbed  by  the 
day  in  which  she  lived. 

Mrs.  HAJMASSEY  waited  under  the 
dingy  glass  roof  of  the  train  shed.  When 
the  train  from  Holland  came  in  she 
searched  the  faces  of  all  who  hurried 
past  her.  But  when  Ilona,  quick  to  spy 
her,  rushed  upon  her  and  threw  her 
arms  about  her  she  was  bewildered.  She 
had  been  waiting  for  the  girl  she  had 
sent  away,  a  girl  with  a  smooth,  plump 
face.  This  girl  covering  her  with  kisses 
was  very  different.  The  plumpness  was 
gone.  The  lovely  breadth  of  her  face 
appeared  to  have  been  chiseled  by  such 
fine  tools  as  artisans  use  to  carve  cam- 
eos. This  made  her  eyes  seem  larger. 
Her  hair  too  had  greater  beauty.  You 
could  see  it  had  been  brushed  and 
brushed.  Mrs.  Hajmassey  knew  it  never 
would  be  a  sense  of  duty  that  would  im- 
pel Ilona  to  brush  it  so.  No,  it  must 
give  her  pleasure  to  see  it  gleam  and 
shine.  That  meant  she  was  growing  up. 
But,  mixed  with  the  pride  in  Mrs.  Haj- 
massey's  eyes  there  was  concern.  She 
knew  Ilona's  temperament.  She  knew 
too  that  temperament  in  a  woman  as 
beautiful  as  Ilona  now  promised  to  be 
would  bring  peace  to  no  one.  .  .  . 

When  Ilona  returned  from  Holland  it 
took  her  no  longer  to  discover  the  boy 
who  lived  across  the  hall  than  it  took 
him  to  discover  her. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  says,  "why  I  al- 
ways was  loving  those  very  ugly  boys. 
For  this  boy  was  ugly  also.  But  I 
thought  to  myself  'If  he  doesn't  love  me, 
I  kill  myself!'  I  remember  it  so  well, 
we  were  playing  jumping  the  rope.  And 
the  very  next  time  we  play  it — about  a 
week  later,  I  think  it  must  be — he  kissed 
my  hands.  I  thought  I  would  fall  down. 
And  I  thought  after  he  did  it  that  I  was 
a  grownup  girl." 

Always  when  such  great  things  hap- 
pened, Ilona  must  run  and  tell  Maria 
about  it.  Maria  Komka  was  her  friend. 
They  went  to  school  together.  And 
Ilona's  loyalty  to  her  has  with  the  years 
proved  to  be  as  enduring  as  it  was  sud- 
den, and  in  it  there  always  has  been 
something  a  little  fierce  and  something 
a  little  poignant. 

"Maria's  body,  it  is  beautiful,"  Ilona 
says,  "but  not  her  face.  The  children 
at  school  did  not  like  her  and  she  did 
not  like  them.  But  I  loved  her  very 
much  and  she  liked  me.  And  always 
she  would  be  asking  me  'What  can  I  do 
for  you?' " 

It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  the 
friendship  between  Ilona  and  Maria.  A 
girl  like  Ilona  must  have  a  confidante 
who,  like  Maria,  is  not  in  any  sense 
competitive.  And  a  girl  like  Maria,  de- 
nied a  rich  life  of  her  own,  must  have 
someone  like  Ilona  who  will  tell  her  of 
her  experiences  so  that  she  may  live 
them  too,  vicariously. 

In  the  beginning  of  this  friendship 
Maria  had  more  in  the  way  of  wealth 
than  Ilona.  While  Ilona  was  in  Holland 
Maria  wrote  her  faithfully  every  week 
and  told  her  about  the  children  in  the 
Budapest  school  .  .  .  that  her  brother 
was  beginning  to  care  about  girls  .  .  . 


(Continued  from  page  13) 

and  that  she  wished  and  prayed  it  would 
be  Ilona  he  one  day  would  marry.  Ilona 
wrote  Maria  faithfully,  too,  so  when  she 
returned  it  was  as  if  there  had  been  no 
separation.  They  said  hello  as  if  it  had 
been  only  the  day  before  they  had  said 
good-by.  And,  of  course,  Ilona  saw 
Maria's  brother  too. 

ILONA  turned  sixteen.  At  sixteen  she 
was  ready  to  put  purely  romantic  at- 
tachments behind  her  and  go  on  to  the 
exciting  attachments  of  adolescence  .  .  . 
and  to  fall  suddenly  and  ecstatically  in 
love  with  John  Komka  on  the  same  day 
he  appeared  wearing  a  new  pair  of 
patent  leather  shoes. 

John  was  twenty-two.  He  was  a 
cashier  in  a  large  office.  He  came  often 
to  the  Hajmassey  flat  for  tea.  And  one 
day  he  asked  Ilona's  parents  if  he  could 
marry  her. 

"Wait,"  her  father  said.  "Wait  two 
years!  And  if  you  still  love  her,  all 
right." 

Lost  in  each  other's  eyes  Ilona  and 
John  marveled  that  they  could  have 
been  so  deaf,  so  blind,  so  dull  that  the 
wonder  of  each  other's  beauty  and 
voice  and  mind  and  spirit  had  until  now 
escaped  them. 

One  evening  every  week  there  was 
dancing  school.  Ilona's  parents  did  not 
allow  her  to  go  to  that  dancing  school 
alone.  They  always  went  with  her. 
When  she  danced  with  John  or  any 
other  young  man — only  with  the  others 
it  didn't  matter — she  must  dance  just  so 
and  hold  herself  separate  and  apart. 
Still  it  was  very  beautiful.  They  were 
in  each  other's  arms.  Music  flowed 
around  them.  And  when  they  were 
dancing  the  sharpest  ears  could  not  hear 
the  words  he  whispered. 

"Every  night  I  went  to  that  dancing 
school,"  Ilona  says,  triumph  in  her 
laughter  still,  "I  took  a  big  umbrella. 
Whether  it  rained  or  not.  For  John  and 
I  walked  home  in  front  of  my  parents 
with  the  umbrella.  And  under  the  um- 
brella we  could  kiss. 

"My  sister,  she  was  a  very  good  girl. 
I  was  always  terrible.  I  was  very  bad." 
Carefully  Mrs.  Hajmassey  watched 
her  younger  daughter.  Carefully, 
proudly,  constantly,  and  a  little  fear- 
fully. .  .  .  She    dressed    her    in    simple 


English  clothes  but  Ilona  had  a  way  of 
doing  her  bow.  The  heels  on  the  shoes 
she  bought  her  were  low,  as  they  should 
be.  But  sometimes,  especially  when 
John  came  to  call,  she  would  notice 
Ilona  walked  in  a  strange  manner  and 
discover  she  had  borrowed  her  sister's 
shoes  with  high  heels.  And  again  it 
would  be  borne  in  upon  Mrs.  Hajmas- 
sey that  Ilona  couZd  do  whatever  she 
would  do. 

UODO  was  married  when  Ilona  was 
nearly  seventeen.  She  had  a  church 
wedding.  Ilona  was  a  "wedding  girl" 
and  John  Komka  was  her  partner  in  the 
procession.  Never  had  Ilona  looked 
lovelier.  She  wore  a  dress  of  pink 
georgette  and  she  carried  pink  roses. 
But  when  they  reached  home  where  the 
reception  was  held  and  Mrs.  Hajmassey 
examined  closely  the  color  in  Ilona's 
cheeks  and  lips  she  knew  Ilona  had  dis- 
covered red  paper,  moistened,  to  be  an 
excellent  substitute  for  rouge. 

Surely  there  was  some  way  to  restrain 
that  romantic,  ardent  spirit.  Perhaps 
work  would  do  it  .  .  .  work  that 
wouldn't  stimulate  her  imagination  too 
much  but  still  would  be  varied  enough 
to  hold  her  mind  and  strenuous  enough 
to  consume  her  energy. 

"You  must  learn  something,"  Mrs. 
Hajmassey  said  to  Ilona  one  day.  And 
she  sent  her  to  her  friend  who  had  a 
dress  salon — to  learn  dressmaking.  But 
she  reckoned  without  the  son  of  her 
friend  whom  Ilona  met  there. 

Ilona  did  not  like  working  in  that 
salon.  She  was  very  quiet  when  she 
pulled  her  needle  through  the  rich  fab- 
rics. And  when  she  held  the  paper  of 
pins  and  the  chalk  and  the  tape  meas- 
ure in  the  fitting  room,  anyone  would 
have  known  by  her  eyes,  that  she 
neither  saw  nor  heard  the  querulous 
voices  of  the  women  being  fitted  to  new 
gowns.  But  it  no  longer  was  John 
Komka  she  thought  about.  It  was  An- 
dras  Reiner,  her  employer's  son. 

Andras  Reiner  had  dreams  in  his  eyes 
and  courage  in  his  voice.  He  reminded 
Ilona  that  the  world  belonged  to  any- 
one who  could  conquer  it.  She  had  al- 
most forgotten  this  while  she  had  been 
in  love  with  John.  Then,  she  had  been 
(Continued  on  page  70) 


Hollywood's  leading  snapshooters  (Charles  Rhodes,  Jack  Albin,  Bob 
Wallace,  Jules  Buck  and  our  Hymie  Fink)  reward  "the  year's  most  co- 
operative   star"    (Joan    Crawford)    with    a    solid    silver    cigarette    box 


6: 


PH  OTOPLAY 


Miss  Margaret  Biddle, 

attractive  young  daughlt 
of  Mrs.  Henry  C.  Biddle 
of  Philadelphia,  enjoys 
one  of  society's  smart 
indoor  polo  matches. 


The  younger  social  set  loves  skiing. 
To  Margaret,  a  "spill"  is  just  part  of 
the  fun,  and  she  has  a  good  laugh  at 
her  companion's  expense. 


BOTH 

IfmtcjTltocl&uid 

CHEER  THE 


QUESTION  TO  MISS   BIDDLE: 

Miss  Biddle,  does  a  girl  looking  forward 
to  her  thrilling  debut  year  take  any 
special  care  of  her  complexion? 

ANSWER: 

"Oh,  a  good,  regular  beauty  routine  is 
terribly  important!  I  use  both  Pond's 
Creams  every  day  of  my  life — Pond's  Cold 
Cream  to  cleanse  and  soften  my  skin  night 
and  morning,  and  freshen  it  during  the 
day.  It's  all  wrong  to  put  new  make-up  on 
top  of  old,  so  I  always  give  my  skin  a  good 
Pond's  cleansing  before  fresh  make-up." 


QUESTION  TO  MISS  BIDDLE: 

Doesn't  an-  afternoon  of  skiing  make 
your  skin  rough  and  difficult  to  powder? 
ANSWER: 

"No,  it  really  doesn't.  You  see, 
I  spread  a  film  of  Pond's  Vanishing  Cream 
over  my  skin  before  going  outside — for 
protection.  When  I  come  in,  I  use  Vanish- 
ing Cream  again.  It  smooths  little  rough- 
nesses right  away — gives  my  skin  a  soft 
finish  that  takes  powder  divinely  I" 


Why  should  Phyllis  worry  about 
General  Chemistry  and  English  themes 
when  Brenchhrook  Pond  is  frozen  over 
and  she  got  new  hockeys  for  Christmas? 


After  an  exciting  summer  in  Europe 
Margaret  is  now  hack  in  the  whirl  of 
sub-deb  gaiety.  Season's  high'spots  ur 
exclusive  Saturday  Evening  dances. 


QUESTION  TO  MISS   BOARMAN: 

What  does  a  good  complexion  mean  to  a 
high-school  girl,  Miss  Boarman? 

ANSWER: 

"It  means  plenty!  No  inferiority  complex 
— and  loads  more  fun!  And  it's  so  easy 
to  help  keep  your  skin  in  good  condition! 
Pond's  2  Creams  seem  to  be  all  I  need — 
Pond's  Cold  Cream  to  make  my  skin 
clean  and  fresh  looking,  and  Pond's 
Vanishing  Cream  to  smooth  it  for  powder.' 

QUESTION  TO  MISS  BOARMAN: 

Miss  Boarman,  your  make-up  looks  as 
fresh  as  if  you  were  just  starting  out  for 
a  dance,  instead  of  just  going  home! 
How  do  you  do  it? 

ANSWER: 

"I  have  a  system!  Before  even  touch- 
ing a  powder  puff,  I  cleanse  and  soften 
my  skin  with  Pond's  Cold  Cream.  After 
that,  I  smooth  on  Pond's  Vanishing 
Cream  for  make-up  foundation.  Then 
comes  powder.  It  goes  on  like  velvet  and 
clings  for  ages!" 

'r 

'    With  the  last  strains  of  "Home  Swee 
-*:~     Home"  at  the  De.Molay  "formal."' 

Phyllis  and  her  date  hurry  to  he  "lir> 
come,  first  served"  at  Pal's  Cabin. 


SEND  FOR 

TRIAL 

BEAUTY 

KIT 

POND'S,  Dept      15-CVI 
K.i>li  special  tube  of  I'o, 
<>  treatments,  with  gener 
Uhtns    Cream,  Pond"*  1 
melting  eleanaing  eream 
Pond's  Face  Powder,    1 
.in-!  peeking. 

d's  Cold  Cream,  enoagh  for 

„..  ■ample*  <>f  Pond's  >»>■• 
tqnefying   Cream   (»|ui<-k.-r- 

).  and  5  .lilT.-r hade*  "f 

nelose  lor  it»  eovei  postage 

City 

—  Suip 

Copyright,  iw-lii.  Pond's  litract  Company 


HANDBAG 


NO.  421 

Large  envelope 
style  in  pleated  calf 
Double  slide 
compart- 
ments. Colors: 
Black.Brown.Blue, 
Turf-Tan  or  Wh 


in  calf  era 
In  Black. 
Brown,  Blue, 
Turf  -Tan  or 
White.  Puck- 
ered  at  the 
side,  in  the 
neu  "d 

•effect 


Lead  off  into  Spring  with  a  sleek 
new  LEADING  LADY  handbag 
tucked  under  your  arm.  You'll  want 
one  for  every  costume,  when  you 
see  how  lovely  and  inexpensive 
they  are!  The  Spring  collection  in- 
cludes all  the  bright  new  tricks  of 
the  current  fashion  scene — new 
shades,  new  colors,  new  fabric  treat- 
ments!  ....   At  leading  stores. 

If  your  favorite  store  cannot 
supply  you,  send  $1  to: 

ELANBEE.  Inc.,  Oept.  3P,  19  E.  22nd  St..  New  York 


heart  and  mind  thinking  about  a  kitchen 
that  would  have  shiny  pots  hanging  in 
j  a  row  and  the  rich  smell  of  meats  and 
!  spices  and  picturing  a  red-cheeked  baby 
who  looked  not  altogether  like  her  and 
not  altogether  like  John  but  combined 
the  very  best  features  of  both. 
Sometimes  it  was  necessary  for  Ilona 
,  to  deliver  a  dress  to  a  customer.     She 
l  would  be   given  money   for   taxi  fare. 
Usually  that  money  went   into   Ilona's 
pocket.     For  Andras  had  ways  of  dis- 
covering when  she  was  being  sent  out 
1  and  he  would  be  waiting  for  her  and 
pay  the  fare. 

Did  Ilona  like  him?  This  was  the 
question  forever  on  Andras'  lips  and  in 
his  eyes.  "Yes,  I  like  you  very  much," 
she  told  him  finally,  "but  please  wear 
long  pants."  In  long  pants,  she  had 
decided,  he  would  look  older,  less  like 
a  boy  still  in  high  school. 

Had  she  asked  him  to  straddle  the 
world  or  harness  the  moon  he  would 
have  considered  how  these  things  might 
be  done.  That  same  day  he  was  meas- 
ured at  his  tailor's.  And  afterwards, 
because  John  Komka  always  waited  for 
her  at  one  door,  Ilona  would  leave  the 
salon  by  another  way. 

"For,"  she  says,  "I  was  bad.  I  had 
not  the  courage  to  tell  John  that  things 
were  different  with  me." 

AnDRAS  held  her  heart  until  she  met 
the  man  she  married,  the  man  she  was 
to  love  with  a  deep  and  abiding  wom- 
an's love — even  after  she  had  lost  him. 
And  Andras'  dreams  and  ambition  were 
contagious  things.  Ilona  began  to  think 
about  the  theater.  Every  evening  when 
she  passed  the  King's  Theater  on  her 
way  home  she  planned  how  she  would 
go  inside  one  day  and  tell  the  men  who 
put  on  the  plays  that  she  wanted  to  be 
an  actress.  And  then  one  day  she  did 
what  she  so  long  had  planned. 

Hundreds  of  girls  had  knocked  upon 
the  stage  door  of  the  King's  Theater  and 
been  turned  away.  But  Ilona  was  di- 
rected to  the  office  of  the  manager,  a 
small,  musty-smelling  room,  with  bright 
electric  lights  burning  in  wire  cages, 
where  the  producer  himself,  in  shirt 
sleeves  and  sleeve  garters,  smoked  a 
dreadful  cigar  and  rested  his  feet  on 
top  of  his  disorderly  desk. 

"Please,"  Ilona  said  quietly,  "I  should 
like  to  be  an  actress." 

The  producer  made  a  telephone  call 
as  if  he  hadn't  heard  her.  He  rang  for 
a  boy  and  sent  out  some  papers.  Then 
he  tilted  his  chair  farther  back  and 
asked: 

"Can  you  dance — sing?" 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  told  him,  still  sure 
and  poised,  "but  I  can't  do  anything." 

He  picked  up  the  telephone  and  called 
another  number.  "I'm  sorry,  too,"  he 
told  her  out  of  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 


(Continued  from  page  68) 

"You're  too  young.    We  can't  take  you." 

Unbelievable  that  it  should  go  like 
this.  This  wasn't  the  way  it  went  in  her 
dreams.  And  this  wasn't  the  way  it  was 
going  to  go.  She  knew  that.  It  was 
from  frustration  and  anger  she  wept,  not 
disappointment  or  fear. 

"All  right,  all  right,"  he  said,  just  as 
easily  as  if  he  had  missed  his  lines  and 
he  was  going  back  over  them  and 
getting  them  right  this  time.  "You  shall 
dance.  Come  tomorrow  for  a  rehearsal." 

Ilona  walked  home  past  all  the  lighted 
shop  windows.  She  climbed  the  stairs 
to  the  landing  where  she  lived  and 
spoke  to  a  neighbor  on  the  way.  But 
afterwards  she  could  remember  nothing 
from  the  time  she  left  the  theater  until 
she  faced  her  mother.  Now  she  found 
it  difficult  to  tell  what  she  had  done. 
For  she  didn't  want  the  pristine  beauty 
of  this  experience  spoiled  by  the  things 
she  knew  her  mother  would  say. 

"Terrible!  Terrible!"  her  mother  ex- 
claimed.   "Your  father  will  kill  you!" 

Again  it  was  the  way  it  had  been 
when  Ilona  set  her  heart  upon  Holland. 
"Please,  mother,"  she  said,  "if  you  like 
me  you  must  let  me  go.  Because  I 
must  go!" 

For  generations  a  family  will  produce 
good  men  and  true  and  some  who  will 
rise  a  little  higher  than  all  the  others 
and  some  who  will  not  do  quite  as  well 
as  the  average  for  themselves.  Then  a 
baby  will  be  born  more  sensitive,  more 
beautiful,  more  brilliant  than  any  other 
baby  in  that  family  ever  was  or  ever 
hoped  to  be.  And  when  this  happens 
the  mother  will  be  proud  but  she  also 
will  know  that  she  can  not  hope  to  keep 
that  child  for  her  own  for  long.  And 
always  her  protests  in  the  direction  of 
that  child  will  be  mild.  And  whenever 
it  is  possible  she  will  go  along  with  that 
child,  thinking  perhaps  to  protect  it  but 
knowing  in  her  heart  it  will  be  that 
child  who  will  protect  her. 

Mrs.  Hajmassey  stirred  the  pot  on  the 
flame.  "Tomorrow,"  she  told  Ilona,  "I 
will  go  to  that  theater  with  you." 

Conscientiously,  painstakingly,  Ilona 
rehearsed.  Mrs.  Hajmassey  marveled. 
Could  this  be  the  child  who  never  be- 
fore had  been  willing  to  do  anything 
that  could  not  be  done  in  the  same  mo- 
ment that  she  thought  of  it? 

When  that  play  opened  Ilona  was  in 
the  chorus. 

"Oh,  little  Hajmassey,"  the  director 
used  to  say  to  her,  "some  day  you  will 
be  a  good  dancer.  But,  I  ask  you,  don't 
sing!" 

"I  will  sing!"  Her  answer  never 
varied.     "I  will!" 

Off  in  the  rich  countryside  of  Hun- 
gary lived  a  family  named  Savozd. 
They  owned  fertile  farmlands  and  many 
hundred  head  of  cattle.  On  their  acres 
were  several  houses  of  fifteen  rooms  and 


ETI-QUIZ  ANSWERS 

We  all  know  they  know  better,  but  the  pictures  on  page  48  prove 
that  the  stars  slip  up  on  their  manners  when  they're  having  fun 
(even  as  you  and  I).     Did  you  catch  these  errors? 

Loretta  Young,  James  Stewart,  Barbara  Stanwyck:  No  whispering  in  public, 
please — and  particularly  no  exchange  of  confidences  in  front  of  a  third  party! 

Eloise  and  Pat  O'Brien:  Both  Arthur  Murray  and  Emily  Post  frown  on  this — 
neither  ladies  nor  wives  drape  an  arm  around  their  partner's  neck  while 
dancing! 

Dick  and  Joan  Blondell  Powell:  Look  at  Dick's  expression — this  is  Escort 
Peeve  No.  1.  How  the  men  hate  to  see  their  lights-o'-love  apply  their  "glamour" 
at  the  table! 

Sandra  Shaw  Cooper  and  Ray  Milland:  No  wonder  Ray  is  bending  over 
backwards — it's  a  ticklish  proposition  when  a  girl  wears  a  hat  like  that  for 
dancing! 

Round  Table  Discussion  at  the  Trocadero:  Marital  bliss  is  a  wonderful  thing 
— but  even  so  loving  a  wife  as  Martha  shouldn't  demonstrate  such  a  strangle 
hold  in  public! 

Tyrone  and  Annabella  Power:  Afraid  she'll  slip  away  from  you,  Ty?  A 
gentleman  offers  his  arm  to  a  lady — he  doesn't  grab  hers! 


more,  and  smaller  houses  for  guests. 
Not  all  their  land  was  given  over 
to  grazing  and  farming  for  produce. 
They  had  flower  gardens  too  and  it 
heightened  their  great  pride  that  the 
roses  they  raised  took  first  prize  in 
every  garden  show. 

Years  and  lives  had  gone  into  the  ac- 
cumulation of  that  great  stretch  of 
arable  land  and  the  fortune  that  stood 
behind  it.  In  the  beginning  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  rich  farmer  and  the  son  of  a 
rich  farmer  had  married.  Their  sons, 
in  turn,  brought  more  land  and  gold  to 
the  family  through  the  dowries  of  their 
rich  wives.  Until  at  last  there  was  no 
more  wealthy  family  in  Hungary. 

WHAT  did  it  matter  if  those  who  con- 
tributed to  the  amassing  of  this  great 
fortune  did  not  always  find  happiness? 
What  did  it  matter  if  young  Doctor  Nik- 
los  Savozd,  who  had  studied  in  London 
and  in  many  capitols  of  Europe,  could 
remember  ten  years  when  his  mother 
and  father  had  sat  at  the  same  fireside 
and  at  the  same  table  without  speaking 
one  word  to  each  other? 

It  was  understood  that  Niklos  would 
do  the  same  as  his  father  and  grand- 
father had  done  before  him.  The  banns 
soon  would  be  read  for  him  and  the 
daughter  of  a  wealthy  farmer  who  lived 
so  many  kilos  down  the  road.  Where- 
upon more  acres  and  houses  and  barns 
and  head  of  cattle  would  belong  to  the 
Savozds  and  they  would  be  so  powerful 
that  no  man  would  tell  them  nay. 

Niklos  never  thought  whether  or  not 
this  was  anything  he  wished  to  do.  He 
had  grown  to  manhood  with  the  under- 
standing that  he  would  marry  the 
daughter  of  one  rich  farmer  or  another. 
This  was  the  tradition  in  which  he  had 
been  bred,  as  though  he  were  a  prince 
who  would,  of  course,  marry  a  princess. 

Then  Niklos  met  Ilona.  He  saw  her 
one  Sunday  on  the  beach  and  arranged 
a  meeting  through  mutual  friends.  He 
had  not  dreamed  hair  could  be  so 
bright.  He  found  her  face  like  the  Fra 
Angelico  angels  he  had  seen  in  the 
galleries  of  Florence.  And  when  she 
laughed— and  she  laughed  often  as  he 
watched  her — he  felt  as  if  he  stood  in 
the  cold  and  looked  through  a  window 
at  a  bright  fire.  An  impulse  stronger 
than  any  he  ever  had  known  impelled 
him  to  draw  close. 

"She  dances  at  the  King's  Theater  in 
the  chorus,"  he  was  told. 

Had  he  been  as  wise  in  the  way  of 
the  world  as  he  was  in  the  way  of  books 
and  farmlands  and  accountings  perhaps 
he  would  have  been  warned  by  this  and 
gone  away.  Or  it  may  be  that  once  he 
saw  Ilona  nothing  could  save  him.  .  .  . 
It  may  be  that  even  before  these  tw'o 
went  to  the  beach  that  Sunday  it  was 
written  that  they  should  meet  and  that 
he  should  love  her  and,  at  last,  awaken 
in  her  such  a  love  as  she  never  had 
felt  before  .  .  .  such  a  love  as  made  her 
smile  at  the  romantic  attachments  of 
her  youth  and  the  exciting  attachments 
of  her  adolescence. 

"Niklos  .  .  .  Niklos  .  .  ."  she  would 
whisper  against  his  cheek. 

And  if,  as  his  arms  closed  about  her, 
he  guessed — and  he  may  have — that  he 
risked  disaster  bringing  this  girl  who 
danced  in  the  chorus  and  who  had  no 
dot  into  his  family  he  had  no  choice. 
For  in  the  same  moment  he  met  Ilona 
it  was  too  late  for  him  to  go  away.  .  .  . 


It's  a  long  road  from  Hungary  to 
America — almost  as  long  as  the  road 
from  obscurity  to  fame — but  both  roads 
had  been  mapped  out  by  destiny  for 
Ilona's  life.  How  it  all  happened  makes 
a  strange  and  exciting  story,  continued 
in  April  Photoplay! 


70 


PHOTOPLAY 


Paris  openings  forecast  the  big  news  in 
feminine  fashion  .  .  .  Cutex  nail  shades 
forecast  the  big  news  in  fingertip  chic! 
In  Paris  new  Cutex  nail  tones  are 
checked  against  the  latest  color  news. 
Wear  Cutex  Salon  Polish  and  your  nails 
are  as  glamorous  — as  "right"— as  your 


APPROVES  THE 


COLORS 


PERFECTS  THE 


WEAR 


From  the  Cutex  Sand  Machine  a  steady  y/y  -*fjr  *n  t'le  Cutex  Immersion  Test,  Cutex  Salon  ^£?jJ/ll/"^^  Cutex  Sun  Lamp  is  used  to  test  sun- 
stream  of  sand  falls  on  a  glass  plate  coated  M/0>f0^'  Polish  withstands  for  long  periods  the  de-  t^^W*1^  fast  qualities.   You  can  expose  Cutex  to 
"with  Cutex  Polish  . . .  much  harsher  treatment  than  structive  action  of  salt  water  and  of  hot  water  con-  brilliant  summer  sun  for  days  and  it  will  "take  it" 
you  give  your  nails  in  daily  wear.  taining   strong   household    cleaning   preparations.  without  fading  or  changing  color. 


CUTEX  gives  you  tops  in  style  and  wear  in  the  new 
Cutex  Salon  Polish! 


The  new  Cutex  GADABOUT  is  a  gay,  dashing  red- 
rose  red.  The  new  Cutex  CEDARWOOD  is  a  young, 
mauvy  pink.  Both  shades  are  perfect  fingertip  accents 
with  the  new  colors  featured  at  the  Midseason  openings. 

Guaranteed  to  Wear  Longer 
Try  Cutex  GADABOUT  and  CEDARWOOD— at  our  risk! 
If  they  don't  wear  better  than  any  polish  you've  ever 
worn,  simply  return  the  bottle  to  us.  We  will  cheer- 
fully refund  your  original  purchase  price.  (Offer  good 
for  1940  only.)  See  all  the  smart  Cutex  shades  today— 
at  any  toilet-goods  counter. 

Northam  Warren,  191  Hudson  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


HIJINKS— Smart   with   Soldier 

gray,  brown,  green,  navy. 

GADABOUT— Chic   with  wine, 

pinks,   cocoa   shades,    bronze, 

blues. 
LAUREL— A   fragile  touch  with 
the  new   blues,  greens,  pinks, 


CEDARWOOD  — Stunning  with 
rose,  green,  blue,  brown,  beige. 
OLD  ROSE— Smart  with  black, 
brown,  purple,  navy,  spring 
pastels. 

CLOVER  — Lovely  with  wine, 
browns,  navy,  green,  yellow, 
pinks,  purples. 


E  W  CUTEX 


Put  Yourself 
in  this  Picture 


The  Ideal  Internal  Protection.  Fibs,  the  Kotex 

Tampon,  with  new  exclusive  features,  is  mote 
comfortable,  more  secure,  easier  to  use.  Be- 
cause of  the  rounded  top  no  artificial  method 
of  insertion  is  necessary!  A  Kotex  product,  Fibs 
merit  your  confidence! 


Special  "Quilting"  keeps  Fibs  from  expand- 
ing abnormally  in  use— prevents  risk  of  parti- 
cles of  cotton  adhering— increases  comfort  and 
lessens  possibility  of  injury  to  delicate  tissues. 


Made  of  Surgical  Cellucotton  (not  cotton] 

which  absorbs  far  more  quickly  than  surgical 
cotton,  that's  why  hospitals  use  it.  Yet  Fibs 
cost  only  25c  for  a  /////  dozen.  Mail  coupon 
with  10c  for  trial  . 

supply  today.  itpO^ 


•Trade  Marks  ReK.  U    S.  Pat.  Office 

FIBS-Room  1490,  919  North  Michigan 
Avenue,  Chicago,  Illinois 

I  enclose  10c  for  trial  supply  of  FIBS,  the 
Kotex  Tampon,  mailed  in  plain  package. 


Name 

Address 

City State. 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


ingly  informs  us,  for  a  semiballet  num- 
ber with  Neagle.  "It's  kind  of  silly,"  he 
admits,  "but  it's  good  practice  for  my 
skiing." 

RKO  is  so  busy  this  month  that  pic- 
tures are  spilling  over  this  compara- 
tively small  Hollywood  lot  and  on  to  the 
old  RKO-Pathe  studio  in  Culver  City 
where  Selznick  International  is  gone 
with  the  wind — at  least  temporarily. 
There,  Cary  Grant  and  Irene  Dunne 
are  just  starting  "My  Favorite  Wife," 
a  modern  Enoch  Arden  story  with 
switched  sexes   (the  wife  disappears). 

We  find  Director  Johnny  Farrow, 
close-cropped  as  usual  and  smiling,  on 
the  next  RKO  set  we  visit— "A  Bill  of 
Divorcement,"  the  screen  classic  that  re- 
vived John  Barrymore  and  made  Kath- 
arine Hepburn  a  star.  It's  no  secret  that 
RKO's  hopes  are  very  much  the  same 
for  Maureen  O'Hara,  who  is  number  one 
actress  on  the  RKO  lot  right  now. 

"I'm  all  mixed  up,"  grins  John.  "I'm 
married  to  Maureen  O'Sullivan  and  I'm 
directing  Maureen  O'Hara.  They  both 
talk  as  if  they'd  just  left  Dublin.  They 
even  look  alike!" 

"A  Bill  of  Divorcement"  is  a  frank 
re-make.  Essentially,  you'll  remember, 
it's  the  tale  of  a  wife,  Fay  Bainter,  about 
to  divorce  her  mentally  aberrated  hus- 
band, Adolphe  Menjou,  to  marry  another 
man.  On  Christmas  Eve  Adolphe  regains 
his  sanity,  and  his  daughter,  Maureen, 
engaged  herself,  really  meets  and  knows 
her  father  for  the  first  time.  She  dis- 
covers that  she  is  too,  too  much  like 
him.  She  sees  her  own  unbalanced  fu- 
ture and,  calling  off  her  happiness, 
leaves  to  take  care  of  her  Dad.  It's 
tragic  and  touching,  but  a  real  star- 
maker,  if  there  ever  was  one.  Hepburn 
went  to  town.    Can  O'Hara? 

nHEN  we  invade  Metro-Goldwyn- 
Mayer  we  find  Wallace  Beery  chewing 
on  a  huge  ham  bone. 

"Arouse  and  Beware"  is  the  admoni- 
tory title  of  the  MacKinlay  Kantor  Civil 
War  yarn  M-G-M  picked  out  for  Wally, 
Dolores  Del  Rio  and  John  Howard.  From 
what  we  can  gather  it's  one  prolonged 
chase.  Wally  and  John  are  Yankee  sol- 
diers escaped  from  a  Confederate  prison 
and  heading  North  through  Rebel  lines. 
Circumstances  force  Dolores,  a  ravish- 
ing Russian  adventuress,  to  join  them. 
During  the  harried  flight  Wally  reforms 
from  a  heel  to  a  hero  and — that's  right 
— John  and  Dolores  find  true  love. 

They've  just  evaded  traitors,  spies, 
dirks,  derringers,  rifle  shots  and  mur- 
derous Rebs  when  we  look  in.  Blood- 
hounds come  next.  To  prepare  for  the 
canine  ordeal,  Wally  is  relaxing  from 
his  art  playing  on  an  ancient  wheezing 
harmonium.  All  he  seems  to  know  is 
"La  Cucaracha."  Wally  is  as  unpleas- 
ant looking  as  sleek,  dark  Dolores  is  a 
treat  for  anybody's  eyes.  Fat  and 
sloppy,  in  butternut  rags,  shaggy  and 
frowsy,  he  gets  ready  to  mess  himself 
up  a  little  more.  They're  all  going  to 
cross  a  synthetic  stream  babbling  down 
M-G-M's  back  lot.  John  carries  Do- 
lores, very  gallantly,  on  his  shoulder, 
while  Wally  carries  his  ham  bone.  In 
the  middle  of  the  crossing  Beery  steps 
in  a  prepared  eight-foot  hole  and  dis- 
appears. He's  supposed  to  stay  there  a 
minute,  but  he  pops  right  up,  sputtering. 
The  ham  bone  is  gone.  Instead  his  hand 
covers  his  mouth. 

"Hold  it!  What's  the  matter?"  cries 
Director  Leslie  Fenton. 

Wally  flounders  back  to  terra  firma, 
mumbling.  "Get  a  diver,"  he  says.  "I 
lotht  my  upper  bridgework!" 

We    wouldn't    dare    tell    this    one    on 


(Continued  from  page  47) 

Wally   if   he   were   a   glamour  boy. 

The  glamour  side  of  Metro,  inciden- 
tally, is  being  well  taken  care  of  by 
Jeanette  MacDonald  and  Nelson  Eddy 
in  "New  Moon,"  and  by  "Strange 
Cargo,"  the  Gable -Crawford  duet. 
Newly  exciting,  too,  is  John  Carroll,  a 
handsome  threat,  being  given  his  big 
break  in  "Congo  Maisie"  with  Ann 
Sothern.  On  the  distaff  side,  Irina  Ba- 
ranova,  is  doing  all  right  in  the  glam- 
orous Hapsburg  horse  picture,  "Flor- 
ian." 

This  Baranova,  straight  from  the 
Ballet  Russe,  is  blue-eyed,  brown- 
haired  and  Russian.  She's  small  and 
fragile  figured,  but  M-G-M  thinks  she's 
a  big  find.  Luckily  she  fits  right  into 
Producer  Winfield  Sheehan's  plans  for 
"Florian,"  the  most  different  and  inter- 
esting picture  on  Hollywood's  current 
docket. 

For  one  thing,  the  real  hero  is  a  horse, 
a  Lipizzan  horse,  which  means  a  big 
milk-white  charger  from  Austria  with 
a  pedigree  five  hundred  years  straight 
back.  The  Lipizzans  have  been  royal 
Hapsburg  horses  for  hundreds  of  years. 

The  genesis  of  "Florian"  is  one  of 
those  Hollywood  happenstances  that 
sometimes  end  up  as  pictures.  It  was 
like  this:  Maria  Jeritza,  the  prima  donna 
who  married  Hollywood's  Winnie  Shee- 


That  inferiority  complex  she  testi- 
fied he  gave  her,  when  suing  for 
her  divorce,  doesn't  keep  the 
legally-estranged  Ruby  Keeler  and 
Al  Jolson  from  enjoying  their  dinner 
together  at  the  Arrowhead   Hotel 

han,  sang  at  a  Vienna  benefit.  Grate- 
ful, the  management  presented  her  with 
six  Lipizzan  horses,  which  she  promptly 
shipped  home.  They  were  just  six  new 
horses  for  his  Hidden  Valley  ranch  to 
Winnie,  until  Jeritza  handed  him  a  book 
by  Felix  Salten,  who  wrote  "Bambi." 
It  was  "Florian,"  and  the  set  we  visit 
is  the  result. 

It's  an  exact  reproduction  of  the  ball- 
room at  Schonbrunn,  the  Hapsburg 
palace.  Reggie  Owen,  whiskered  and 
sideburned  as  Emperor  Franz  Joseph, 
presides  on  a  royal  dais,  and  Lee  Bow- 
man, the  playboy  archduke,  and  a  host 
of  bejeweled  courtiers  sit  around  in  a 
semicircle.  Lee  is  on  the  make  for 
prima  ballerina  Baranova,  the  script 
says,  but  the  Bowman-Baranova  amour 
is  really  secondary.  Robert  Young  and 
Helen  Gilbert,  an  ex-cello  player  from 
M-G-M's  musical  scoring  department, 
carry  the  main  romance,  Bob  as  a  stable 
groom  and  Helen  as  a  duchess.  A  mu- 
tual love  for  Florian,  the  Lipizzan, 
brings  them  together. 

The  ballet  for  the  Emperor's  Ball  is  all 
set  to  start  by  the  time  we  tiptoe  past 


the  doorman.  Scores  of  ballet  dancers 
in  pale  blue  skirts  flutter  out  beneath 
the  massive  crystal  chandelier.  When 
they  spread  out,  there's  Baranova,  the 
prima  ballerina,  in  the  center,  kneeling. 
She  rises  for  her  solo,  but  instead  of 
pirouetting  away,  the  great  danseuse 
halts  and  announces,  "It's  gone!" 

What's  gone?  Why,  the  little  chalk 
mark  on  the  floor  Baranova  is  supposed 
to  see  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  to 
get  into  position  so  the  cameras  can 
focus  properly.  The  ballet  dancers  slip- 
ping by  on  their  toes  have  rubbed  it 
out.  A  "grip"  runs  out  and  pounds  a 
red  thumbtack  into  the  boards.  Funny, 
it  strikes  us,  how  such  a  big  scene 
sometimes  depends  on  such  a  tiny  thing 
as  a  tack.  But  wasn't  a  kingdom  lost 
for  want  of  a  horseshoe  nail? 

Very  much  in  contrast  to  the  regal 
glamour  of  "Florian"  is  the  prospect  at 
Samuel  Goldwyn's,  where  we  hurry  one 
day  to  hop  off  for  Arizona  and  Gary 
Cooper  in  "The  Westerner." 

C.OME  to  think  of  it,  "The  Virginian" 
and  "The  Plainsman"  did  all  right  for 
Gary,  and  "The  Westerner,"  formerly 
"Vinegaroon,"  completes  a  triology  of 
trigger  men.  It's  a  ripsnorting  melo- 
drama of  Texas  in  the  '80's,  based  on 
the  saga  of  one  Judge  Roy  Bean  who 
was  the  law  West  of  the  Pecos. 

From  old  Tucson,  it's  twenty  miles  to 
Goldwyn  City,  a  shabby,  shacky  repro- 
duction of  an  old  time  Vinegaroon.  By 
the  time  we  arrive,  Gary,  Doris  Daven- 
port, Fred  Stone  and  Walter  Brennan 
(who  plays  Judge  Bean),  have  been 
working  hours  and  hours. 

Director  William  Wyler  decides  to  do 
the  scene  where  Gary  escapes  a  necktie 
party  by  hopping  on  his  trusty  horse. 
"Sure  you  can  ride  a  horse,  Gary?"  he 
kids. 

"I've  been  fooling  'em  for  a  long 
time,"  smiles  Gary.  They  line  up  and 
shoot  the  trial  scene — a  beer  barrel  is 
the  bar  of  justice.  Suddenly  Gary 
leaves  the  deliberations  and  leaps  for 
his  horse.  They  roar  away  in  a  dust 
cloud — and  then — thud!  Down  in  the 
sand  and  scrub  goes  the  horse.  Gary's 
underneath. 

When  they  pull  him  up,  his  knee 
buckles  under  him.  Gary  swears  more 
with  disgust  than  pain.  It's  not  his  fault, 
of  course.  The  horse  stumbled  in  the 
rocky  sand,  but — Cowboy  Cooper  is 
proud  of  it's  being  a  real  Westerner. 
"Only  a  tenderfoot  would  have  let  a 
horse  pin  him  down,"  he  grunts  as  they 
bind  up  his  knee. 

Winging  back  to  Hollywood,  the  acci- 
dent reminds  us  of  Jack  Benny's  more 
cautious  approach  to  fancy  riding.  Jack 
and  his  radio  gang — Phil  Harris,  Andy 
Devine,  Rochester  and  Company — are 
involved  this  month  at  Paramount  in  a 
Western  to  end  all  Westerns,  "Buck 
Benny  Rides  Again." 

It's  sheer  nonsense  and  good-natured 
satire  with  a  dude-ranch  setting  which 
is  six  times  as  gorgeous  as  the  Rainbow 
Room.  Jack  is  too  beautiful  in  a  blue 
satin  shirt,  cream  Stetson  with  fancy 
trimmings,  scalloped  and  fluted  panties 
and  one  real  six-shooter  with  dummy 
cartridges.    And,  of  course,  a  cigar. 

The  day  we  look  in  on  all  this,  Di- 
rector Mark  Sandrich  is  dragging  Buck 
Benny  away  from  the  soft  life.  We  fol- 
low them  into  the  valley  on  location 
where  droves  of  vicious  looking  steers 
are  milling  around. 

"Now,"  said  Sandrich,  "here's  what 
you  do — get  on  this  horse,  shoot  off 
your  pistol  and  as  he  sunfishes  into  that 
(Continued  on  page  74) 


72 


PHOTOPLAY 


IDA  LUPINO  ir 


IN    PARAMOUNT'S 


THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED 


& 


v^^ 


seslUesD* 


.      re  ^orld  comes 

lust  note  tteseick.. 

2.  non-dry1"^.  ivelips 

there's  a  coW 


X*HC 


Powder... 

Created  in  original  color  harmony 
shades,  Max  Factor's  Face  Powder 
imparts  the  look  oflovely,  youth- 
ful beauty.  Satin-smooth,  it  really 
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l\OUGE..The  lifelike  color  harmony 
shades  of  Max  Factor's  Rouge  give  just 
the  right  color  accent  for  your  type. . .  50^ 


OLLYWOOD 


fiMiTorpovw^^^^^ 

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73 


ofr//-  foo/i  /ope/u  m  Mede/ 

Yes,  indeed  you  will !  With  Berkshires  on,  there  will  be 
no  finer-clad  ankles  than  yours.  Your  Berkshire  Stockings 
will  equip  you  to  meet  the  challenge  of  any  eye. 

But  not  until  you  have  worn  your  Berkshires  —  time  after 
time  —  will  the  whole  truth  dawn  that  these  marvels  of 
silken  beauty  are  miracles  of 
wear.  Knitted  into  them  are  the 
skill,  experience  and  prestige 
of  the  world's  largest  maker 
of  full-fashioned 
silk  stockings. 

YouVe  going  to  like 
your  Berkshires. 


(Continued  from  -page  72) 


STOCKINGS 


.  for  evening  wear,        r„£^LH  for    afternoon-        fnFB.AoH   for   street   and 

itmcsturc     with    dancing         TT^rvi&T    with  pumps  or       XTT/rZErZX   business,   with 
[STq?KiN6Sl  a        ISTOCKlMjSI  *"        r  ISV2L£9tGSJ  ' 

slippers  \\^S /  sandals  \      |  /    daytime  shoes 

Look  for  one  of  these  seals  on  each  pair  of  Berkshire  Stockings, 
identifying  them  as  2,  3  or  4-thread. 


stampeding  herd  of  wild  cattle,  try  to 
stay  on  and  keep  from  getting  trampled 
to  death.    We"ll  do  the  rest." 

A  little  later,  when  the  cameras,  the 
steer  drovers,  the  cowboy  extras  and  all 
are  ready,  Jack  puts  one  foot  in  the 
stirrups.  Then  he  turns  to  Sandrich 
with  an  envelope.  It  is  addressed  "To 
the  late  Mrs.  Jack  Benny!" 

Paramount  is  also  polishing  off  "At 
Good  Old  Siwash,"  college  cutups  circa 
1905.  The  most  astounding  thing  about 
this  is  that  Bonita  Granville,  all  of  fif- 
teen, plays  a  fifty-three  year  old  lady 
in  one  sequence — no  fooling!  Golden 
Boy  Bill  Holden  and  genius  Ezra  Stone 
carry  on  the  rest  of  the  antiquated 
campusology.  For  the  tragedy  end  of 
Paramount's  program,  "The  Way  of  All 
Flesh,"  immortal  for  us  because  of  Emil 
Jannings'  silent  performance,  is  getting 
a  1940  face-lifting  with  Akim  Tamiroff 
and  Gladys  George. 

VfARNERS  are  taking  advantage  of  the 
approaching  shut  downs  of  Selznick. 
Goldwyn  and  Walter  Wanger,  to  grab 
off  a  few  stars  fresh  to  the  Burbank  lot. 
"The  Prime  Minister,"  (the  story  of 
Disraeli),  is  lining  up  for  Laurence 
Olivier  and  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  while 
Merle  Oberon,  queen  of  the  scattered 
Goldwyn  family,  is  already  at  home  in 
Warnerland.  We  find  her  on  the  set  of 
"We  Shall  Meet  Again,"  wearing  the 
mantle  of  Kay  Francis  with  grace. 

For  "We  Shall  Meet  Again"  is  the  un- 
forgettable "One  Way  Passage,"  which 
Kay  and  Bill  Powell  played  so  poig- 
nantly a  few  years  back.  George  Brent 
has  Powell's  old  part. 

The  set  is  the  Bar-of-all-Nations  in 
Hong  Kong.  It's  the  longest  bar  in  the 
world  and  the  most  cosmopolitan. 
George,  in  white  linen  and  a  wide  leg- 
horn hat,  is  showing  the  bartender  how 
to  mix  a  "Paradise  cocktail." 

"When  anyone  comes  along,"  ad- 
monishes George,  "who  knows  every 
second  in  life  is  important — make  him 
one  of  these." 

"7  know  every  second  in  life  is  im- 
portant," says  a  voice  at  his  elbow.  It's 
Merle.  They  sip  a  cocktail  together  and 
the  romance  starts,  as  it  will  end,  after 
death  with  the  clink  of  glasses. 

It  occurs  to  us,  when  Director  Ed- 
mund Goulding  says  "Very  smooth," 
that  possibly  next  to  William  Powell, 
himself,  George  Brent  is  about  as  smooth 
a  star  as  Hollywood  can  offer.  And 
Merle  Oberon  is  about  as  sweet.  "We 
Shall  Meet  Again,"  if  Goulding  can 
make  it  as  appealing  as  "One  Way  Pas- 
sage," may  well  start  a  new  romantic 
team  for  Warners. 

Two  of  Warner's  happy  star  family 
are  working  out  this  month,  in  Uni- 
versal City,  where  Mae  West  and  W.  C. 
Fields  have  finished  up  "My  Little 
Chickadee"  without  calling  out  the  cops. 
Neither  Wayne  Morris  nor  Margaret 
Lindsay  knew  they  were  to  star  in  Uni- 
versale "The  Devil  Is  Yellow"  less  than 
twenty-four  hours  before  they  showed 
up  in  grease  paint.  But  somebody  had 
to  keep  the  studio  open  until  Deanna 
Durbin  resumed  her  growing  up  in  "It 
Happened  in  Kaloha"  and  Bing  Crosby 
turned  loose  his  larynx  in  "If  I  Had 
My  Way."  So  Warner's  Wayne  and 
Margaret  were  drafted. 

We  see  them  in  the  set  that  studio 
designers  can  put  up  in  their  sleep  by 
now — a  newspaper  city  room.  "Ten  to 
one,"  we  tell  ourselves,  "the  star  re- 
porter will  say  'Okay,  chief.' "  In  about 
five  minutes  Wayne  swaggers  up  to  Bill 
Gargan. 

"Now  beat  it,"  says  Bill,  "and  bring 
in  a  scoop." 

"Okay,  Chief,"  replies  Wayne. 

It's  time  for  us  to  leave.    High  time. 

There's  a  note  of  freshness,  however, 


at  Twentieth  Century-Fox,  and  also  at 
Walt  Disney's  where  we  pause  for  a  look 
at  the  new  Animation  Building,  the  first 
of  Walt's  new  San  Fernando  Valley 
plant  to  start  humming.  "Pinocchio" 
will  be  about  ready  to  thrill  you  in  the 
theaters  as  you  read  this,  while  "Fan- 
tasia," the  Stokowski  scored  Symphonic 
feature  cartoon,  is  more  than  half  done. 

At  TC-F,  the  fresh  note  is  Jane 
Withers  teamed  with  Gene  Autry,  the 
rural  Romeo,  in  "Shooting  High." 

Naturally,  by  now  she  has  a  terrific 
crush  on  the  handsome  Autry.  Jane 
shines  up  to  Gene  by  feeding  his  horse, 
"Champ,"  carrots  and  Gene  retaliates 
by  giving  Jane  his  powder-blue  som- 
brero. 

Jane  and  Gene  sing  several  cute,  and 
some  corny,  ditties  as  the  plot,  a  screen 
take-off  on  the  TC-F's  "Jesse  James" 
location  in  Missouri,  gets  going.  We 
watch  a  very  cute  number  where  they're 
both  in  overalls  painting  a  house  and 
dueting  "Shanty  of  Dreams."  Only 
Jane's  adoration  is  making  her  a  little 
absent-minded.  She  paints  so  furiously 
they  have  to  stop  and  rub  it  off  before 
another  take  is  possible. 

Marjorie  Weaver,  who  plays  Gene's 
romance  in  "Shooting  High,"  has  heard 
that  Gene  is  never  kissed  in  the  movies, 
which  is  very  true.  While  he's  helpless 
with  paint,  brushes  and  Jane,  Marjorie, 
with  a  wicked  gleam  in  her  dark  eyes, 
walks  audaciously  up  to  Autry. 

"Mr.  Autry,"  she  says,  very  formally, 
"I  understand  you  refuse  to  kiss  me." 

Gene  stammers  awkwardly  for  a  sec- 
ond, then  Marjorie  tosses  her  arms 
around  his  red  neck  and  plants  a  long 
and  lingering  buss  where  it's  customary. 

Not  only  that  but  Gene  rallies  like  a 
gentleman  and  plants  one  right  back! 

MOVING  from  movie  studios  to  the 
Hollywood  microphone  variety,  we  find 
that  boiling  down  process  we  predicted 
months  ago. 

The  Chase  and  Sanborn  Program 
may  not  seem  the  same  to  you  minus 
Ameche,  Dottie  Lamour  and  Nelson 
Eddy.  But  Good  News  follows  the 
same  lead.  In  the  spring  it  shrinks, 
too,  to  a  half  hour  built  around  "Baby 
Snooks"  Brice,  as  C.  and  S.  huddles 
from  now  on  around  Bergen  and  Mc- 
Carthy. 

Solid  Hollywood  hits  such  as  Lake 
and  Singleton  in  Blondie,  Edward  G. 
Robinson  in  "Big  Town"  and  Basil 
Rathbone's  Sherlock  Holmes  aren't  wor- 
rying one  bit.  But  the  big  Hollywood 
hope  is  now  lodged  in  the  success  of 
CBS's  "It  Happened  in  Hollywood,"  or 
daytime  variety  shows  with  low-priced 
talent. 

Radio  Hollywood's  last  minute  low*- 
down  and  laughs:  .  .  .  The  last  of  the 
Ameches  left  radio  when  Woodbury 
bought  up  Brother  Jim's  contract  to 
make  way  for  Boyer's  comeback  .  .  . 
Basil  Rathbone  calls  Nigel  Watson 
Bruce,  "Willy"  .  .  .  Basil's  wife,  Ouida, 
never  misses  a  broadcast  from  the 
clients'  booth  .  .  .  Carole  Lombard  cries 
every  time  she  does  a  show  on  the  Lux 
Theater  .  .  .  the  last  weeper  was  "In 
Name   Only".  .  .  . 

Charles  Laughton  baffled  the  Screen 
Guild  Gulf  gang  by  memorizing  the  en- 
tire script  of  "The  Beachcomber"  .  .  . 
Another  script-by-heart  air  baby  was 
Shirley  Temple  on  the  Christmas  show 
— she  still   reads  too  slowly. 

Bing  Crosby's  well-ribbed  beard  at 
Kraft  showdowns  was  because  of  impe- 
tigo .  .  .  the  beard  was  pink  .  .  .  Edgar 
Bergen  is  sparking  Kay  St.  Germaine, 
Fay  McKenzie  and'  the  rest  of  his  gals 
on  the  back  seat  of  his  motorcycle  .  .  . 
And  because  of  the  harem  he's  worked 
up,  they're  calling  him  "Beau  Bergen" 
around  NBC! 


74 


PHOTOPLAY 


The  Third  Mrs.  William  Powell 


(Continued  from  page  18) 


thing  it  is  just  to  feel  and  move  and 
think  and  be.  A  man  returning  from 
the  shadows  wants  everything  life 
holds,  and  wants  no  nonsense  about  cor- 
rectness  or   conventionalities. 

It  was  in  such  a  mood  that  Bill 
Powell  looked  out  into  his  garden  and 
saw  youth  and  happiness  there,  in  the 
saucy  figure  of  a  nice  young  girl.  Bill 
had  already  lived  several  lives — and 
much  credit  to  him  too  for  he  had  cre- 
ated his  own  fortunate  destiny  out  of 
his  own  being  and  talent  and  vitality — 
but  here  was  a  chance  at  another  one. 
He  strolled  out  into  the  garden — can't 
you  see  him  being  so  casual  and  "Thin 
Man"  about  it — and  he  got  himself  in- 
troduced. From  the  introduction  he 
worked  up  quickly  to  a  dinner  date, 
and  on  that  date  he  was  won  by  the 
things  he  learned  about  Diana. 

Personally  I  doubt  that  Bill  could 
ever  fall  in  love  with  a  girl  who  wasn't 
an  actress,  for  there's  been  grease  paint 
in  his  blood  ever  since  he  left  Kansas 
City  some  thirty  odd  years  ago.  But 
Diana  Lewis,  in  addition  to  being  a 
struggling  young  trouper,  had  two  other 
qualities  that  were  the  clinchers  for 
Bill.  She'd  had  a  rather  tough  time  of 
it  but  she  was  sporting  about  it. 

She  is  the  baby  of  one  of  those  the- 
atrical families  who  have  toured  the 
small  American  towns  for  years,  a  pre- 
carious but  colorful  existence.  Her 
father,  J.  C.  Lewis  and  her  mother,  Het- 
tie  Daly,  were  a  vaudeville  team  in  a 
road  show,  and  as  the  little  Lewises  ar- 
rived— there  were  four  of  them — they 
became  part  of  the  act.  Off  stage  they 
always  dreamed  of  someday  getting 
enough  money  to  buy  a  home  some- 
where. 

In  1932  they  were  forced  to  make 
part  of  the  dream  come  true.  J.  C, 
Senior,  slipped  backstage  and  fell  down 
a  flight  of  iron  stairs.  Paralysis  re- 
sulted and  the  little  family  came  to 
Hollywood.  The  oldest  sister,  Marion, 
got  married.  J.  C,  Junior,  wrote  music; 
second  sister  Maxine  sang  in  night 
clubs,  and  sub-deb  Diana  went  to  school 
and  worked  whenever  she  got  the 
chance.  Nobody  paid  any  attention  to 
them  until  five  years  ago  when  they 
made  their  own  break  by  means  of  J. 
C.  Junior's  collaborating  with  Jack  Os- 
terman  in  writing  and  producing  a 
musical  comedy  called  "The  Shim  Sham 
Review."  Diana,  just  sixteen,  dancing 
in  it,  was  spotted  by  a  Paramount  scout, 
and  given  a  contract.  She  was  put  in  a 
couple  of  pictures  but  her  option  wasn't 
taken  up.  Undaunted,  she  went  to  Fair- 
fax High  School  by  day  and  worked  at 
the  Pasadena  Community  Playhouse  at 
night.  It  was  at  Fairfax  that  she  met 
another  struggling  youngster — Mickey 
Rooney.  He  got  a  crush  on  her.  They 
dated  a  lot  but  Diana  was  not  impressed. 
What  sixteen-year-old  girl  is  with  a 
fourteen-year-old  suitor? 

Warner  Brothers  were  the  next  to 
discover    her.      She    actually    played    a 


lead  with  them  in  "He  Couldn't  Say 
No"  with  Frank  McHugh.  Then  she 
went  to  RKO  where  she  played  one 
role,  and  then  to  Columbia  where  she 
played  one  lead — in  "First  Offenders" 
— and  then  there  wasn't  anything  at  all. 
Sister  Maxine  was  singing  at  Gordon's, 
a  Hollywood  cafe.  Desperate,  Diana 
joined  her  act.  There  she -was  seen  by 
Billy  Grady  of  M-G-M,  who  put  her 
under  contract,  which  event  lead,  by 
merest  happenchance,  to  the  swimming 
pool,  her  current  role  in  "Forty  Little 
Mothers"  and  Bill  Powell. 

Now  Bill  Powell  loves  being  the  man 
of  the  world.  He  should.  He  is  a  man 
of  the  world.  He  is  wealthy  and  wise 
and  witty.  He's  traveled.  He  is  very 
much  the  debonair  celebrity.  He's  been 
married  twice  to  two  charming  women, 
the  first  of  whom  was  Eileen  Wilson, 
who  bore  him  his  son,  Bill,  Jr.,  and  the 
second  of  whom  was  Carole  Lombard. 
The  story  of  his  bittersweet  romance 
with  Jean  Harlow  and  its  tragic  ending 
is  too  well  known  to  need  repeating. 
But  when  a  man  gets  in  a  habit  of  being 
in  love,  you'll  not  find  him  getting  along 
without  it.  The  loss  of  Jean  Harlow 
was  an  almost  lethal  blow  to  Bill.  My 
own  hunch  is  that  if  he  hadn't  been  so 
ill  himself  he  might  never  have  got  over 
the  loss  of  her.  But  that  illness  proved 
to  him  that  life  is  for  living,  not  for 
dreams  of  what  might  have  been. 

So  he  came  back  last  September  to 
the  greatest  and  most  lasting  of  his 
loves — his  acting — and  after  "Another 
Thin  Man"  was  on  celluloid  I'm  sure 
his  heart  began  looking  up.  Diana  com- 
ing along  fitted  right  into  his  pattern 
and  his  need. 

For  this  young  Diana,  just  starting  out 
in  the  movie  business — he  could  tell  her 
and  show  her  Life  in  big  letters.  He 
could  talk  on  and  on  for  her  eager  at- 
tention about  the  white-tie-and-tails- 
life,  the  one-hundred-and-fifty-thou- 
sand  -  dollars  -  a  -  picture,  Palm  -  Beach  - 
winter,  Bermuda  -  for  -  Easter,  Hawaii  - 
in-August  way  of  life.  And  what  can  be 
sweeter  than  that  for  a  sophisticate? 

Bill  didn't  have  to  marry  for  "a 
home."  He's  had  a  home,  dozens  in 
fact.  He  didn't  have  to  marry  for 
children.  He's  got  his  son.  But  for  a 
dear,  delightful  young  audience,  for  a 
gay,  laughing  escape  from  loneliness, 
for  a  magnificent  chance  to  make  a 
sweet  kid  happy,  and  be  very  much  at 
peace  with  the  world — well,  if  those  are 
not  fine  things  to  marry  for,  then  there's 
no  meaning  to  the  word  romance. 

That's  why  I  think  Diana  Lewis  is 
the  most  "suitable"  wife  for  the  Bill 
Powell  of  today.  He  doesn't  have  to  be 
grim  and  practical  about  marriage.  He 
can  marry  for  the  simple  joy  of  it. 
That's  why  I  think  he  and  Diana  are 
very  lucky  to  have  discovered  one  an- 
other. And  I  think  it  would  be  a  grand 
and  glorious  thing  if  they  live  happily 
forever  after,  and  I  very  much  hope 
they  do. 


INVITATION  TO  AN  "HAWAIIAN  HONEYMOON"! 

You'll  never  have  another  trip  so  gay,  so  exciting,  so  packed 
with  romance  as  Hagar  Wilde's  ultramodern  novel  of  two 
young  stars  who  didn't  know  what  they  wanted  (and  one 
sophisticated  star  who  did!) — in  the  land  of  sunshine  and 
pineapples — 

Beginning   in    April    PHOTOPLAY 


Ten  words  cost  no  more- 
why  didn't  Jim  add  "Love"? 


Men  grow  neglectful  when  wives  grow  careless. 
Guard  charm  every  day — make  a  habit  of  MUM! 


One  WORD  more... such  a  little 
thing... yet  to  see  it  in  Jim's  tele- 
gram would  have  meant  so  much  to 
Betty!  "Jim's  just  thoughtless,"  she  re- 
assured herself.  But  Betty,  husbands 
don't  grow  thoughtless  without  a  rea- 
son! Jim  could  be  as  romantic  as  ever 
...  if  you  still  used  Mum! 

It's  wise  to  question  yourself  if  your 
husband  seems  inattentive!  Are  you 
trusting  your  bath  too  long— forgetting 
that  underarms  need  Mum's  special  care 
every  day?  A  bath,  wise  wives  remem- 
ber, removes  only  past  perspiration.  To 
prevent  future  odor,  rely  on  Mum! 


More  women  use  Mum  than  any  other 
deodorant— it's  so  dependable. 
QUICK!  Takes  only  30  seconds.  And  you 
can  use  Mum  even  after  you're  dressed. 
SAFE!  The  American  Institute  of  Laun; 
dering  Seal  tells  you  Mum  won't  harm 
fabrics.  Mum  is  a  wonderfully  soothing 
deodorant  for  feet.  And  you'll  find  it  safe 
to  use  even  after  underarm  shaving! 
SURE!  You  won't  risk  offending,  if  you 
use  Mum  every  day.  For  without  attempt- 
ing to  stop  perspiration,  Mum  prevents 
underarm  odor.  (You'll  find  that  men  like 
Mum,  too!)  Get  Mum  at  your  druggist's 
today.  Keep  charming  ...  let  Mum  keep 
underarms  always  fresh! 


SO  MANY  DEODORANTS  ...  YET  MOST  WOMEN   CHOOSE  MUM! 


Mum  helps  this  way,  too 

Mum  is  first  choice  with 
women  everywhere  for 
sanitary  napkins,  too. 
Will  not  irritate,  yet  pre- 
vents odor.  Play  safe 
with  Mum! 


TAKES  THE   ODOR  OUT   OF  PERSPIRATION 


MARCH,      I  940 


75 


Swiss  Family  Hollywood 


(Continued  from  page  65) 


Once  in  motion,  the  driver  looked 
back  at  Christine  and  asked  where  she 
wanted  to  go. 

"I'm  looking  for  my  brother,  Howard 
Donaldson,"  she  said.  "Where  do  you 
think  I  can  find  him'.'" 

"You  mean  Howard  Donaldson,  the 
producer?"  the  driver  asked.  "Prob- 
ably at  the  Trocadero." 

The  driver  had  no  idea  that  Howard 
would  be  there,  but  it  was  a  good  way 
to  run  up  the  bill,  because  the  Troca- 
dero was  a  long  distance  away. 

When  the  battle-scarred  trio  arrived 
at  the  Trocadero,  they  didn't  find  How- 
ard Donaldson.  What  they  did  find  was 
George  and  in  the  company,  no  less,  of 
Grace  Darling. 

Grace,  disgruntled  because  Howard 
had  not  taken  up  her  option,  had  run 
onto  George  by  accident,  and  was  get- 
ting him  as  drunk  as  possible  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  get  into  some  sort 
of  trouble  which  would  bring  more 
scandal  on  Donaldson. 

Christine,  looking  like  an  elder  sister 
of  the  Four  Horsemen,  rushed  into  the 
bar,  and  shrieked: 

"Where  is  Howard  Donaldson?" 

There  was  no  answer  for  a  moment. 
Grace,  however,  sensed  an  opportunity 
to  put  Donaldson  in  the  soup. 

"Are  you  his  sister?"  she  asked, 
craftily. 

"Certainly  I'm  his  sisjer.  Who  do  you 
think  I  am?"  Christine  said. 

Controlling  her  original  impulse  to 
tell  Christine  that  she  thought  she  was 
Boris  Karloff  in  make-up,  Grace  said: 

"I  can  find  him  for  you.  He's  out  at 
Mr.  Wood's  house." 


Grace  didn't  know  where  Donaldson 
was,  but  reasoned  that  Christine  mak- 
ing a  scene  in  the  home  of  Donaldson's 
boss — especially  with  Swain  present — 
would  really  fix  things. 

Wood  and  Swain,  seated  in  Wood's 
living  room  waiting  for  Donaldson,  had 
no  notion  of  what  was  about  to  descend 
on  them.  Consequently,  when  Chris- 
tine swept  into  the  room,  followed  by 
Grace  Darling,  Junior,  Ralph  and 
George,  they  were  as  amazed  as  they 
would  have  been  at  the  sight  of  a  zebra 
riding  a  bicycle. 

"Where's  my  brother?"  Christine  de- 
manded. 

"That,  madame,"  said  Wood,  as  sooth- 
ingly as  possible,  "is  what  we  have 
been  wondering.  He  has  an  appoint- 
ment with  us  here." 

"He's  here  now!"  Christine  declared. 
"You're  hiding  him!" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  that  you're  wrong," 
Wood  said. 

"You're  a  liar!"  Christine  announced. 

Wood  tried  his  best  to  control  his 
temper  and  cover  this  painful  situation, 
but  he  couldn't  quite  make  it. 

"Lady,"  he  said,  "I  am  distinctly  not 
an  old  Southern  gentleman  but  I  resent 
that  crack.  Mr.  Swain,  will  you  please 
ignore  these  people.  At  least,  don't 
blame  them  on  Howard  just  because 
they  happen,  unfortunately,  to  be  re- 
lated to  him." 

This  was  George's  cue.  He  looked  at 
Swain,  and  said: 

"Are  you  Frank  Swain,  the  New 
York  banker?" 

Swain  admitted  the  charge,  whereup- 
on George  sneered  and  muttered: 


"Stinking  capitalist.  Grinder-downer 
of  workers." 

Grace,  having  nothing  to  lose,  and 
unable  to  hold  her  tongue,  said: 

"Untaker-upper  of  options." 

Swain  leaped  to  his  feet  and 
screamed: 

"What  is  this  anyway?  Isn't  anybody 
in  Holly  wood,  sane?" 

Ar  this  moment,  Donaldson  arrived. 
He  had  just  recalled  the  fact  that  he 
had  had  an  appointment  with  Wood. 
He  could  not  have  chosen  a  worse  mo- 
ment. 

As  he  walked  into  the  living  room, 
all  those  present  looked  at  him  in  a 
silence  which  had  icicles  on  it. 

"What's  wrong?"  he  asked. 

"What's  wrong!"  Wood,  Swain,  Chris- 
tine, George,  Ralph  and  Junior  sang  out 
in  a  perfect  Greek  chorus.  Grace  Dar- 
ling, under  her  breath,  said:  "I  think 
things  are  going  to  be  all  right." 

"You're  through,  Donaldson,"  Swain 
said.  "I  wouldn't  have  you  in  my  em- 
ploy if  you  were  the  last  producer  in 
the  world.  .  .  ." 

"Have  you  gone  crazy?"  Christine 
broke  in.  "Do  you  realize  that  you've 
jeopardized  your  position  .  .  .  brought 
disgrace  on  your  family  ...  all  for  a 
foolish  little  hussy.   .   .   ." 

"The  wages  of  sin  are  death,"  mum- 
bled Junior. 

"Class-conscious  capitalist,"  George 
snarled. 

Donaldson  slumped  down  in  a  chair, 
completely  overwhelmed,  as  these  de- 
nunciations continued.  Wood,  wanting 
to  front  for  him,  but  seeing  the  impos- 


sibility of  it,  gave  Grace  an  unlaun- 
dered  look  and  beckoned  her  to  the 
kitchen. 

"What  was  the  idea,"  he  asked  her, 
over  a  highball,  "of  bringing  these  luna- 
tics here.  I  could  have  fixed  things 
for  Howard  if  they  hadn't  turned  up, 
Now  Swain  wouldn't  have  the  guy  if  he 
found  him  on  sale  in  Macy's  basement." 

Back  in  the  living  room,  Swain  had 
contrived  to  get  the  floor  away  from 
Christine  momentarily.  He  shook  an 
accusing  finger  in  Howard's  face  and 
shouted: 

"Gambling!  That  is  the  one  thing  I 
cannot  excuse.  A  man  in  your  position 
— a  leader  of  the  film  industry — a  pillar 
of  the  community — arrested  in  a  cheap 
gambling  house — consorting  with  crooks 
and  criminals — " 

The  doorbell  rang.  It  was  Brooksie 
and  Spangler.  There  was  a  stunned  si- 
lence for  a  moment  as  they  strode  into 
the  room.  Christine  was  the  first  to 
break  it.  She  did  it  in  her  customary 
manner,  which  was  at  the  top  of  her 
voice. 

"What're  you  doing  here  among  de- 
cent people?"  she  shrieked  at  Brooksie. 

Spangler  took  charge  of  the  situation 
by  shoving  Christine's  chin. 

"Pucker  your  kisser,"  he  said,  in  the 
choice  selection  of  words  for  which  he 
was  famous.  Having  intimidated  Chris- 
tine— no  mean  feat — he  glared  about  the 
room  and  said: 

"Which  of  you  goofers  is  Swain?" 

The  banker,  instinctively  apprehen- 
sive, admitted  that  he  was  Frank  Swain. 
Spangler  gave  him  a  grin  which  would 
have  frightened  a  saber-toothed  tiger, 


BE  fflAHO^^JL  Gl0R10^.:  BE  EVER  ADMlwtf> 


IN  EVER  FLATTERING 


•  Strolling  through  the  park ...  or  wherever  he 
may  be  . . .  you'll  catch  his  eye  with  the  dazzling 
charm  of  beautiful  feet.  Heel  Latch  Shoes  are 
superlatively  smart. . .  for  here  are  shoes  created 
not  alone  for  sheer  comfort  but  for  divinely 
youthful  flattery,  too.  You'll  thrill  to  the  Heel 
Latch  hidden  features  which  cleverly  keep  your 
foot  from  slipping  forward  . . .  lightly  snuggle 
your  arch  .  .  .  subtlely  impart  grace,  beauty  and 
slenderizing  shapliness  to  your  ankles. 

rr\tt!  Six  booklets  soft  lipstick  tissue,  advance 
style  folder  and  name  of  nearest  Heel  Latch  dealer. 


BARRIE...  distinc- 
tively simple  cut-out 
Blue  or  Malibu  Beige 
Simulated  Alligator, 
Hack  Patent  or 
white  calf  high  strap. 


ROBERTS,  JOHNSON   &   RAND  .  ST.  LOUIS,  MO 


5+f6 

SLIGHTL  Y  NICHED  DISTANT  POINTS 

Branch  of  International  Shoe  Company 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


ind  extracted  from  his  pocket  a  check. 

"The  other  night,"  Spangler  said, 
'when  I  wasn't  there,  you  came  into  my 
oint  and  dusted  off  my  cashier  for 
seven  hundred  bucks  with  a  check,  and 
hen  stopped  payment  on  it.  Would 
^ou  like  to  make  it  good,  or  shall  I  cut 
your  heart   out?" 

Swain  turned  a  pale  green  and  began 

0  fumble  in  his  coat  pocket.  Spangler 
nisinterpreted  this  move. 

!  "If  you're  thinking  of  reaching  for  a 
jersuader,  don't  bother,"  Spangler  said, 
ind  produced  from  his  own  pocket  a 
l\m  that  resembled,  to  all  outward  ap- 
jearances,  a  French  Seventy-five. 

"I  was  only  getting  some  money," 
5wain  quavered.  "The  check — it  was 
all  a  mistake.  .  .  ." 

He  produced  the  cash,  and  Spangler 
counted  it  carefully. 

"If  this  dough  is  phony,"  he  said, 
'you're  not  going  to  keep  on  looking 
lealthy." 

I  HE  reaction  on  Donaldson  to  all  this 
was  astounding.  He  leaped  to  his  feet, 
a  new  man,  and  shouted: 

"All  of  you!    Listen  to  me!" 
1    He  was   a  bit  optimistic.     If   there's 
anything  there's  a  dearth  of  in  Holly- 
wood, it's  listeners.     The  bedlam  con- 
tinued. 

But  Donaldson  had  something  to  say 
and  nothing  was  going  to  stop  him.  He 
hurled  a  cut-glass  candelabra  at  a 
French  mirror  over  the  fireplace.  It 
was  a  direct  hit.  He  figured  he'd  had 
seven  years  bad  luck  anyway  since  his 
family  descended  on  him. 

Now  there  was  silence.  Attracted  by 
it,  Wood  and  Grace  came  in  from  the 
kitchen.  Donaldson  felt  better.  A  huge 
vase  attracted  his  attention. 

"Stop!"  yelled  Wood.  "That's  a  Ming! 
I  paid  seven  G's  for  it!" 

He  was  too  late.  The  Ming  went  the 
way  of  all  crockery.  Wood  shuddered, 
then  hastily  put  his  foot  over  the  piece 
which  bore  the  label,  "Made  in  Japan." 

"Silence!"  yelled  Donaldson.  It  was  a 
wasted  word.  He  had  silence  now.  A 
fanatical  gleam  came  into  his  eyes. 

"I'm  getting  tired  of  all  this!"  he 
yelled.  "I'm  getting  tired  of  all  of  you. 
For  two  days  now  I've  been  made  the 
villain  of  this  piece.  Nobody  would  lis- 
ten to  me.    Nobody  would  believe  what 

1  said  if  they  did  listen  to  me.  Nobody 
would  believe  that  I  was  anything  but 
a  sixty-nine  carat  heel!  Now  it's  my 
turn  to  talk!" 

He  turned  to  Spangler  and  said: 

"Tony — I've  played  square  with  you — 
now  it's  your  turn  to  play  with  me." 

Tony  nodded  in  assent. 

"You've  got  that  gun  on  you — if  any- 
body tries  to  interrupt  me — persuade 
them  to  be  quiet." 

"A  twitch  of  a  lip,"  Tony  said,  "will 
be  a  death  warranf." 

Thus  assured,  Donaldson  continued: 

"Christine,  you've  been  in  my  hair 
for  years.  I've  been  afraid  of  you.  Why, 
I  don't  know.     That's  all  over." 

To  George: 

"You've  been  sounding  off  about  your 
social  theories.  What  about  them?  You 
despise  me  because  I've  made  some 
money.  Have  you  ever  made  any?  Do 
you  know  how  to  make  any?  Will  you 
ever  know  how  to  make  any?  I've  been 
feeding  you  for  years — so  you  have  the 
leisure  to  denounce  people  who  work!" 

To  Ralph: 

"Your  only  trouble  is  that  you  mar- 
ried Christine." 

To  Junior: 

"As  for  you — you're  just  a  pain  in  the 
neck." 
To  Grace  Darling: 

"I  think  I'll  renew  your  option.  I 
didn't  because  I  was  wrong  in  trying 
to  make  you  a  leading  woman.  You're 
not — you  are  a  heavy  at  heart  and  I 
never  realized  it  before." 


To  Wood: 

"As  for  you,  I'll  admit  that  you  tried 
to  protect  me.  You're  not  a  bad  guy, 
you're  just  stupid." 

To  Swain: 

"And  now,  Mr.  Swain,  we  really  get 
down  to  things.  You  were  going  to  sell 
me  out  because  I  got  into  the  headlines 
about  being  arrested  in  a  gambling  joint. 
So  what  do  I  find  out?  I  find  that  you, 
personally,  gave  a  gambler  a  bad  check 
when  all  I  did  was  to  make  up  a  bill  for 
a  relative  of  mine.  And  you  denounce 
me!    All  of  you  have  denounced  me!" 

Brooksie,  daring  Tony's  guardianship 
of  the  peace,  interrupted. 

"I  never  denounced  you — much,"  she 
said. 

The  new-born  Donaldson  glared. 

"I'll  get  around  to  you  in  a  minute," 
he  said,  and  turned  back  to  Swain. 

"You  nitwits — all  of  you — come  out 
here  and  tell  me  how  to  make  moving 
pictures.  The  less  you  know  about  it, 
the  more  you  have  to  say.  I've  been 
making  pictures  for  twenty  years.  So 
have  a  lot  of  other  people  in  Hollywood. 
Yet  you  and  my  sister  and  her  subnor- 
mal family  come  out  here  and  spend 
fifteen  minutes  inside  a  sound  stage  and 
tell  us  how  it  should  be  done.  Pfui  on 
you  and  the  motion  picture  business!" 

"Just  a  moment,"  Swain  said  hastily. 
"I  realize  I've  been  wrong.  If  you'll  re- 
consider— " 

"At  double  my  salary?" 

Swain  gulped  weakly  and  nodded. 

"Fine,"  said  Donaldson.  "Now  cne 
other  condition." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Swain. 

"That  you  give  my  sister  Christine  a 
job — any  job  I  signify." 

The  listeners  looked  at  each  other  in 
amazement.  After  the  ringing  denunci- 
ation of  Christine,  Donaldson  was  still 
looking  after  her  interest? 

"What    is    the    job?"    Swain    asked. 

"Manager  of  the  Atlas  film  exchange 
in  Shanghai,"  Donaldson  answered. 

Swain  made  one  last  protest.  "But 
Shanghai  may  be  bombed — " 

"As  if  I  didn't  know,"  replied  Donald- 
son. Christine  started  to  faint,  but 
caught  herself  in  time.  The  broken 
Ming  on  the  floor  looked  like  a  bad 
landing  field. 

DROOKSIE  felt  strangely  out  of  all  this. 
Donaldson  had  practically  ignored  her, 
which  was  a  worse  insult  than  a  real  in- 
sult.    She  edged  toward  the  door. 

"Wait!"  ordered  Donaldson.  "I'm  go- 
ing with  you!" 

Brooksie's  chin  went  up  defiantly. 
"You're  not.  Besides,  I  don't  know 
where  I'm  going." 

"I  do,"  as  he  took  her  by  the  arm. 
"Yuma." 

Brooksie's  heart  bounced. 

"If  you're  asking  me — " 

"Not  asking.    Telling." 

"But  it's  across  the  state  line." 

"Don't  give  me  any  geography  les- 
son.    Kiss  me." 

Brooksie  looked  around  at  the  gaping 
listeners. 

"Wait  till  we're  alone." 

"We're  practically  alone  now." 

The  kiss  thrilled  Brooksie.  It  pained 
Christine.  It  tingled  Donaldson.  He 
turned  to  his  studio  executives. 

"I'll  be  back  at  the  studio  next  week." 

He  fixed  a  glittering  eye  on  his  fam- 
ily. 

"Brooksie  and  I  know  where  we're 
going.  Now  you,  my  dear  family,  know 
where  you  can  go." 

The  door  slammed  behind  them. 
Christine  was  puzzled. 

"That  was  a  silly  thing  for  Howard  to 
say.  Of  course  we  know  where  we're 
going.     Shanghai." 

Wood  opened  the  exit  door  invitingly. 

"I  don't  think  that  was  what  he 
meant." 

The  End 


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T 


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Exposing  Hollywood's  Red  Menace 


solidarity.  It  took  nearly  two  weeks 
of  incessant  work,  on  the  lot  and  off,  in 
the  Brown  Derby,  at  his  home,  working 
in  relays,  smoothly,  subtly  and  effi- 
ciently, and  in  the  end  they  sold  him 
hook,  line  and  sinker. 

He  was  emotional — but  then  actors 
make  their  livings  by  portraying  emo- 
tion— and  he  wanted  to  help.  He  was 
used  to  giving  charity.  He  joined  the 
movement,  dug  down — and  gave. 

He  gave  willingly  enough,  at  first.  He 
— and  a  lot  more  like  him — probably 
would  be  paying  yet,  if  the  Dies  Com- 
mittee hadn't  started  its  investigation 
hereabouts— and  if  Stalin  hadn't  signed 
a  pact  with  Hitler. 

DdES  it  all  sound  fantastic  to  you? 
Here's  how  it  was  worked.  Wherever 
possible,  Communists  got  converts  and 
sympathizers  in  the  film  colony  to  sign 
pledges.  They  saw  to  it  that  the  pledges 
were  kept.  Out  of  the  salaries  of  the 
unlucky  ones,  came  a  certain,  set, 
agreed-upon  percentage  for  the  party. 
Not  all  the  agreements  were  so  bald 
that  the  dupe  knew  his  money  was  go- 
ing directly  into  Communist  channels. 
Sometimes  the  deductions  were  ear- 
marked for  this  or  that  "anti"  league, 
or  some  patriotic  sounding  unit  with  a 
professed  fight  against  Fascism  or  Nazi- 
ism.  Whatever  the  name,  the  deduc- 
tions went  almost  invariably  to  aid  the 
Communist  cause  or  into  the  pockets  of 
the  solicitors. 

In  three  years  Hollywood  is  credited 
with  contributing  more  than  two  mil- 
lion dollars  to  Communist  front  organ- 
izations. 

In  many  cases  investigators  know  who 
contributed  the  money,  how  it  was  spent 
— and  how  much  of  it  went  to  line  the 
pockets  of  some  racketeers  who  worked 
behind  Red  Banners  to  get  it. 

At  the  beginning  of  1939,  Hollywood's 
devotion  to  this  or  that  "anti"  group 
began  to  verge  on  the  hysterical.  And 
around  the  middle  of  1939  the  movie 
colony  began  to  get  uneasy  about  the 
entire  Red  business.  This  particular 
actor,  for  instance,  decided  it  would  no 
longer  be  good  for  him  to  be  identified 
with  any  group  suspected  of  Red  lean- 
ings. He  refused  to  make  any  more 
donations.  First  they  cajoled  him.  Then 
they  told  him  he  was  yellow.  Next 
they  appealed  to  his  patriotism — and 
finally  they  got  down  to  business  and 
resorted  to  outright  threats.  They  vowed 
that  he  had  been  contributing  to  the 
Communists  all  along  and  they  simply 
promised  him  that  unless  he  continued 
to  contribute  they  would  go  to  his  stu- 
dio and  inform  on  him. 

Anti-Communist  sentiment  in  Amer- 
ica had  reached  feverish  dimensions. 
Studios  were  jittery  over  rumors  that 
their  actors,  directors  and  writers  were 
hurting  business  by  association  with 
pink  causes.  When  studios  get  jittery 
they  usually  fire  first  and  ask  questions 
afterwards.  They  don't  want  national 
scandals. 

So  the  threat,  levelled  gun-wise  at 
the  actor's  head,  was  a  very  real  one. 
He  mulled  it  over.  He  made  his  deci- 
sion. 

"I'll  beat  you  to  the  punch,"  he  said. 
"I'll  tell  them  myself." 

He  didn't  get  a  chance.  He  picked  a 
bad  time  to  rebel.  His  option  was  com- 
ing up.  The  Red  mobsters  got  two  girls 
and  a  man  to  fill  his  studio  with  rumors 
that  he  was  a  moral  degenerate.  The 
rumor  spread  as  fast  as  horrified 
tongues  could  carry  it,  spread  in  a  short 
time  to  the  office  of  the  head  of  the 
studio.     The   actor's   fate   was   decided 


(Co?iti?iued  from  page  19) 

sixty  seconds  later.  His  option  wasn't 
taken  up.    He  was  thrown  out. 

Fortunately  he's  back  at  work  today. 
Investigators  explained  to  a  producer 
at  another  lot  what  had  happened  to 
him.  But  some  of  the  mud  still  clings. 
He'll  be  years  shuddering  down  the  last 
of  that  horrible  lie. 

I  HAT'S  a  typical  case,  and  by  no  means 
an  unusual  one.  One  of  the  most  sick- 
ening weapons  used  by  the  Communists 
is  their  bludgeon  for  use  against  indi- 
vidual reputations. 

For  that  reason— and  for  many  others 
—Hollywood  was  the  most  important 
foothold  the  Communists  could  get  in 
all  America.  Hollywood — where  repu- 
tations smeared  mean  careers  ruined 
over  night.  The  Communists  found 
easy  pickings  in  the  film  capital.  Day 
after  day,  beginning  in  the  fall  of  1936, 
they  enlarged  their  influence.  They 
were  making  some  members  of  the  film 
colony  do  whatever  they  willed.  They 
took  one  woman  writer  and  forced  her 
to  compose  for  them  a  propaganda  play, 
made  her  come  to  their  meetings  and 
read  aloud  to  them  what  she  had  writ- 
ten during  the  past  week,  and  then,  in 
her  presence,  went  over  it  humiliatingly, 
line  by  line,  voting  changes  until  it 
was  completely  to  their  liking.  She  had 
to  do  what  they  wanted.  She  was  afraid 
not  to. 

Imagine  using  a  thousand-dollar-a- 
week  writer  like  that!  Imagine  them 
forcing  a  star  to  solicit  Red  handouts — 
after  they  had  discovered  an  indiscre- 
tion of  his  and  threatened  to  expose 
him.  They  were  stopping  at  nothing, 
there  was  nothing  too  low  for  them  to 
attempt.  Hollywood  was  the  richest 
gold  mine. they  had  ever  struck.  And 
they  were  making  Hollywood  pay 
through  the  nose,  because  it  had  wanted 
to  be  generous,  wanted  to  do  what  it 
could  to  salve  suffering  and,  ironically, 
protect  America  from  foreign  influence. 

I  HE  Communists  weren't  interested  in 
forming  a  large  organization.  Big  groups 
are  unwieldy.  Oddly,  they  do  not  even 
want  to  turn  out  motion  pictures  which 
will  be  Red  from  start  to  finish.     All 


Even  though  helped  by  this  quartet 
— Anita  Louise,  Myrna  Loy,  Bette 
Davis,  Olivia  de  Havilland — Mrs. 
Basil  Rathbone  was  so  overworked 
doctors  wouldn't  let  her  attend 
the   great   charity   party   she   gave! 


they  want  in  this  regard  is  to  insert  in 
a  picture  one  significant  scene.  They 
hope  it'll  pass  unnoticed.  But  they  fig- 
ure that  somehow  the  significant  scene 
will  stick.  That  little  by  little,  picture 
after  picture,  the  propaganda  effect  will 
build  up  until  they  are  ready  to  make 
their  move.  And  that  move  is  Revolu- 
tion. They  want  to  spot  men  in  im- 
portant places — not  many  men — but  a 
lot  of  important  positions.  Their  task 
in  Hollywood  composed  one  of  the  most 
delicate  and  one  of  the  vastest  conspira- 
cies the  nation  has  ever  known.  Wal- 
ter Winchell  has  already  passed  on  to 
Washington  documentary  evidence 
proving  that  thousands  of  dollars  con- 
tributed by  Hollywood  to  innocent- 
sounding  organizations  eventually 
wound  up  in  the  hands  of  Communist 
leaders.  Police  and  other  investigatory 
groups  have  gone  about  accumulating 
evidence  of  the  conspiracy. 

Are  you  wondering  who  might  be  the 
biggest  source  of  their  information?  In 
many  cases  it's  the  Communists  them- 
selves. 

Here  in  Hollywood  many  of  the 
racketeers  had  criminal  records.  In- 
vestigators put  on  a  little  pressure  of 
their  own.  In  a  short  time  they  had 
Communists  spying  on  Communists. 
They  had  Reds  reporting  to  them  ex- 
actly what  went  on  at  meetings,  who 
was  present,  what  new  victims  had  been 
selected,  how  the  conspiracy  was  pro- 
gressing, and  who  was  weakest. 

IT  is  difficult,  at  this  writing,  to  esti- 
mate the  enormity  to  which  Hollywood 
has  been  subjected,  of  the  grip  the  Red 
racketeers  had  begun  to  gain  on  Hol- 
lywood's mind,  body  and  purse  strings, 
of  the  very,  very  narrow  escape  one  of 
the  nation's  most  important  industries 
had  at  a  time  when  depression  had  fixed 
things  so  it  could  least  afford  to  stand 
such  a  blow. 

They  were  out  to  dominate  Holly- 
wood. They  wanted  a  constant  supply 
of  sympathetic  money.  They  had  the 
world's  richest  amusement  market  al- 
most in  their  grip  and  they  had  bled  it 
pallid  and  they  were  bleeding  it  white. 
They  were  conspiring  to  use  the  prestige 
of  stars  to  propagandize  and  influence 
the  millions  of  fans  who  adored  those 
stars;  they  were  conspiring  to  use  writ- 
ers to  inject  Red  bait  into  their  scripts; 
directors  to  give  the  Red  slant;  work- 
ers to  infect  whole  unions,  milking  the 
town,  turning  it  gradually  to  their  pur- 
pose— the  conversion  of  Hollywood  into 
another  Moscow  from  which  they  hoped 
to  operate  as  a  Red-dyeing  plant  fo 
color  the  entire  nation. "  It  was  a  shrewd 
conspiracy.  It  almost  worked.  It  of- 
fered everything:  popular  stars,  unend- 
ing supplies  of  money,  talent  and  the 
most  effective  propagandizing  medium 
in  the  world. 

Their  methods  toward  the  last  had  be- 
come openly  arrogant.  Hollywood  is 
still  dazed  from  the  shock.  It  was  a 
narrow  escape.  Hollywood  has  learned 
a  terrible  lesson.  It'll  never  need  an- 
other.   Not  like  this  one. 

And  almost  without  exception — and 
unfortunately  there  were  a  handful  of 
exceptions — the  colony  was  sincere, 
wanted  to  be  generous,  loved  its  coun- 
try, fought  to  be  allowed  to  help.  Stars 
vied  with  each  other,  fell  over  each 
other  in  their  zeal  once  the  ball  started 
rolling,  once  Causes  and  Movements  had 
become  the  fashionable  and  intellectual 
things  to  join.  And  they  ended  up  as 
victims  of  one  of  the  most  depressing 
frauds  the  country  has  ever  known. 

The  only  thing  Red  about  Hollywood 
today — is  its  face. 


78 


PHOTOPLAY 


PlayTruth  and  Consequences  with  Ronald  Colman 


(Continued  from  page  17) 


24.  (Q) 
(A) 

25.  (Q) 
(A) 


(A) 

27.  (9) 

(A) 

28.  (9) 
(A) 

29.  (9) 

(A) 

30.  (9) 

(A) 
31.(9) 

(A) 

32.  (9) 

(A) 

33.  (9) 

(A) 

34.  (9) 

(A) 

35.  (9) 

(A) 


36.  (9) 

(A) 

37.  (9) 


(A) 
38.  (9) 


(A) 


What  is  your  favorite  form  of 
entertainment? 

String    orchestras,    good    con- 
versation, and  circuses.  39.  (9) 
Are   you   argumentative? 
On  certain  subjects  and  with  (A) 
certain  people,  I  avoid  argu- 
ments   like    the    plague;    with 
others,  I  just  can't  wait  to  get 
to  work. 

Do   you   consider  yourself   a   good        40.   (9) 
storyteller?  (A) 

Not  bad;  as  long  as  I  lay  off 
the     Irish     and     down-South       41.  (9) 
kind! 

What  one  feat  gave  you  the  great-  (A) 

est  pride  and  thrill? 
When   I   landed   a   228   pound 
Marlin  swordfish.     And  am  I 
glad  you  asked  that  one! 
Why  do  you  make  but  one  or  two        42.   (9) 
pictures  a  year? 

So  that  people  don't  get  sick 
of  the  sight  of  me. 
What  has  been  one  of  your  great- 
est disappointments? 
When  Al  Woods  fired  me  after 
one  week's  tryout  in  my  first 
leading  part  on  Broadway. 
Of  the  screen  are  you  as  reserved 
and    dignified    as   you    usually   ap- 
pear to  be  on  the  screen? 
If  I  am,  I  should  be  severely 
spoken  to. 

Have   you   ever  fancied    that  you 
might  be  a  singer? 
Yes,  I  even  studied  it  when  I 
was  a  youngster.     I  still  sing 
in    the    bathroom    where    the 
acoustics  help  me  out. 
What    do    you    consider   the    best 
picture  you  ever  made? 
"A  Tale   of   Two   Cities"— be- 
cause it  was  a  great  part  in  a 
great    story — one    of    fiction's 
finest  romantic  tragedies. 
In    the    role    of   fan,    what   is   your 
chief  criticism  of  motion  pictures? 
Abolish  the  double  feature. 
What  is  the  first  thing  you  notice 
about  a  person? 
Teeth  and  hands. 
What  type  of  leading  lady  do  you 
prefer  in  your  pictures? 
One  who  can  act. 
Which  leading  lady  gave  you  the 
greatest  inspiration?  50.    (9) 

Dangerous  ground.  Diplomacy  (A) 

requires  a  consequence.     (Let       51.  (9) 
us  print  a  picture   of  you  in 
your  early  stage  days.)  (A) 

Do  you  ever  wish  to  return  to  the 
stage,  and  do  you  think  you  might 
eventually?  52.   (9) 

No.     I    reserve    the    right    to  (A) 

change  my  mind,  however. 
Do    you    consider    yourself    a    ro- 
mantic figure?  53.   (9) 
That's  none  of  my  business. 
Why  do  columnists  and  interview-  (A) 
ers  often  refer  to  you  as  The  Man        54.  (9) 
in  the  Iron  Mask? 

Possibly  because  I  dislike  talk-  (A) 

ing    too    much    about    myself. 
Interesting    things    are    often       55.   (9) 
unpublishable    and    the    pub-  (A) 

lishable  things  are  so  dull. 
As   most   stars   have   a   discoverer, 
whom  do  you  most  credit  as  being 
yours? 

My    first    break     came    from 
Henry  King  and  Lillian  Gish.       56.   (9) 
How  were   you   able  to   give   such 
a»  perfect  simulation  of  a  sightless  (A) 

man    in    "The    Light  that    Failed"? 
Thank  you   very  much. 
For  what  things   do   you   have   an 
especially   good    memory?  57.    (9) 

Voices — smells  —  Shakespeare 
and  other  verse  if  I  learned  it  (A) 


43 

(A) 
(9) 

(A) 

44 

(9) 

(A) 

45 

(9) 
(A) 

46 

(9) 
(A) 

47 

(9) 

48 

(A) 

(9) 

(A) 

49 

(9) 

(A) 

when  I  was  very  young.  Not 
so,  if  I  have  memorized  it  in 
recent  years. 

Are  you  always  impeccably 
groomed? 

No.  I  like  very  much  to  go 
without  shaving,  especially  on 
fishing  and  hunting  trips.  It's 
more  fun  to  clean  up  when 
there  is  something  to  work  on. 
Are  you  temperamental? 
Certainly  —  but  not  in  the 
popular  conception  of  it. 
How  well  do  you  speak  foreign 
languages? 

Enough  to  ask  the  way  or  or- 
der a  meal  in  Italian,  French 
and  German.  I'm  often  at  a 
loss  when  they  answer  back, 
however. 

Are  you  inclined  to  make  snap 
judgments? 

No,  I  am  very  deliberate. 
Do   you   consider   that  you   are   a 
sentimental   person? 
Very — and  "Danny  Boy"  really 
gets  me  down. 

What  memento  from  your  past 
means  most  to  you,  and  why? 
Mr.  Colman  took  the  conse- 
sequences.  (Show  us  the  most 
informal  snapshot  ever  made 
of  you.) 

When   are   you    moody? 
Occasionally,    but    I    smile 
sweetly  when  spoken  to. 
Are  you  fussy  about  food? 
The  morning   coffee   must  be 
good  and  hot. 

When  have  you  ever  been  jealous 
of  another  film  star? 
Never. 

On  what  occasion  have  you  re- 
cently lost  your  temper? 
Not  for  publication — (Conse- 
quences: Give  us  a  picture  of 
you  riding  a  bicycle.) 
Do  you  usually  travel  incognito 
.  .  .  and  If  so,  do  you  get  away 
with   it? 

I    don't    travel    incognito,    but 
when  possible  I  do  have  my 
name  excluded  from  passenger 
lists.    Thus  I  may  find  myself 
addressed  as  Baxter,  Marshall, 
Olivier,  Fairbanks  Jr.,  etc. 
What  is  your  real  name? 
Put  a  Charles  in  the  middle. 
What  improvement  would  you  sug- 
gest in  women's  make-up? 
Consequences,  please.     (A  ro- 
mantic  pose    with   V  i  1  m  a 
Banky.) 

Do  you  dislike  interviews? 
Generally — although   with   a 
good    interviewer    it    can    be 
painless. 

How    many    pictures    have    you 
made? 
Forty-five. 

Which  picture  was  most  difficult 
for  you? 

"The  Masquerader" — I  played 
two  parts. 

Do  you  ever  put  on  an  act? 
Only  at  banquets — during  the 
after-dinner  speeches  I  usually 
smoke  a  cigar,  though  I  don't 
like  cigars.  Having  one  in  my 
hand  seems  to  lend  dignity  to 
the  occasion! 

During  this  game  have  you  an- 
swered every  question  truthfully? 
Only  one  slight  exaggeration. 
The  Marlin  swordfish  was  not 
quite  228  pounds  ...  227 
pounds  and  a  half. 
What  would  you  do  if  you  were 
dictator  of  Hollywood? 
Abdicate  immediately! 


YES  OF  FASHIOM 

fez 


Costumes  of  yellow, 
chartreuse,  rust ,  brown , 
green,  or  any  of  the 
deep  "Woodland"  col- 
ors call  for  Maybelline 
black  or  brown  shades 
of  Mascara  with  match- 
ing  eyebrow  pencil. 
The  harmonizing 
shades  of  Maybelline 
Eye  Shadow  are  Brown 
and  Green. 

With  blue,  wine, 
black,  fuchsia,  all  the 
purplish  colors,  wear 
Maybelline  black  or 
blue  shade  of  Mascara 
and  black  eyebrow 
pencil,  lightly  applied. 
And  to  harmonize, 
Maybelline  Eye  Shad- 
ow in  flattering  shades 
of  Blue,  Gray,  Blue- 
Gray  or  Violet. 


FASHION  DICTATES 


NEW 


FOR  YOUR  EYES 


It's  a  "must"  in  the  Fashion  outlook — and 
it's  here  to  slay.  Glamour  that  gives  your 
eyes  new  importance  with  every  costume 
you  wear.  All  it  takes  is  smart  harmony 
in  eye  make-up.  And  that's  easy  with 
Maybelline  Eye  Beauty  Aids.  Simply 
choose  your  Mascara,  Eyebrow  Pencil 
and  Eye  Shadow  in  harmonizing  shades 
.  .  .  and  notice  the  thrilling  difference. 
It's  fascinating  to  step  up  your  beauty 
and  style  so  naturally  with  Maybelline 
—  the  eye  make-up  that's  smart  because 
it's  always  in  good  taste. 


Maybelline 
Solid-form  Masi  ara 
in   stunning    gold-colored 
vanity,  75c. 


Cream-form 
\ira  (applied  without 
r)  in  uppercase,  75c. 


Maybelline  creamy   Eye 

Shadow  in  dainty   p.isti-l 

box.  Six  alluring  shades. 


Maybelline 

nil-marking 
Eyebrow  Pencil  with 
point  protector. 


rues 


EYE      BEAUTY     AIDS 


MARCH,      1940 


79 


Famous  "Magazine  Cover  Girl"  Says 

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I'VE  EVER  USED" 


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For  Smooth,  Colorful  Lips 
Use  this  Cream  Base  Lipstick 

Ask  any  girl  what  she  wants  most  for  her 
lips  and  she'll  say,  "I  want  gorgeous, 
flattering  color,  in  a  lipstick  that  goes  on 
smooth  as  cream!" 

That's  what  you  get  with  Tangee,  the 
new  "cream  base"  lipstick!  See  that 
exciting  Theatrical  shade.  Note  its 
exquisite  smoothness,  how  it  goes  on 
like  a  dream,  stays  on  lastingly  and 
doesn't  smear  or  give  you  a  "painted" 
appearance.  Get  Tangee  Theatrical 
shade  today. 

Rouge  and  Powder, 
too.  Use  Tangee  The- 
atrical Rouge  to  echo 
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make-up,  use  Tangee  NATURAL.  This 
lipstick,  with  the  same  marvelous  cream 
base,  changes,  when  applied,  to  the  shade 
of  rose  or  red  most  becoming  to  you. 

A   VIVID  RED  SHADE 


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Check  Shade  of  Powder  Desired: 
C  Peach         □  Light  Rachel       G  Flesh 
D  Rachel       C  Dark  Rachel       C  Tan 


Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 


(Continued  from  page  61) 


Lookit  who's  all  done  up  in  a  tux!  Freddie  Batholomew  looks  right 
at  home,  too,  passing  the  time  of  evening  with  Fred  MacMurray  and 
Wendy   Barrie,   at  the   charity  affair  in   the   Beverly  Wilshire   Hotel 


may  become,  not  20th  Century-Fox's 
most  valuable  asset  but  something  of  a 
liability — since  her  contract  calls  for  a 
whale  of  a  check  every  week. 

Butter's  Better 

IIER  real  name  is  Susanna  DeLees 
Flanders  Larson.  But  you  know  her  as 
Susanna  Foster,  the  little  girl  who  sang 
high  X  or  something  in  Paramount's 
"The  Great  Victor  Herbert."  The  "Su- 
sanna" was  inspired  by  the  fact  she  is 
related  to  Stephen  Foster  who  wrote 
"Oh,  Susannah!"  The  DeLees  is  for 
the  doctor  who  first  introduced  her  to 
the  light  of  day  (December  6,  1924,  in 
Chicago) .  The  Flanders  is  her  mother's 
maiden  name.  Larson  is  her  father's 
name. 

She  hates  oleomargarine,  this  because 
she  had  to  eat  it  instead  of  butter  for 
quite  a  long,  sad  time  while  she  was 
trying  to  get  into  the  movies.  The  fam- 
ily, including  mother  and  father  (both 
of  whom  can  sing  but  have  never 
worked  at  it)  and  two  younger  sisters, 
were  living  in  Venice,  California,  then. 
Before  Susanna  achieved  the  notice 
of  producers,  they  had  their  furniture 
moved  out  from  under  them.  True,  Su- 
sanna had  had  a  brief  contract  with 
Metro,  but  Deanna  Durbin  was  there 
then,  also  Judy  Garland,  and  Susanna 
got  lost  in  the  shuffle. 

Finally,  though,  she  made  an  impres- 
sion at  Paramount.  First  she  tried  out 
for  "The  Star  Maker,"  but  Linda  Ware 
beat  her  to  that  break.  However,  Le- 
Roy  Prinz,  studio  dance  director,  saw 
her  and  promised  to  get  her  a  part 
someway,  sometime.  He  was  as  good  as 
his  word  in  "Victor  Herbert." 

Susanna  is  a  slender  little  trick  (as 
you  know  if  you've  seen  "Victor  Her- 
bert") with  a  yen  for  athletics.  She  in- 
sists on  going  without  a  hat  in  the  Cali- 
fornia sun  which  makes  her  freckle,  and 
her  mother  protests — until  Susanna 
mentions  Myrna  Loy.  She  has  a  chum 
with  whom  she  is  inseparable  but 
doesn't  like  boys — "yet." 

She  has  a  breezy  way  of  talking  and 
is  likely  to  run  her  wordstogetherlike- 
this,  which  habit  wasn't  very  popular 
with  Andrew  Stone,  who  directed  "Vic- 
tor Herbert."  Incidentally,  in  order  to 
get  that  part  she  sang  for  5,000,000  Para- 
mount executives.  The  figures  are  her 
own.  She  thinks  maybe  it  was  the  B 
flat  above  high  C  she  can  sing  at  will 
which    finally    brought    them    around. 


She  now  has  a  long-term  contract  with 
Paramount. 

"And  so,"  she  says,  grinning,  "the 
family  eats  butter  again." 

Hollywood— My  Hollywood 

IT'S  five-thirty  and  we  plunge  out  of 
the  corner  house  that  is  Photoplay's 
Hollywood  home  into  a  January  night 
— temperature,  seventy.  A  yellow  moon 
hangs  suspended  between  the  five  tall 
palm  trees  that  stand  guard  before  the 
house.  Directly  across  the  street  Billy 
Halop  in  shorts  and  shirt  sleeves  is 
playing  ball  before  his  house.  We  call 
to  him  not  to  get  run  down  by  Cal's 
car.  The  red  poinsettias  before  Billy's 
home  nod  to  the  pink  roses  across  the 
street.  Dusk  has  grown  into  dark.  We 
drive  to  the  open  air  corner  market 
near  Fairfax  Avenue.  Maureen  O'Hara 
is  taking  her  evening  stroll.  She  pauses 
to  glance  at  the  magazine  stand — also 
open  air.  A  market  basket  on  his  arm, 
Donald  Crisp  stands  before  the  printed 
sales  list  for  the  day.  A  Scotchman, 
Donald  is  an  A-One  shopper. 

"Has  that  delivery  gone  up  to  the 
Charles  Boyers  yet?"  the  butcher  calls 
to  the  grocery  clerk.  "They  want  to 
add  something  to  the  order." 

Across  the  way  George  Sanders  saun- 
ters into  Schwab's  drugstore  in  old 
slacks  and  a  slip-on  sweater.  Two  tour- 
ists stop  and  stare  at  the  great  open- 
spaced  market,  its  array  of  green  vege- 
tables, strawberries,  avocadoes.  Jackie 
Cooper  whizzes  by  in  his  new  car. 

A  former  star,  once  a  great  name, 
walks  aimlessly  before  the  meat  coun- 
ter and  then  pauses  to  count  again  the 
few  coins  in  his  hand.  A  foreign  act- 
ress, recently  from  Germany,  approaches 
the  cashier  timidly.  "I  did  have  one  egg 
to  eat  yesterday,  but  could  I  buy  this 
one  also?" 

The  growing  look  of  wonder  in  the 
cashier's  eyes.  "One  egg?  You  can 
have  all  you  want,  you  know."  Her 
confusion  and  thanks  and  joy.  "So  good 
— Hollywood,"  she  says. 

An  extra,  still  in  yellowish  make-up, 
stops  at  the  bakery  counter.  "One 
cream  puff,"  she  orders  proudly.  "I 
worked  today." 

At  the  corner  below  as  we  stop  at  a 
signal,  a  shining  limousine  draws  up. 
Inside  is  Norma  Shearer.  Next  in  line 
is  an  old  tin  lizzie  with  a  Kansas  li- 
cense plate.  The  moon  grows  yellower. 
The  palms  statelier.     The  air  balmier. 


It's  January.  And  it's  Hollywood — my 
Hollywood. 

Sleuth  Neagle 

WHO  says  the  British  have  no  sense  of 
humor?  We  think  Anna  Neagle  ably 
contradicted  that  theory  with  a  report 
she  made  the  other  day  to  Director 
Herbert  Wilcox. 

Seems  her  performance  in  a  certain 
picture  had  been  criticised  briefly  but 
bitterly  by  a  British  "drah-ma  critic" 
who  took  himself  very  seriously — very 
obviously.  Seems,  however,  that  since 
there  was  no  byline  and  the  name  of 
the  publication  had  not  been  supplied 
by  the  clipping  bureau  to  which  Miss 
Neagle  subscribes,  she  had  no  way  of 
knowing  who  wrote  it. 

"Perhaps  it  was  "  Wilcox  sug- 
gested. 

"No,  it  couldn't  be,"  Anna  came  back. 
"It  always  takes  him  half  a  page  to  pan 


Vivien  Leigh— The  Girl  of  the  Hour 

OHE'LL  have  more  words  written 
about  her,  more  questions  asked  about 
her,  more  letters  written  to  her  than 
any  other  woman  in  Hollywood  in  the 
next  six  months.  Her  name  is  Vivien 
Leigh  (pronounced  Lee)  — Scarlett 
O'Hara  in  "Gone  with  the  Wind,"  one 
of  the  greatest  pictures  (Cal  thinks) 
ever  filmed.  And  so  before  the  ava- 
lanche of  inquiries  pour  in  we  give  you 
facts,  observations,  and  impressions  of 
this  most-talked-about  young  lady  to- 
day. 

In  a  Beverly  Hills  office  on  the  eve 
of  her  journey  to  Atlanta  for  the  big 
premiere,  we  chatted  with  this  five- 
foot- three  miss  and  discovered  several 
things.  For  instance,  she's  the  perfect 
Scarlett  in  looks,  and  yes,  tempera- 
ment. She  knows  how  to  get  what  she 
wants  and  thinks  is  right,  and  fought 
Director  Victor  Fleming  tooth  and  nail 
throughout  the  production.  They  parted 
friends.  She's  a  positive,  self-assured, 
self-sufficient  young  Englishwoman  with 
wide  grey  eyes  that  take  on  a  peculiar 
slant  at  times.  Modern  as  tomorrow, 
Miss  Leigh  loves  American  football  and 
roots  for  the  team  that  represents  the 
most  democratic  school  to  her  thinking. 
She  wears  sports  clothes  and  eats  heart- 
ily, too.  That  some  mother  may  witness 
her  son's  injury  on  the  football  field 
worries  her.  She's  the  mother  of  a  five- 
year-old  child  herself  and  the  ex-wife 
of  a  London  barrister,  Leigh  Holman. 

She  was  born  in  Darjeeling,  India. 
Her  father,  then  a  stock  broker  in  Cal- 
cutta, is  of  French  descent  and  her 
mother  of  Irish  descent.  Scarlett,  too, 
came  of  French  and  Irish  descent.  Edu- 
cated at  convents  and  the  best  Euro- 
pean finishing  schools  she  always  want- 
ed to  be  an  actress  and  began  her  stage 
career  in  London.  She  thinks  Scarlett 
a  mean  snit  but  couldn't  make  up  her 
mind  whether  to  love  her  or  kick  her 
for  the  last  thirty-six  pages  of  the 
script.  Ashley  to  modern  Miss  Leigh 
was  too  wishy-washy.  The  only  reason 
Scarlett  loved  him,  she  thinks,  is  be- 
cause she  couldn't  get  him.  Rhett  But- 
ler was  a  man  who  could  rule  any  situ- 
ation— or  woman — and  for  that  reason 
she  liked  him. 

Her  next  picture  is  "Waterloo 
Bridge"  for  M-G-M,  and  she  expects  to 
marry  Laurence  Olivier  most  any  day. 
An  American,  David  Selznick,  has  made 
her  a  great  star.  We  hope,  unlike  Scar- 
lett, Miss  Leigh  decides  not  "to  think 


PHOTOPLAY 


about  that  tomorrow."  We'd  like  this 
great  producer  to  get  his  share  of  credit 
right  now,  Miss  Scarlett  Leigh  O'Hara. 

Thumbnail  Sketch 

rRED  McMURRAY  is  one  of  the  nicest 
guys  in  Hollywood — decent,  intelligent, 
friendly,  regular.  Nevertheless,  his  vir- 
tues and  talents  do  not  include  a  facile 
tongue.  It's  hard  for  Fred  to  talk  much. 
It  is  harder  for  him  to  give  a  good  in- 
terview. He  just  can't  seem  to  un- 
wind. 

For  example,  about  the  time  "Invi- 
tation to  Happiness"  was  made  at  Para- 
mount, we  thought  we'd  do  a  piece  for 
Photoplay  on  Irene  Dunne  from  the 
MacMurray  point  of  view. 

"Describe  Irene  as  you  see  her,"  we 
requested. 

Fred  thought  a  minute,  then  another, 
then  several  more,  before  he  finally 
came  forth  with  this  response: 

"Well,  she's  beautiful,  and  she  wor- 
ries." 

And  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the 
interview  was  over. 

Play  Hollywood's  Newest  Game: 

HOLLYWOOD  can  talk  of  nothing 
these  days  but  "Gone  with  the  Wind." 
It's  crept  into  every  luncheon  and  din- 
ner party  until  hostesses,  in  despair, 
have  invented  a  "Gone  with  the  Wind" 
game.  Pencils  and  papers  with  ques- 
tions to  be  answered  concerning  this 
mighty  epic  are  passed  around  at  every 
gathering.  The  one  winning  the  highest 
score  gets  the  prize.  Why  not  try  it  at 
your  parties,  too?  With  Cal  supply- 
ing all  the  answers  to  facts  and  figures, 
you  can  make  up  your  own  questions. 
Here  goes: 

The  Margaret  Mitchell  book  was  pur- 
chased by  David  Selznick  for  $50,000  on 


June  3,  1936.  Garbo  was  rumored  as 
Scarlett.  Other  Hollywood  producers 
offered  Selznick  as  high  as  $1,000,000  for 
the  rights.   They  were  refused. 

Gable  was  signed  August  25,  1938,  for 
Rhett  Butler  and  Shearer  was  an- 
nounced as  Scarlett.  The  nation  went 
crazy.    Shearer  withdrew. 

There  is  no  wind  in  the  picture,  but 
there  were  4400  people  employed  di- 
rectly by  the  studio  for  the  picture.  The 
largest  number  who  worked  at  one  time 
was  1730.  In  all,  2400  extras  were  em- 
ployed. 

Leslie  Howard,  an  Englishman,  and 
Olivia  de  Havilland,  born  in  Tokyo  of 
English  parents,  were  signed  for  South- 
ern Ashley  Wilkes  and  Melanie. 

Three  talent  scouts  were  dispatched 
to  the  South  to  find  a  Scarlett.  Twenty- 
eight  actresses  were  tested  for  the  role 
and  a  total  of  149,000  feet  of  black  and 
white  film  and  13,000  feet  of  Techni- 
color were  filmed  in  the  testing.  Cost 
of  testing  was  $92,000. 

First  scene  shot  without  a  Scarlett  on 
December  10,  1938,  was  the  burning  of 
Atlanta.  A  visitor  to  the  scene,  Eng- 
lishwoman Vivien  Leigh,  was  signed  as 
Scarlett,  January  13,  1939.  Official 
starting  date  of  the  picture  was  Janu- 
ary 13,  1939.  Final  shot  was  made  No- 
vember 11,  1939. 

Seven  hundred  mustaches,  500  pairs 
of  sideburns  and  300  yards  of  crepe 
hair  were  used.  Scarlett  used  thirty- 
eight  different  hairdresses.  The  com- 
pleted picture  runs  three  hours  and 
forty-five  minutes. 

On  February  15,  1939,  Director  Cukor 
resigned  in  favor  of  Victor  Fleming, 
Vivien  Leigh  worked  a  total  of  125  days 
of  actual  shooting,  Gable  seventy-one, 
de  Havilland  fifty-nine,  and  Howard 
thirty-two. 

Scarlett  wore  forty -four  separate 
costumes,      Gable      thirty-six,      Olivia 


twenty-one.  Leslie  eleven.  The  clean- 
ing bill  alone  amounted  to  $10,000. 

In  use  were  1000  horses,  9000  bit  and 
extra  people,  375  assorted  animals  and 
450  vehicles. 

One  million  man  hours  of  labor  went 
into  the  making.  Exactly  475,000  feet  of 
film  were  exposed  and  675,000  lineal  feet 
of  Technicolor  film  printed. 

And,  finally,  the  money  spent  on  the 
picture  was  $3,957,000. 

The  Hard  Way 

WATCHING  W.  C.  Fields  make  some 
scenes  at  Universal  for  his  and  Mae 
West's  new  picture,  "My  Little  Chicka- 
dee," we  thought  him  better  than  ever 
— wittier,  funnier,  more  original.  But 
even  during  our  chuckles  we  couldn't 
help  remembering  the  somber  founda- 
tion upon  which  his  inimitable  nonsense 
is  built.  You  see,  Claude  William 
Dukenfield  (that  was)  won  his  success 
the  hard  way.  Almost  every  funny 
trick  he  has  at  his  fingertips  today  was 
born  of  suffering  and  hardship. 

He  ran  away  from  his  poverty- 
stricken  home  at  eleven  and  for  four 
years  never  slept  in  a  bed,  never  knew 
a  day  without  hunger  and  often  illness, 
too,  yet  it  was  these  bitter  years  that 
gave  him  the  rare  quality  that  is  his  ace 
in  the  hole  today — that  unfaked  non- 
chalance of  the  man  who  has  endured 
all. 

Almost  daily,  he  had  to  filch  his  din- 
ner from  some  fruit  stand  or  open  mar- 
ket, and  thereby  he  gained  a  dexterity 
which  one  day  made  him  the  greatest 
juggler  on  earth.  Constant  colds  due 
to  exposure  gave  him  his  rasping  yet 
somehow  musical  voice  which  has  been 
likened  to  the  voice  of  "a  Caruso  with 
a  hangover."  It  was  these  same  con- 
stant colds  which  helped  his  nose  to  its 
present  ruby-tinted  bulbousness.     And 


it  was  neglect  and  disillusionment  which 
bred  in  him  that  quality  of  insincere 
heartiness  which  places  him  in  a  class 
by  himself. 

Even  now,  he  confides,  he  sometimes 
pinches  himself  to  make  sure  he  won't 
wake  up  to  find  his  ultimate  success 
and  affluence  all  a  rosy  dream.  It  is 
still  a  luxury  to  him  not  to  be  bitten  by 
dogs,  he  says.  "And  to  this  day,"  he 
adds,  "when  I  climb  in  between  clean 
sheets,  I  smile!" 

Rooney  Acts  Up 

MlCKEY  ROONEY  continues  to  con- 
vulse the  town  with  his  antics.  After 
the  Hollywood  preview  of  "The  Hunch- 
back of  Notre  Dame,"  Mickey  appeared 
at  the  corner  drugstore  where  the  stars 
had  gathered  for  cokes,  with  one  eye 
drawn  way  down,  his  shoulders  humped, 
his  nose  lifted  with  his  thumb  and  his 
lips  hanging. 

The  place  went  wild  as  Mickey  went 
through  all  the  antics  and  dialogues  of 
the  repulsive  Hunchback.  When  the 
customers  applauded,  the  versatile  Mr. 
Rooney  then  stepped  into  as  neat  a 
take  off  on  Basil  Rathbone  as  the  town 
has  ever  seen. 

"This  is  worth  all  the  money  it  cost 
me  for  carfare  out  here,"  one  of  the 
customers  from  back  East  remarked. 
"I  couldn't  even  have  hoped  for  a  show 
like  this." 

Don't  tell  Cal  that  Mickey  Rooney 
doesn't  add  a  touch  of  the  bizarre  to 
Hollywood  that  all  tourists  hope  for. 

Chrysalis  Into  Glamour  Boy 

OINCE  the  release  of  Paramount's 
"Disputed  Passage,"  starring  Dorothy 
Lamour  and  John  Howard,  John's  fan 
mail  has  increased  one  hundred  per 
cent,  no  less. 


PEPSI 


PETE 


THE    PEPSI-COLA    COPS 


1  MA«*  Sl. 


'«MA«St/ft 


MARCH,      1940 


» 


G/UL  SWEATER 


oUestgned  by 


•Produced  by 
DAVID  O.  SELZNICK 
Meaied  by 
METRO-SOLDWYN-MAYER 


STYLE  P-1865 
.  /-}  Most  Winsomely  Fem- 
inine  Sweater  of  Soft.  Sleek,  Moth- 
Proofed  Blended  Wool  .  .  .  inspired  by 
the  Exciting  Selznick  International  Motion- 
Picture  *"Gone  with  the  Wind". .  .You'll  Love  Its  Charm- 
ing Southern  Accent!  ...  At  All  Smart  Shops  -  51.98 


W*  1372  BROADWAY,  NEW  YORK  CITY 


>, 


Even  though  youthfully  firm,  heav.er-than- 
average  breasts  are  especially  susceptible 
to  premature  'breaking  down.  Maiden 
Form  created  -Alio"  to  safeguard  fuller 
bosoms  and  to  give  them  well-defined 
well-uplifted  contours.  With  or  without 
diaphragm  band<-$l.00  to  $3.50. 

Maiden  Form's  •"Intimo" 

bandeaux  — to    emphasue 

the   "dividing   line"— now 

made  with  lovely  low  backs 

for    evening    or    daytime 

wear- $1.00     and     $1.50.  | 

Send  for  free  Style  Booklet , 

C:  Maiden  Form  Brassie 

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~  GRACIOUS   ft 


JB5HHST 


&& 


EcllGuieiu  Biltmore 


A.    S.    KIRKEBY,   Managing  Olnctor 


KIRKEBU 

HOTELS 


And — how  come  all  this?  Well, 
thereby  hangs  a  tale.  Seems  that  John, 
when  he  first  broke  into  pictures,  had  a 
complex  about  kissing — that  is,  kissing 
in  public.  (We  don't  know  about  his 
attitude  in  private.)  In  every  picture 
he  was  in,  he  would  have  a  terrible  time 
putting  over  a  natural  love  scene. 
This  went  on  through  various  B  pic- 
tures until  he  was  assigned  to  the  "Dis- 
puted Passage"  role,  in  more  or  less  of 
an  emergency,  since  Ray  Milland, 
originally  picked  for  the  spot,  was  at  the 
last  moment  unavailable. 

Came,  then,  the  day  John  and  Doro- 
thy were  to  do  their  first  love  scenes, 
and  that  dire  moment  he  had  learned 
to  dread,  when  he  funked  the  action. 

Whereupon,  instead  of  becoming  em- 
barrassed, in  turn,  as  many  of  his 
feminine  co-stars  had,  forthright  Dotty 
took  a  hand. 

"Say,  what's  eating  you,  Mister?"  she 
challenged  him.  "Have  I  got  smallpox, 
or  something?" 

John  blushed  and  stammered.  "No,  I 
— er — " 

"Look,"  she  said,  "kissing  isn't  some- 
thing you  can  cook  up  before  the 
camera,  like  a  double  take.  It's  some- 
thing you've  got  to  feel.  Ellen — "  this 
to  her  maid,  "turn  on  'Moon  of  Mana- 
kura,'  will  you?" 

The  maid  started  the  phonograph  and 
Dotty,  with  soft  music  to  back  her  up, 
went  into  action.  She  looked  at  John 
from  under  those  long  lashes  of  hers  and 
laid  a  persuasive  hand  on  his  arm. 
"Kiss  me,"  she  commanded,  and  she 
wasn't  screeching  out  loud,  either.  She 
was  whispering ,  as  every  lady  does 
when  she  asks  that  of  a  man. 

John  drew  a  long  breath,  and  tried  it. 
Tried  it  again  .  .  .  and  again.  .  .  . 

Then  he  held  her  at  arm's  length  and 
looked  at  her.  "You  win,"  he  said 
shakily.    "You — certainly — do!" 

That  was  all.  Maybe  it's  not  much 
of  a  story.  .  .  But  anyway,  have  you 
seen  John  Howard  in  "Disputed  Pas- 
sage?"   Well,  girls.  .  .  . 

Guardian  Angel 

FROM  war-torn  France,  Madeleine  Car- 
roll received  a  "Christmas  card"  that 
warmed  the  cockles  of  her  heart — a 
photograph  of  the  orphans  of  the  Maison 
de  Charite,  recently  of  Paris,  now  of 
Chateau  de  Saudreville,  Seine-et-Oise, 
which  is  Madeleine's  own  chateau,  lent 
to  the  Sisters  who  conduct  the  orphan- 
age as  a  shelter  for  the  youngsters  dur- 
ing the  war. 

Madeleine  has  been  a  sort  of  guardian 
angel    to    the    orphans    of    Maison    de 


Charite  ever  since  she  was  an  under- 
graduate at  the  Sorbonne  in  Paris.  And 
last  September,  when  the  fighting 
started,  she  offered  it  to  the  grateful 
sisters  for  as  long  as  they  needed  it. 

Nor  is  this  all  Madeleine  is  doing  for 
her  orphans.  Besides  being  practically 
the  sole  financial  support  of  the  institu- 
tion, she  has  various  groups  of  Holly- 
wood and  Los  Angeles  knitters  inter- 
ested in  them.  Which  means  that,  with 
the  problem  of  clothing  growing  chil- 
dren fast  becoming  acute  in  Europe's 
warring  nations,  the  little  ones  of  Mai- 
son de  Charite  will  not  suffer. 

Believe  It  or  Not  Romance 

IES,  we  have  Carole  and  Clark,  Barbara 
and  Bob,  Jeanette  and  Gene — quite  a 
good  many  romantic  and  successful  (so 
far)  Hollywood  marriages.  But  we  give 
you  still  another  couple  living  happily 
ever  after,  whom  people  ordinarily  over- 
look .  .  .  Jack  Benny  (familiarly  known 
as  "Buck")   and  Mary  Livingstone! 

Jack  and  Mary  have  been  married  al- 
most ten  years,  now,  and  that  in  itself 
is  a  record  for  Hollywood.  They  are 
still  in  love,  and  so  is  that.  Moreover, 
they  like  each  other.  Watch  Jack,  when 
Mary  comes  into  the  room.  Or  watch 
him  waiting  in  the  Paramount  commis- 
sary (all  done  up  in  his  "Buck  Benny 
Rides  Again"  cowboy  togs)  as  Mary 
threaded  her  way  among  the  tables  to 
keep  a  luncheon  date  with  him.  We 
tell  you,  pals,  the  look  on  his  face — 
pleasure,  pride,  affection — was  good  to 
see.  They  lunched  alone,  as  absorbed 
in  each  other  as  a  couple  of  newlyweds, 
and  just  before  she  left,  Mary  pulled 
a  little  package  out  of  her  purse. 

"Bought  it  for  you  this  morning,"  we 
heard  her  say. 

Well  it  was  just  some  little  doodad, 
but  "Buck's"  face  lighted  up  again  like  a 
Christmas  candle  and  you  could  tell  he 
was  tickled  pink.  And  as  far  as  that 
was  concerned,  Mary  was  only  follow- 
ing an  almost  daily  example  of  his. 
Seems  Jack  is  a  sucker  for  every  ped- 
dler who  gets  past  studio  gates,  Para- 
mount or  NBC. 

"Mary  might  like  this,"  he  says,  and 
promptly  buys  whatever  is  for  sale. 

Sure,  these  are  little  things  we're  tell- 
ing about,  but  it  just  occurred  to  us 
that  a  good  many  people  seem  to  think 
comedians  know  nothing  about  romance; 
that  they  are  too  busy  being  funny. 

But  Jack  and  Mary  aren't.  In  fact, 
they  could  show  many  another  married 
couple  a  thing  or  two  about  true  love 
— the  kind  that  lasts. 


Glittering  with  metallic  embroidery,  gay  with  a  hat  as  snug  as  her 
own  coiffure  (with  metal  "side  combs"  carrying  out  the  illusion), 
Loretta  Young  has  her  coffee  with  Bob  Riskin  at  Hal  Roach's  party 


PHOTOPLAY 


CHOOSE   THE    BEST 
PICTURE     OF     1939 

Each  year  Hollywood   watches  for   PHOTOPLAY'S  Gold  Medal  Award. 
Here   is   your   last   chance   to  pick   your  favorite.    Vote  now! 


THE  votes  for  the  "Best  Picture  of 
1939"  are  coming  in  fast  and  furi- 
ously as  Photoplay's  Gold  Medal 
balloting  goes  into  its  third  and  last 
month.  All  ballots  must  be  received  on 
or  before  March  first,  the  date  the  polls 
close.  So,  if  you  have  not  already  sent 
in  your  selection  for  the  Best  Picture  of 
the  Year,  it  behooves  you  to  put  on  your 
thinking  cap  right  now! 

We  have  listed  a  number  of  outstand- 
ing films  to  assist  you  in  recalling  those 
you  saw  during  the  past  year.  This  does 
not  mean  you  are  limited  in  your  vote 
to  this  list.  You  may,  of  course,  choose 
one  which  we  have  not  included  here. 
The  film  which  receives  the  greatest 
number  of  votes  from  Photoplay  read- 
ers will  receive  the  famous  Photoplay 
Gold  Medal  Award.  This  award  has 
been  made  every  year  since  1921.  Look 
for  the  announcement  of  the  1939  win- 
ner in  the  May  issue  of  Photoplay. 

To  date,  a  number  of  pictures  are 
leading  the  race.  "Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips," 
"Dark  Victory,"  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to 
Washington,"  "Stanley  and  Livingstone," 
"Wuthering  Heights,"  are  neck  and  neck. 
What  will  your  choice  be? 

In  sending  in  your  vote,  you  may  use 
the  ballot  below,  or  simply  write  your 
choice  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  mail  it  to 
the  Gold  Medal  Editor,  Photoplay,  122 
East  42nd  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y.  It  is 
as  simple  as  all  that!  If  members  of 
your  family  or  your  friends  also  wish  to 
cast  their  votes,  they  may  send  theirs  on 
separate  pieces  of  paper.  Each  and 
every  vote  must  be  written  on  a  separate 
ballot,  and  be  signed  by  the  person 
casting  the  vote. 

DON'T  DELAY,  LINGER  OR  WAIT! 
VOTE  NOW  FOR  THE  BEST  PICTURE 
OF  1939.  REMEMBER!  THE  POLLS 
CLOSE  ON  MARCH  1ST. 


OUTSTANDING 
PICTURES     OF     1939 


Allegheny  Uprising 
Andy  Hardy  Gets 

Spring  Fever 
Another  Thin  Man 
Babes  in  Arms 
Bachelor  Mother 
Balalaika 
Beachcomber,  The 
Beau  Geste 
Blackmail 

Broadway  Serenade 
Cat  and  the 

Canary,  The 
Clouds  Over  Europe 
Confessions  of  a 

Nazi  Spy 
Dark  Victory 
Daughters 

Courageous 
Destry  Rides  Again 
Dodge  City 
Drums  Along  the 

Mohawk 
Dust  Be  My  Destiny 
Each  Dawn  I  Die 
East  Side  of  Heaven 
Everything  Happens 

at  Night 
First  Love 
Five  Came  Back 
Four  Feathers 
Golden  Boy 
Gone  with  the 

Wind 
Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips 
Good  Girls  Go  to 

Paris 
Great  Victor 

Herbert,  The 
Gunga  Din 
Harvest 
His  Girl  Friday 
Hollywood 

Cavalcade 
Honeymoon  in  Bali 
Hunchback  of  Notre 

Dame,  The 
Idiot's  Delight 
In  Name  Only 
Intermezzo,  a  Love 

Story 


:ica  Inn 
James 


Lady  of  the  Tropics 
Let  Freedom  Ring 
Little  Princess,  The 
Love  Affair 
Maisie 

Man  About  Town 
Man  of  Conquest 
Mr.  Smith  Goes  to 

Washington 
Ninotchka 
Nurse  Edith  Cavell 
Old  Maid,  The 
On  Borrowed  Time 
Only  Angels  Have 

Wings 
Private  Lives  of 

Elizabeth  and 

Essex,  The 
Pygmalion 
Rains  Came,  The 
Real  Glory,  The 
Rebecca 
Roaring  Twenties, 

The 
Rose  of  Washington 

Square 
Rulers  of  the  Sea 
Stagecoach 
Stanley  and 

Livingstone 
Stolen  Life 
Story  of  Alexander 

Graham  Bell,  The 
Story  of  Vernon  and 

Irene  Castle,  The 
These  Glamour 

Girls 
They  Shall  Have 

Music 
Three  Smart  Girls 

Grow  Up 
Tower  of  London, 

The 
Under-Pup,  The 
Union  Pacific 
We  Are  Not  Alone 
What  a  Life 
Wizard  of  Oz 
Women,  The 
Wuthering  Heights 
Young  Mr.  Lincoln 


PHOTOPLAY     MEDAL     OF     HONOR     BALLOT 

GOLD  MEDAL  EDITOR 

PHOTOPLAY  MAGAZINE 

CHANIN   BUILDING,   122   EAST  42nd  STREET 

NEW  YORK  CITY 

In   my  opinion  the  picture   named  below  is  the 
best  motion-picture  production  released  in    1939 


NAME  OF  PICTURE 


NAME 


ADDRESS 


JusvcuMe,!" 


whispers  this  perfume  of  you 

How  enchanting,  to  discover  for  yourself  a  new 
perfume  that  brings  out  the  most  lovable  you! 
This  "fragrance  of  romance"  intensifies  your 
femininity... It  whispers  of  mystery  and  caprice 
and  glamor.  Make  it  yours — your  own  special 
invitation  to  romance! 


^5^eo4fUj  i*u  |-^u^ 


BOURJOIS 


MARCH  ,      I  940 


S3 


Matinee  Madness 


Nearly  everything  worn  or  used  must 
first  be  designed.  Color  and  style 
influence  their  sale.  Industry  knows 
the  importance  of  good  looks  in  its 
products.  In  addition,  magazines, 
newspapers,  publishers  and  adver- 
tisers spend  millions  yearly  for 
illustrations.  The  artist  has  become 
an  ;.mportant  factor  in  industry. 

Do  you  like  to  draw?  If  so,  train 
your  talent  to  serve  industry.  Draw- 
ing may  be  your  surest  road  to 
success. 

The  Federal  Schools,  affiliated  with 
a  large  art,  engraving  and  printing 
organization,  has  trained  many 
young  women  and  men  now  capable 
of  earning  $1,000  to  $5,000  yearly 
as  designers  and  illustrators.  Its 
Home  Study  courses  in  Commercial 
Art,  Illustrating  and  Cartooning, 
contain  exclusive  illustrated  lessons 
by  many  famous  artists.  Practical 
instruction  by  experienced  men  is 
the  reason  for  its  many  years  of  out- 
standing success.  Courses  sold  on 
easy  monthly  payments. 

Send  today  for  Free  Book,  outlining 
opportunities  in  Art,  describing  the 
training  and  showing  reproductions 
of  students'  work.  Just  fill  out  and 
mail  the  coupon  below. 

KDTRAL~SCriOOLS,~lNc! 

3100  Federal  Schools  Bldg. 
Minneapolis,  Minnesota 

Send  me  your  free  book  explaining  Federal 
School  Art  Training. 

Address 


Age Occupation . 


erson 


al 


Yes,  very  personal  and  very  im- 
portant— this  matter  of  feminine 
hygiene. 

So  personal  that  we  save  the  details 
for  a  pamphlet  accompanying  our 
product  JABEL. 

So  important  that  we  urge  you  to 
send  for  JABEL  immediately. 
JABEL  is  a  scientifically  correct 
douche  compound.  Its  use  frequently 
helps  to  insure  immaculate  personal 
cleanliness  and  a  sense  of  protected 
well-being  ...  a  cleansing,  soothing 
powder  which  offers  a  safe,  easy  way 
to  feminine  daintiness  .  .  . 
Send  but  $1.25,  check  or  money 
order,  for  a  large  size  package  of 
JABEL  (approximately  50  douches) 
and  solve  your  own  personal  problem. 


TYRRELL'S  HYGIENIC  INSTITUTE,  Inc. 

152West  65th  St.,Dept.PP-30,  New  York,  N.Y, 


House  in  Cheyne  Walk,  London.    Wrote 
him  note  as  follows: 
Mr.  Laurence  Olivier, 
Ethel  Barrymore  Theater, 
New  York. 
Sir: 

Having  just  returned  from  Lon- 
don, Eng.,  I  have  an  important  mes- 
sage to  deliver  to  you  from  your 
landlord,  Mr.  Whistler. 

I  am  coming  to  see  your  play  next 
Saturday  afternoon  hence  will  be  in 
the  neighborhood  of  your  dressing 
room,  therefore  it  would  be  no 
trouble  to  come  in  and  deliver  the 
message  in  person. 

Thanking  you  in  advance  for  a 
favorable  reply, 

I  am 

Yours  truly, 
Jane  Lyons. 
(Put  stamp  on  up-side-down.) 

Will  have  to  dig  up  a  message.  I 
think  it  ought  to  be  something  about  the 
drains.  They  are  always  talking  about 
drains  in  English  plays  and  books.  It 
seems  they  never  work.  Also  will  have 
to  dig  up  $2.75. 

Must  stoke  up  on  information  about 
London. 

It  seems  there  are  fans  in  London  too. 
Read  that  at  Victoria  Station  they 
knocked  down  a  Mr.  Toscanini  trying 
to  get  Spencer  Tracy's  signature. 

Hy  took  me  to  Crescent  Roof.  Wore 
white  pique  which  is  sophisticated  when 
I  take  off  bolero,  which  I  did.  Had 
nails  done  white  and  wore  pearl  ear- 
rings which  add  months.  Hy  gets"  fu- 
rious because  I  don't  listen  when  he 
talks,  so  I  told  him  to  be  more  interest- 
ing. He  bought  me  gardenias  to  try  to 
make  up. 

It  came! 

This  morning. 

On  his  stationery!  In  his  very  hand! 
Signed  with  his  autograph!  I  shall 
guard  it  as  sacred  and  if  I  have  no  chil- 
dren I  shall  donate  it  to  a  museum.  It 
reads  as  follows: 
Dear  Miss  Lyons: 

I  am  eager  to  get  the  message 
from  Mr.  Whistler  and  shall  be  glad 
to  see  you  in  my  dressing  room 
after  the  performance  next  Satur- 
day afternoon. 

Sincerely  yours, 

Laurence  Olivier. 
The  stamp  was  diagonal! 

Called  meeting  of  Guiding  Stars,  Inc. 

Dispensed  with  reading  of  minutes. 

The  president  tried  on  all  her  dresses 
to  see  which  was  suitable  for  THE 
EVENT. 

My  checked  gingham  makes  me  look 
Myrna  Loyish,  while  the  blue  jersey 
brings  out  the  Priscilla  Lane  in  me. 
Adele  thought  I  ought  to  wear  some- 
thing mysterious  with  a  touch  of  deca- 
dence, but  I  haven't  anything  like  that. 
Mary  suggested  virginal  white  with  a 
bunch  of  violets  at  the  throat.  Per- 
sonally I  think  I  ought  to  have  a  new 
dress  for  the  occasion,  something  devas- 
tating, but  Mops  won't  listen  to  reason. 

Meeting  adjourned  to  dining  room. 

Saw  four  English  films  in  last  two 
days.  Got  a  book  from  library  called 
"London  &  Its  Environs"  by  a  K.  Bae- 
deker. Been  practicing  acting  older  be- 
fore mirror.    Also  slight  English  accent. 

Last  night  my  brother-in-law  to  be 
(or  not  to  be)  brought  N.  a  book  about 
Rocks  and  Minerals.  He  got  it  second 
hand.  I  showed  him  my  letter  from 
L.O.  but  wouldn't  let  him  touch  it  al- 
though his  hands  were  clean. 


(Continued  from  page  15) 

Later  Hy  came  and  we  went  to 
Brooklyn  to  see  "Wuthering  Heights." 
Hy  says  it's  positively  the  last  time  he's 
going  to  see  it. 

HELL  HAS  POPPED!!! 

Whatever  happens  in  the  future,  I  can 
at  least  say  to  myself  "I  have  lived." 

Must  get  it  all  down  from  the  begin- 
ning. 

Didn't  close  an  eye  all  night  Friday 
and  dreamt  he  kissed  me. 

Sat.  morning  had  hair,  nails  and  eye- 
brows done,  also  facial. 

Couldn't  eat  lunch. 

Wore  dawn  blue  crepe  and  a  corsage 
of  Sweetheart  Roses,  in  case  he  should 
happen  to  understand  the  Flower  Lan- 
guage. Couldn't  make  up  my  mind 
what  Conversational  Jewelry  to  wear, 
finally  decided  on  a  gold  heart. 

On  my  way  to  theater  felt  so  wobbly 
I  had  to  stop  off  for  a  strong  coffee  soda. 

Sat  in  first  row  and  could  see  every 
detail.  The  play  was  even  more  won- 
derful than  the  first  time.  He  is  the 
world's  greatest  actor. 

Just  hoped  Sour  Puss  at  stage  door 
would  try  to  stop  me  this  time.  Showed 
him  my  letter  and  he  let  me  in  at  once 
and  all  the  other  fans  were  green.  Fol- 
lowed S.P.  across  the  very  stage  where 
HE  had  trod,  and  they  were  taking  down 
scenery.  He  pointed  to  a  door.  I  took 
a  deep  breath  and  knocked. 

nND  there  he  stood  in  the  most  gor- 
geous shade  of  blue  shirt  sleeves  and 
his  face  was  all  shining  with  cold  cream. 

"Miss  Lyons?"  he  said  in  a  voice  just 
like  on  the  stage. 

"Mr.  Olivier,  I  presume."  (Of  course 
I  knew  who  it  was  but  didn't  want  to 
admit  it  too  freely.) 

So  he  asked  me  to  sit  down  and  if  I 
minded  his  taking  off  his  make-up  while 
we  talked  and  I  said  I  would  be  hon- 
ored. Then  he  closed  the  door  but  I 
could  see  he  meant  nothing  by  it. 

"So  you've  just  arrived  from  Lon- 
don?" he  said,  looking  right  in  the  mir- 
ror.    "How  did  you  like  it?" 

"It's  a  very  historical  city,"  I  replied. 

Then  he  asked  me  where  I  had 
stopped.  I  hadn't  prepared  that  one  so 
I  said  the  first  address  that  came  into 
my  head: 

"10  Downing  Street." 

He  turned  and  looked  right  at  me.  He 
has  lovely  eyes.  Then  he  asked  me 
about  different  places  and  was  I  lucky 
I  didn't  make  any  breaks!  He  asked 
what  I  thought  of  Piccadilly  Circus  and 
I  said  it  was  much  better  than  the 
Ringling  Brothers.  Then  he  asked  if  I 
had  been  to  the  British  Museum. 

"The  British  Museum,"  I  said  non- 
chalantly, "is  the  greatest  in  the  world. 
It  is  situated  in  Bloomsbury  and  en- 
tered from  Great  Russell  Street.  The 
nucleus  of  its  vast  contents  was  the 
Cottonian  Library.  It  houses  the  Elgin 
Marbles  and  the  Rosetta  Stones." 

I  could  see  he  was  impressed. 

"How  about  Mr.  Whistler?"  he  asked. 
I  knew  it  had  to  come,  but  I  changed 
the  subject  tactfully. 

"What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Olivier,  of 
the  Magna  Carta?" 

He  said  he  hadn't  given  the  matter 
any  serious  consideration  for  some  time. 
Then  he  put  powder  on  to  take  the 
shine  off  and  brushed  his  hair  back. 
He  has  the  most  beautiful  hair.  I  tried 
to  figure  out  how  I  could  snip  off  a  lock. 

He  came  back  to  the  message  from 
his  landlord  so  I  said  it  was  simply  that 
the  drains  weren't  working  and  some- 
thing had  to  be  done.  He  dropped  his 
brush  under  the  dressing  table  and 
couldn't  find  it  for  ages. 


Then  he  thanked  me  and  asked  me 
how  I  had  gotten  in  communication 
with  Mr.  Whistler  so  I  said  by  tele- 
phone. But  I  was  getting  nervous  so 
I  changed  the  subject  again: 

"I  think  you  were  wonderful  in 
"Wuthering  Heights,"  I  remarked  very 
casually.    "I  saw  it  seven  times." 

Then  he  asked  me  a  lot  of  questions 
about  the  fan  profession  and  I  told  him 
about  the  club  and  my  scenario.  We 
chatted  on  just  as  if  we  were  old 
friends,  only  in  an  English  accent.  I  was 
just  going  to  tell  him  about  the  dream 
I  had  about  him  when  there  was  a  loud 
knock  at  the  door.  He  opened  it,  and 
of  all  things!  It  was  the  most  humiliat- 
ing moment  of  my  life   (so  far) . 

THERE  stood  Donald,  in  full  uniform 
He  didn't  look  at  me  but  straight  up  at 
L.O.  and  saluted  and  said: 

"Sir,  this  lady  is  the  sister  of  my  fu- 
ture fiancee  and  if  you  harm  a  hair  of 
her  head,  or  besmirch  her  reputation, 
you  have  me  to  reckon  with  .  .  .  me 
and  my  trusty  men." 

Then  he  took  his  scout  whistle  and 
blew  a  succession  of  short,  sharp  blasts 
(meaning  rally)  and  in  less  than  a  jiffy 
8  scouts,  each  one  smaller  than  the  last 
rallied  round  .  .  .  Don's  whole  Patrol. 

I  was  so  furious  I  forgot  my  English 
accent. 

"You  butt  out  of  this,"  I  cried.  "Mr. 
Olivier  has  been  a  perfect  gentleman." 

Laurence  turned  to  me  and  bowed. 
"Thank  you,  milady,"  he  said  and  kissed 
my  hand.  Nobody'll  ever  tell  me  that 
dreams  don't  come  true.  Then  he  took 
Don's  whistle  and  blew  a  succession  of 
alternating  long  and  sharp  blasts  which 
is  the  call  to  grub. 

So  we  all  went  across  the  street  to  the 
drugstore  and  ordered  as  many  sodas 
as  we  wanted.  I  kept  wishing  it  would 
last  forever,  but  he  had  to  go.  He 
bought  me  a  box  of  candy  and  I  hap- 
pened to  have  my  album  in  my  bag  so 
he  signed  it,  as  follows: 

To  Jane, 
In  gratitude  for  an  extraordinary 

afternoon, 

Her  friend, 

Laurence  Olivier. 

I  noticed  that  the  boys  had  disap- 
peared and  I  thought  they  were  being 
tactful,  leaving  us  alone  for  our  fare- 
well.   But  no. 

One  by  one  they  came  back  and  each 
had  bought  an  album  and  he  signed 
them  all.  (Now  Nancy  will  keep  her 
mouth  shut  about  my  autographs.) 

We  shook  hands  and  he  said  he  would 
send  me  a  signed  photo  and  I  said  I 
would  write  him  every  day,  but  he  said 
it  wasn't  necessary.  I  said  maybe  I 
would  drop  around  again  sometime  if 
I  happened  to  be  seeing  the  show.  He 
said  he  was  leaving  the  cast  for  a  short 
trip  to  London  to  see  about  the  drains 
before  going  to  Hollywood  to  fulfill  an 
engagement.  It  was  a  terrible  blow. 
The  first  so  far.  He  said  no  doubt  Fran- 
cis Lederer  who  was  replacing  him 
would  enjoy  meeting  me. 

Then  he  said  "cheerio"  (I  always  say 
cheerio,  now)  and  I  said  "Remember 
me  to  Mr.  Whistler"  and  he  said  he 
would  and  he  would  be  sure  to  have 
the  plumbing  fixed. 

Before  I  could  ask  him  what  he  meant 
he  had  jumped  into  a  cab  and  was  gone. 

I  didn't  know  until  I  got  home  and 
asked  Mops  and  it  appears  that  "drains" 
means  plumbing!  Was  my  face  red 
down  to  the  ankles! 

And  would  I  like  to  be  under  the 
table  when  he  and  that  Mr.  Whistler 
get  together! 


r-A 


PHOTOPLAY 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


(Continued  from  page  66) 


Remember  —  for    the    name    of    the 
store    nearest    you    that    carries    the 
items  you  crave,  please  write  to: 
Fashion    Secretary,    Photoplay, 
122    East   42nd   St.,   New  York   City 


■  M 


M 


13.  DO  YOU  KNOW  ABOUT  "NIKKI"? 

"Nikki"  is  Orloff's  new  "burn-em-up" 
perfume  that's  setting  the  boys  on  fire 
and  the  whole  town  to  talking.  It 
comes  in  a  slick  drum  bottle  flanked 
with  the  imperial  eagles  and  sealed 
with  a  king's  crown.  Packed  like  the 
crown  jewels,  too,  in  a  beautiful  satin- 
lined  jewel  box.  There  are  three 
odeurs  in  this  royal  family,  "Nikki," 
"Gardenia  Russe"  and  "Carnation 
Imperiale"  — ■  one  more  sensational 
than  the  next,  all  priced  at  $10.00  for 
the  one-ounce  bottle. 


14.  BYE,  BYE,  RAIN  SPOTS 

Dona  has  thought  up  a  way  to 
spare  us  the  messiness  of  rain- 
spotted  stockings.  "Dona  Leg- 
ettes,"  they're  called,  because 
they  zip  on  like  spats  or  leggings, 
to  protect  insteps,  ankles  and 
calves — the  vulnerable  spots — 
from  cold  and  slush.  "Legettes" 
come  in  stocking  colors,  or  you 
can  wear  them  as  you  wear 
bright  gloves  for  a  spot  of  color 
in  your  costume.  They're  made 
of  "Neptone,"  waterproofed,  nat- 
urally, and  look  and  feel  like  silk. 
Nothing  bulky  about  them  as  you 
can  see — not  even  the  price, 
$1.50. 


15.  HAWAIIAN  UPLIFT 

You  can  make  your  bust-line  your 
best-line  with  Adola,  the  frivolous  little 
Hawaiian  brassiere  that  is  full  of  eye- 
appeal  and  does  a  persuasive  job  be- 
sides with  little  stitched  bands  and 
cleverly  molded  cups  that  support 
your  bosom  in  a  style  you've  never 
been  accustomed  to!  The  Adola 
method  is  original  and  new,  the  rib- 
bon shoulder  straps  have  adjustable 
buckles,  seams  are  concealed  and 
there's  a  dainty  lace  edging  besides 
for  extra  allure.  When,  if  you  please, 
have  you  seen  such  value  for  59c! 
And  you  can  even  have  long-line  bras 
if  you  need  them. 


16.  HELP  FOR  HAIR 

Have  you  found  your  first  grey  hairs?  Or  are  you 
a  fading  blonde  or  a  drab  brunette  in  search  of 
a  new  crowning  glory?  Here's  help  for  your 
hair.  The  beauty  parlors  have  used  this  magic 
for  years — "Clairol,"  of  course— done  over  for 
home  use  into  a  "Personalized  Clairol"  that  not 
only  gives  you  a  supershampoo,  but  tones  as  it 
tints  and  accents  the  current  color  of  your  hair. 
It's  $1.00  a  bottle — in  so  many  shades  that  there's 
one  that  was  just  made  for  you!     You'll  see. 


17.  DON'T  BE  A  GIRDLE-HITCHER 

Here  comes  Kleinert  with  an  antigirdle-hitching 
gadget  so  simple,  so  sensible,  so  super-super, 
that  we  wonder  no  one  ever  thought  of  it  before! 
Suspenders,  of  course!  Hitch  them  fore  and  aft, 
and  your  girdle  rolling  days  are  over.  50c  will 
buy  you  a  sleek  little  spindle-middle. 


18.  BEAUTY  AND  THE  BLUSH 

Where  do  you  suppose  sophisticated  ladies 
get  their  schoolgirl  blushes?  From  Louis 
Philippe  of  course!  They've  always  de- 
pended on  Louis  Philippe  for  dewy  lips,  and 
now  there  are  new  harmonizing  rouge 
compacts  that  blend  like  nature  itself  with 
all  the  famous  lipstick  colors.  The  compact 
itself  looks  so  much  like  a  jeweler's  gem 
that  you'll  be  proud  to  pull  it  out  for  re- 
pairs.   $1.00. 


beauty  is 
as  beauty 
does 


—  and  today  "does  " 
means  going  places  and 
doing  things  gracefully. 
Form  fit  gives  you  the 
"Scissors  Silhouette" — 
but  also  such  ease  of 
movement  that  you  feci 
and  look  "corset-free". 
All  Panel-Art  founda- 
tions have  been  inspir- 
ed by  Schiaparelli  and 
each  garment  bears  her 
personal  label  of  ap- 
pro val — your  guarantee 
of  fashion  rightness.  At 
all  the  better  corset  de- 
partments and  shops. 


Mfl-W 


f/.SO  TO  *I8.50 


MADE    BY, 


RMFIT   COMPANY  •  CHICAGO  •  NEW   YORK 


MARCH,      I  940 


35 


Stuck  at  a  bridge 

\^^T  party  with  a  real  ex- 

\~jfr^       pert  — it  was  grim.  Not 

\s  one   smile   did   he   break  all 

evening— till  I  fished  out  my 

package  of  Beeman's.  "Ah!"  says 

he,  with   a   longing   look,  "Beeman's, 

the  ace  of  flavors!"  So  what  could  I  do 

but  offer  him  some? 

"Thanks!"  he  said,  looking  happy  for 
the  first  time.  "I  can't  pass  a  flavor  like 
Beeman's !  It's  got  a  freshness,  a  tempt- 
ing tang,  that  scores  with  me  and  scores 
big!  Honors  to  you,  partner— you  hold 
the  tops  in  fine  flavor!"  — That  cheered 
me  up— and  darned  if  we  didn't  win 
first  prize! 


My  Friend  Fred 


In  his  own  home,  Fred  continues  his 
clowning.  He  does  a  wonderful  imper- 
sonation of  a  punch-drunk  actor;  his 
sparring  partner  is  a  very  bored  bull 
mastiff  puppy  named  Smokey.  Fred 
also  does  a  sensational  dancing  imper- 
sonation of  a  well-known  dictator.  In 
the  pool,  he  has  a  wonderful  time  amus- 
ing his  two  sons  by  walking  off  the  div- 
ing board  into  space.  He  races  them  at 
swimming  and  lets  them  "rescue"  him 
from  drowning.  And  I  remember  a 
time  when  he  happened  to  catch  his 
reflection  in  a  mirror  and  casually  re- 
marked, "Do  I  look  as  much  like  Stan 
Laurel  to  you  as  I  do  to  myself?" 

Away  from  his  work,  Fred  is  care- 
free and  fun-loving.  He  plays  lots  of 
golf,  usually  with  Randy  Scott  and 
David  Niven,  occasionally  with  Bing 
Crosby,  whom  he  once  framed  with  one 
of  those  exploding  golf  balls. 

THE  friendship  and  companionship  of 
Douglas  Fairbanks,  Sr.,  is  a  loss  that 
Fred  feels  deeply.  Fred  literally  idol- 
ized him  for  the  clean  entertainment  he 
gave  the  world,  for  his  passionate  love 
of  life  and  living.  One  of  Fred's  am- 
bitions was  to  find  one  gag  that  would 
fool  the  senior  Fairbanks,  who  was 
past  master  at  the  gentle  art  of  ribbing 
and  doing  magic.  A  caddy  had  a  purse 
with  three  pockets — each  pocket  sewed 
tightly  shut,  yet  the  caddy  passed  a 
coin  through  all  three.  Fred  got  very 
excited  and  bought  the  purse.  "I'll  bet 
Douglas,  Sr.  will  never  get  this  one," 
Fred  beamed.  Next  day  on  the  golf 
course,  he  tried  it  out  on  Fairbanks — 
who,  of  course,  got  it  immediately. 

His  loyalty  is  outstanding.  When 
M-G-M  interrupted  his  honeymoon  and 
persuaded  him  to  dance  with  Joan 
Crawford  in  "Dancing  Lady,"  it  was  a 
vital  step  in  Fred's  career.  Never  hav- 
ing worked  in  a  studio,  Fred  was  un- 
easy. Because  a  Broadway  reputation 
meant  very  little  in  Hollywood  in  those 
days,  Fred  wondered  if  the  gateman 
would  even  know  who  he  was.  Maybe 
they  wouldn't  allow  him  to  dance  his 
own  way.  In  fact,  the  whole  prospect 
really  frightened  him. 

There  was  a  publicity  man  who  took 
Fred  around  the  lot.  He  showed  him 
to  his  dressing  room,  the  make-up  de- 
partment, the  wardrobe.  He  accom- 
panied Fred  to  the  set  because  Fred 
felt  strange  in  a  strange  place.  Fred 
has  never  forgotten  this.  He  has  the 
chap  for  dinner  once  a  week,  brings  him 
gifts  from  New  York  and  Europe,  and 
remembers  his  birthdays. 

One  night  I  was  with  Fred  on  one 
of  his  rare  visits  to  a  night  club.  Fred 
excused  himself  and  made  his  way 
across  the  room.  This  surprised  me,  as 
Fred  always  asks  for  an  inconspicuous 
table  and  isn't  too  fond  of  dancing  in 
public  places,  not  because  he  doesn't 
like  to  dance,  but  because  he  thinks  he's 
a  bad  ballroom  dancer.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  returned  and  explained:  "I 
wanted  to  say  hello  to  a  man  over  there. 
When  Adele  and  I  were  kids  in  vaude- 
ville, he  gave  us  our  first  job." 

Fred  has  a  horror  of  being  wrong. 
He  hates  getting  mad  and  is  usually 
the  mild-mannered  person  he  appears 
to  be.  Comes  a  situation  he  believes  to 
be  right,  he'll  fight  with  an  overwhelm- 
ing amount  of  tenacity.  One  day  I  vis- 
ited him  on  the  "Castles"  set.  Fred 
thought  a  certain  scene  should  be 
played  one  way.  Director  Henry  Pot- 
ter was  of  a  different  opinion.  Fred 
won  his  point. 

Later,  when  we  started  work  on 
"Broadway  Melody,"  we  passed  Potter 


(Continued  from  page  22) 

on  the  lot.  Fred  stopped  him  and  said: 
"Henry,  I've  been  meaning  to  tell  you 
this  for  a  long  time.  You  were  right 
about  that  scene  in  the  'Castles.'  I  wish 
I  had  done  it  your  way." 

IN  order  to  do  good  work,  Fred  must 
please  himself.  A  perfect  illustration  of 
this  happened  when  we  did  our  "Don't 
Monkey  with  Broadway"  number.  It 
was  a  corny  vaudeville  routine,  one 
that  could  be  very  unfunny  if  not  han- 
dled with  special  care. 

During  the  dance  there  was  a  gag  in 
which  Fred  was  supposed  to  give  the 
effect  of  planting  a  well-aimed  kick  in 
the  seat  of  my  pants.  We  tried  it  sev- 
eral times  with  Fred  faking  the  kick. 
It  looked  fine  to  Director  Norman 
Taurog.  But  Fred  began  to  pace  back 
and  forth,  saying  nothing.  Knowing 
how  Fred  punishes  himself  when  he 
isn't  satisfied,  I  suggested: 

"Why  don't  we  try  it  again,  Freddy? 
This  time  don't  fake  that  kick.  I  think 
if  you  just  let  me  have  it,  the  number 
will  look  much  better." 

Fred  instantly  brightened.  We  did 
eighteen  more  takes!  That  night  when 
I  got  home  I  ate  my  dinner  standing 
up.  Just  as  I  was  carefully  lowering 
a  black  and  blue  posterior  into  a  tub 
of  hot  water,  the  phone  rang.  It  was 
Fred,  who  hates  phoning  as  much  as 
I  do — so  I  knew  something  must  be 
wrong. 

"Did  the  number  really  feel  all  right, 
George?"  Fred  inquired  anxiously.  "I 
was  just  worried  and  wanted  to  hear 
you  say  that  it  did." 

"You  have  no  idea  how  it  felt!"  I 
reassured  him. 


MOVIE  BOOK  OF  THE  MONTH 

Last  month,  James  Hilton's 
"We  Are  Not  Alone"!  This 
month,  Louis  Bromfield's  "It 
All  Came  True"!  Next  month, 
another  literary  classic, 
equally     fine,      complete 

in    April    PHOTOPLAY  — 
don't  miss  it! 


Fred's  family,  his  mother  and  sister 
are  very  sacred  to  him,  a  situation 
which  has  given  rise  to  the  false  im- 
pression that  he's  unco-operative.  Mrs. 
Astaire  (after  seven  years  of  marriage, 
he  still  refers  to  her  as  "my  bride") 
does  not  belong  to  the  theatrical  world 
and  Fred  feels  she  should  not  be 
dragged  into  it  for  publicity  purposes. 
He  is  very  modest  about  his  children. 
When  little  Freddy  came  on  the  set  one 
day,  big  Fred  just  greeted  him  warmly 
with  a  "Hello,  Son."  But  there  was  no 
concealing  the  look  of  pride  in  his  eyes. 
When  Eleanor  Powell  and  I  raved  about 
the  boy,  Fred  blushed  a  little  and  casu- 
ally replied,  "He  is  a  nice  boy,  isn't  he?" 

His  complete  lack  of  professional 
jealousy  is  another  fine  Astaire  quality. 
The  average  dancer  guards  pet  steps 
within  an  inch  of  his  life.  During  the 
filming  of  "Broadway  Melody,"  Fred 
eagerly  tried  his  out  on  us  for  approval. 
We  did  the  same  with  him.  There  was 
never  a  single  argument,  which  is  not 
often  the  case  when  three  "hoofers"  get 
together.  Our  pal  Eleanor  is  another 
perfectionist  and  consequently  a  cinch 
for  taking  a  rib.  She  has  never  danced 
out  of  rhythm  in  her  whole  life.    Fred 


would  do  it  deliberately  and  then  ac- 
cuse her.  I  would  back  him  up.  What 
was  the  poor  girl  to  do?  But — just  let 
an  outsider  pull  anything  and  we  were 
all  for  one  and  one  for  all. 

Naturally,  after  so  many  years,  I  had 
no  misgivings  about  working  with  him. 
I  knew  of  his  tremendous  capacity  for 
work.  I  knew  he  would  expect  the  best 
of  everyone,  because  he  demands  it  of 
himself.  Beyond  that,  nothing  bothered 
me  until  the  realization  that  I  was 
working  with  the  two  best  dancers  in 
the  world  swept  over  me.  "Here  I  am 
working  with  the  King  and  Queen,"  I 
said  to  myself.  "Can  I  hold  up  my  end 
of  it?     What  happens  to  me?" 

So  I  began  to  do  a  bit  of  worrying 
myself.  The  first  day  we  rehearsed 
there  was  a  terrific  tension.  Fred  sensed 
something  was  wrong.  It  was  an  em- 
barrassing moment.  Then,  for  no  ap- 
parent reason,  Fred  started  a  hoofer's 
jam  session.  He  started  to  clown.  I 
joined  in.  In  no  time  at  all,  we  were 
just  what  we  play  in  the  picture — two 
hoofers  trying  to  get  along. 

Fred  himself  tells  an  amusing  story 
on  us  both.  He  called  me  one  morn- 
ing when  we  were  in  London  and  said, 
"They're  advertising  a  talking  picture 
called  'The  Singing  Fool.'  It's  at  the 
Marble  Arch  Theater  and  supposed  to 
be  a  novelty.  Let's  go  to  the  matinee 
and  see  what  it's  all  about."  We  went. 
Walking  home,  we  agreed  that  it  had 
some  possibilities.  "It's  a  great  nov- 
elty," Fred  said,  "but  it  will  never  last." 
I  heartily  agreed.  We  never  dreamed 
that  either  of  us  would  ever  appear  in 
a  "talking  picture" — least  of  all,  in  the 
same  one! 

I'VE  barely  begun  to  tell  about  the  As- 
taire I  know,  but  otherwise  my  story 
would  never  end.  I  would  have  to  tell 
you  about  the  Fred  who  isn't  a  senti- 
mentalist (so  he  says) ,  yet  who  keeps  a 
film  library  of  all  his  dances,  to  look 
back  on  some  day.  Then,  there's  the 
Fred  who  is  so  interested  in  breeding 
race  horses,  who  knows  every  horse  in 
England  and  every  horse's  grandmother. 
There's  Fred,  the  tennis  champ;  the 
fisherman  who  never  returns  without  a 
giant  marlin;  the  mighty  hunter  who 
shoots  his  weight  in  ducks.  There's  the 
Fred  who  keeps  up  a  correspondence 
with  a  former  valet,  now  hospitalized. 

There's  the  Fred  who  doesn't  think 
he  is  the  greatest  dancer  in  the  world, 
but  who  thinks  the  well-known  vaude- 
ville team  of  "Buck  and  Bubbles"  win 
that  rating.  Then  there's  the  Fred 
Astaire  who  brought  a  new  idea  to  the 
screen.  He  had  to  battle  all  the  tradi- 
tions of  making  musicals.  Since  the  ad- 
vent of  Astaire,  there  is  no  cutting  away 
to  a  close-up  of  "hot  feet."  Dancing  on 
the  screen  is  no  longer  a  gymnastic  ex- 
hibition. To  Fred  goes  full  credit  for 
making  the  dance  a  complete  picture 
within  itself. 

Above  all,  one  thought  predominates 
with  Fred.  He  has  always  been  a  gen- 
tleman. In  the  club  locker  room,  at 
home,  on  the  set,  in  a  producer's  office, 
Fred  is  always  regular,  always  himself. 
He's  known  poverty  and  he  knows  suc- 
cess. His  values  aren't  twisted,  because 
he  learned  one  thing  early  in  life — the 
importance  of  keeping  his  own  self- 
respect.  Therefore,  he  will  always  have 
it  for  others.  His  life  has  been  good, 
constructive  and  clean.  As  a  husband, 
father,  friend  and  one  of  the  greatest 
dancers  who  ever  lived,  Fred  measures 
up  to  everything  that  a  gentleman 
trouper  should  be.  He  is  a  great  tribute 
to  our  profession. 


86 


PHOTOPLAY 


he  makes  up.  "All  right,"  he'll  say,  "if 
I  haven't  done  it,  I'll  go  out  and  do  it. 
What  more  do  you  want?"  He's  ter- 
rific. He'll  get  a  reporter  all  steamed 
up  with  his  tales  of  adventure  and  after 
the  writer  has  scribbled  for  two  hours 
furiously,  he'll  ask,  "Is  this  true?"  and 
John  replies,  "Hell,  no,  but  it's  exciting, 
isn't  it?"  He  laughs  at  himself,  you,  the 
world — at  everything  but  a  little  two- 
year-old  girl  called  Julianna. 

Julianna  is  John's  baby,  his  love  and 
his  balance.  When  he  and  his  wife, 
Steffi  Duna,  parted,  they  worked  out  a 
plan  whereby  he  maintains  a  house  for 
himself  and  one  for  her  where  he  and 
Steffi  can  meet  with  the  baby. 

At  ten,  John  ran  away  from  home  in 
New  Orleans  and  landed  in  Houston, 
Texas,  where  he  pulled  hot  bolts  in  steel 
mills  and  fast  ones  on  the  side,  and  sold 
newspapers.  With  Barrett  Booth,  a  six- 
teen-year-old adventurer,  he  headed 
"south  of  the  border."  Later  they  signed 
on  a  freighter  headed  for  Singapore  and 
all  points  East.  He  came  back  on  an- 
other boat  as  assistant  cook,  and  again 
went  "south  of  the  border"  where  he  saw 
Barrett  stabbed  to  death  in  a  brawl. 

That,  for  a  while,  settled  him.  He  got 
a  job  as  porter  in  a  Houston  dry  goods 
shop  and  even  worked  up  to  floor- 
walker. "Could  you  tell  me  where  the 
corset  department  is,  please?"  cus- 
tomers would  ask  this  mountainous  lad 
from  the  wild  life  bureau.  His  mother, 
who'd  come  on  from  New  Orleans,  set- 
tled that  job  when  she  innocently  in- 
quired of  the  store  manager,  "Don't  you 
think  John  is  big  for  seventeen?"  They 
had  believed  John  when  he  said  "twen- 
ty-seven." So,  out  he  went  on  his 
Christmas  Carroll. 

This  time  he  caught  a  freighter  bound 
for  Honduras,  God  help  the  people,  and 
barely  escaped  a  waterspout. 

He  grabbed  off  bits  of  education  and 
did  a  bit  of  singing  as  he  roamed.  He 
had  one  semester  at  Northwestern  Uni- 
versity between  adventures,  then  he  hit 
Hollywood  for  the  first  time  and 
couldn't  make  a  dent.  So  he  went  back 
to  Florida  and  some  kind  of  deep  sea 
diving,  and  even  a  bit  of  steeple  jack- 
ing. Then,  strangely  enough,  he  was 
called  back  to  Hollywood  by  a  friend 
who  remembered  the  singing  giant,  to 
test  for  the  lead  in  "Hi,  Gaucho."  He 
passed  the  singing  test  okay,  but  they 
doubted  his  athletic  ability.  "All 
right,"  John  said,  "if  I  jump  out  this 
second  story  window  and  land  on  my 
jeet,  can  I  have  the  job?"  They  agreed. 
John  jumped.  He  landed  on  both  feet 
and  he  was  in  "moving  pitchers."  Later, 
his  part  in  "Only  Angels  Have  Wings" 
drew  the  attention  of  Louie  B.  Mayer 
and  led  to  John's  new  M-G-M  contract. 
"Congo  Maisie,"  with  Ann  Sothern  is 
his  first  big  assignment. 

He's  the  most  deceptive  guy  in  speech 
and  manner  in  all  Hollywood  and  do 
several  people  know  it?  He  likes  har- 
mony and  peace  even  if  he  has  to  beat 
the  living  daylights  out  of  people  to  get 
it.  In  that  melodious  soft  voice  of  his, 
John  will  say,  "Yes  suh,  Mr.  So-and-So, 
I  surely  will.  But  if  you  raise  your 
voice  again  like  that  I'll  have  to  mash 
your  chest  in,  suh."  And  he  will.  He 
has.  He  quietly  picked  up  a  guy  over 
at  RKO  studios  one  day  and  tossed  him 
out  a  closed  second  story  window  with 
the  same  ease  you'd  toss  a  ball.  Drapes, 
glass,  shades,  everything  went.  John 
didn't  like  the  way  the  fellow  spoke 
about  a  lady,  please  kind  suh. 

Life,  and  the  love  of  it,  lives  in  his 
heart  and  soul.  He  likes  the  kids  of 
Hollywood,  Rooney  and  Cooper,  because 
they  haven't  grown  pompous  and  stilted 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

and  important.  He's  a  pip  of  a  cook,  has 
a  room  full  of  guns,  and  is  even  invent- 
ing a  new  kind  of  gun  with  the  bullet 
following  a  light  beam. 

I  hope  John  doesn't  shoot  me  with  it. 
I  want  to  live  to  laugh  with  him  again. 
To  catch  more  of  that  gay  spirit  of  ad- 
venture that  is  so  sadly  missing  in  Hol- 
lywood these  days.  For  as  the  radio 
comic  says,  "he's  a  baaad  boy,"  but  a 
grand  one. — S.H. 

She's  From  Missouri 

"Now  over  here  is  where  Jesse  James 
once  lived,"  they  tell  visitors  back  in  St. 
Joseph,  Missouri,  "and  down  that  street 
is  where  Jane  Wyman  lived.  Only  we 
all  knew  her  as  Sarah  Jane  Folks.  It 
took  Hollywood  to  make  Jane  Wyman 
out  of  our  Sarah  Jane." 

But  then  they  should  see  what  Jane 
has  made  out  of  Hollywood.  It  hasn't 
been  the  same  place  since  that  pert  lit- 
tle Missourian  landed  in  town  to  be- 
come an  actress  and  became  practically 
everything  else.  She  became  manicur- 
ist, model,  hairdresser  and  secretary,  one 
right  after  the  other,  but  she  never  lost 
sight  of  her  goal.  She  landed  a  small 
part  in  "My  Man  Godfrey."  Jane  held 
on  to  that  bit  part  as  a  wedge  that  pried 
loose  more  small  parts.  And  those  parts 
led  to  a  Warner  Brother  contract  and 
good  roles,  right  up  to  her  latest  in 
"Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby." 

Out  at  Warners  they  call  her  just 
Wyman  or  Dynamite.  She  never  walks 
when  she  can  bounce.  Her  energy 
leaves  everyone  around  her  limp  and 
panting.  She's  a  blonde  cyclone  on  two 
small  feet  and  with  those  streamlined 
curves  she's  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 

But  it  wasn't  always  so.  When  Jane 
first  arrived  in  Hollywood  she  melted 
off  twenty -five  pounds  in  an  effort  to 
be  screen-lined.  And  what's  more  she 
came  out  here  to  sing.  The  singing 
business  began  when  Jane  was  attend- 
ing classes  at  Columbia  University  and 
someone  heard  her  sing  at  a  party. 
"You're  wonderful.  You're  a  torch 
singer,"  they  said.  That  settled  it.  Jane 
was  off  like  a  streak  for  singing  jobs  in 
Kansas  City,  New  Orleans  and  Chicago. 
She  never  sang  a  note  in  Hollywood. 
She  didn't  have  to.  Her  saucy  cuteness 
won  her  a  place  as  an  actress. 

She  has  our  vote  for  the  most  all- 
around  talented  lass  in  pictures.  Be- 
tween scenes  on  the  set  she  practices 
her  favorite  hobby,  sculpture,  and  she's 
darned  good  at  it.  Her  ink  and  char- 
coal drawings  are  sought  after  by  all  her 
friends.  Her  current  romance  is  Ronald 
Reagan.  Long  before  Ronald  was  aware 
of  Janey's  existence,  she  knew  he  was 
there.  But  Ronnie  had  had  his  heart 
bashed  in  once  and  wouldn't  look 
Janey's  way  for  a  long  time.  When  he 
did,  it  was  all  over  but  the  wedding. 

She's  a  chatterbox  on  an  interview 
and  in  two  shakes  of  a  lamb's  tail  con- 
fides she  buys  too  many  shoes  and  bags 
but  does  economize  on  perfume  and 
gloves.  She  averages  a  ninety  in  golf 
and  was  a  tennis  champion  at  school. 

She's  sure  she  could  be  the  best  act- 
ress in  all  Hollywood  if  it  just  weren't 
for  what  she  calls  her  "pug"  nose  and 
"quaint"  face,  doggone  it  all.— S.H. 

Peter  Pan  in  Long  Pants 

Burgess  Meredith,  the  philosophical 
George  of  the  film  version  of  John 
Steinbeck's  "Of  Mice  and  Men,"  is  Peter 
Pan  with  a  highball  in  one  hand  and  a 
copy  of  Karl  Marx  in  the  other. 

He  can  work  himself  into  just  as  much 
of  a  lather  over  sociological  arguments 


as  the  idealistic  young  man  he  so  viv- 
idly portrayed  in  "Idiot's  Delight."  He'll 
go  just  as  far  to  the  Left  with  you  as 
you  desire,  but  it's  quite  likely  he'll 
leave  you  hanging  out  there  on  the 
limb  while  he  romps  away  to  a  night 
club,  where  the  only  subject  under  de- 
bate is  whether  the  rhumba  or  the  conga 
requires  the  more  dexterous  derriere. 

He's  as  interested  in — and  as  proud 
of— the  installation  of  a  new  windmill 
on  his  Hudson  Valley  farm  as  the  size 
of  the  electric  lights  advertising  his 
newest  Broadway  stage  hit. 

Probably  his  usual  unpressed,  di- 
sheveled appearance  saves  him  from 
creating  the  effect  of  being  too  utterly 
nice.  His  manners  are  as  faultless  as 
they  are  friendly.  An  English  cleric 
would  envy  his  voice,  a  longshoreman 
his  vocabulary. 

Born  thirty  odd  years  ago  in  Cleve- 
land, Ohio,  "Buzz"  Meredith  first  un- 
furled the  banner  of  his  rebellious  phi- 
losophy when  he  stalked  off  from  Am- 
herst College  in  protest  against  campus 
snobbery  that  penalized  poverty. 

He  is  the  first  to  admit  that  he  wasn't 
much  of  a  success  at  any  of  the  several 
jobs  he  held  after  flouncing  out  of  Am- 
herst. He  sold  neckties  and  vacuum 
cleaners  in  New  York.  He  served  as  a 
reporter  in  Stamford,  Connecticut.  He 
worked  in  the  office  of  a  steamship 
company,  and  traded  his  desk  for  a 
berth  as  an  ordinary  seaman  aboard  a 
freighter  bound  for  South  America. 

When  he  came  back  to  New  York,  he 
knew  what  he  wanted  to  be.  The  one 
bright  spot  in  his  sojourn  at  Amherst 
had  been  the  prize  he  won  in  an  orato- 
rical contest.    Ergo,  he  was  an  actor. 

A  friend  of  his  knew  Eva  Le  Gal- 
lienne.  "Buzz"  secured  an  introduc- 
tion and  lied  about  his  previous  stage 
experience  convincingly  enough  to  win 
a  trial  with  the  star's  Civic  Repertory 
Company.  In  three  years  he  climbed 
from  bit  parts  to  the  starring  role  of 
"She  Loves  Me  Not,"  a  comedy  smash. 

It  was  his  tender,  imaginative  per- 
formance in  "Winterset,"  however, 
which  firmly  established  his  reputation 
on  Broadway  and  evoked  interest  in 
Hollywood,  where  Meredith  made  the 
film  version  of  the  Maxwell  Anderson 
play.  Sandwiched  in  between  his 
Broadway  triumphs,  Meredith  has  made 
two  other  films — "There  Goes  the 
Groom"  and  "Spring  Madness." 

Hollywood,  to  Meredith's  way  of 
thinking,  is  a  little  like  riding  a  roller 
coaster.  "You  are  jammed  into  a  vivid- 
ly upholstered  vehicle,  swooped  up, 
plunged  down,  swooped  up  again,  while 
places,  faces  and  events  lash  past  you 
with  centrifugal  fury.  Then,  when  you 
finally  coast  in  and  fumble  eagerly  to- 
ward home,  you  wonder  how  any  sane 
person  could  take  a  second  ride.  Even- 
tually, though,  you  catch  your  breath 
and  consider  trying  it  again,  provided 
you  can  get  another  ticket." 

Hollywood  has  another  ticket  waiting 
for  Burgess  Meredith  when  his  latest 
play,  "Young  Man  With  a  Horn,"  closes 
on  Broadway.  Whatever  the  vehicle  of 
his  next  roller  coaster  ride,  "Buzz" 
Meredith,  with  his  exciting  intensity, 
will  make  it  breathless.— W.M.,Jr. 

Culture  in  Calico 

Dorris  Bowdon,  quiet  spoken,  earnest 
little  intellectual  miss  from  Memphis, 
Tennessee,  has  just  about  made  up  her 
mind  that  she  is  the  "farm  girl  of  the 
20th  Century-Fox  lot."  In  every  one  of 
the  four  films  she  has  made  since  a 
talent  scout  discovered  her  two  years 
ago,   emoting   heavily   in   the   dramatic 


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school's  play  at  Huey  Long's  Louisiana 
State  University,  Dorris  has  been  cast  as 
a  calico-clad  farmer's  daughter. 

However,  for  a  chance  to  play  such  a 
part  as  Rose  of  Sharon  in  "Grapes  of 
Wrath,"  Dorris  Bowdon  would  have 
donned  burlap,  she  says. 

When  Dorris  Bowdon's  name  goes  up 
in  lights  in  her  home  town  of  Memphis, 
there  will  be  one  local  lady  who  well 
may  wear  an  "I  Told  You  So"  smile  of 
satisfaction.  Seven  years  ago  when 
Gladys  Crump,  daughter  of  the  Mem- 
phis political  nabob,  acted  as  class  his- 
torian at  the  commencement  exercises 
of  the  Technical  High  School,  her  class 
prophecy  was  headed  by  this  forecast: 
"Dorris  Bowdon  one  day  will  be  ac- 
knowledged as  a  great  actress." 

She  herself  chose  Louisiana  State 
University  because  it  was  reputed  to 
have  the  best  dramatic  course  in  the 
South. 

An  attraction  that  wasn't  in  the  L.S.U. 
catalogue  was  the  annual  trek  to  Baton 
Rouge  of  Ivan  Kahn,  talent  scout,  who 
saw  Dorris  in  "R.U.R."  her  senior  year 
and  sent  a  wire  about  her  to  Hollywood. 

There  were  two  other  Kahn  discov- 
eries on  the  train  that  took  Dorris  West. 
Mary  Healy,  with  whom  she  now  lives, 
and  Linda  Darnell.  Kahn's  scenario- 
writing  wife,  Jesse,  was  so  interested 
in  the  three  Southern  girls,  who  together 
mastered  the  Chinese  maze  of  tests  and 
tryouts,  that  she  wrote  a  picture  around 
them,  "Twinkle,  Twinkle,  Little  Star." 

Blonde,  hazel-eyed,  Dorris  was  a  lit- 
tle disappointed  she  wasn't  chosen  to 
play  in  it  but  Nunnally  Johnson,  pro- 
ducer-scenarist of  "Grapes  of  Wrath," 
her  current  best  beau,  consoled  her. 

"Lots  of  other  people  aren't  in  it, 
either,"  said  Nunnally.  "Why,  it's  the 
only  biographical  picture  on  the  Fox  lot 
that  Tyrone  Power  or  Don  Ameche 
can't  play!" — W.M.,Jr. 


Hamlet  in  a  Stove  Pipe  Hat 

It's  quite  confusing,  we  admit,  this 
business  of  the  screen's  two  Lincoln's 
of  the  last  twelve  months.  But  if,  hav- 
ing seen  "Young  Mr.  Lincoln,"  you  see 
RKO's  film,  "Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois," 
don't  make  the  mistake  of  thinking 
Henry  Fonda  has  suddenly  aged. 

The  screen's  newest  Lincoln,  who 
looks  not  unlike  an  older  Fonda,  is 
Raymond  Massey,  whose  previous  film 
assignments  have  included  "Drums" 
and  "The  Prisoner  of  Zenda."  Around 
the  New  York  night  clubs,  which  he  used 
to  frequent  last  year  when  he  was  woo- 
ing his  third  wife,  Raymond  Massey 
was  held  by  some  to  be  an  off-stage 
Hamlet,  aloof,  introspective,  a  bit  on  the 
somber  side.  It  seemed  somehow  fitting 
to  more  boisterous  Broadwayites  that 
the  sober  visaged  Massey's  stage  career 
should  have  begun  in  Siberia. 

Stationed  in  Vladivostok,  toward  the 
end  of  the  last  World  War,  as  a  captain 
in  the  Canadian  Army,  he  organized  a 
minstrel  show  in  which  he  himself  was 
featured  in  a  series  of  impersonations. 
Demobilized  in  his  native  Toronto,  Mas- 
sey remembered  his  success  in  amateur 
theatricals,  when  his  venture  as  a  sales- 
man of  cream  separators  failed  to  in- 
terest either  him  or — the  Canadian 
farmers.    He  decided  to  turn  actor. 

As  he  was  debating  the  best  approach 
to  this  new  approach,  the  tall  Canadian 
met  John  Drew,  veteran  star,  who  coun- 
seled that  he  first  tackle  the  London 
stage,  not  New  York's.  Five  weeks 
after  he  landed  in  England  he  had  his 
first  bit.  Five  years  later  he  was  the 
actor-manager  of  his  own  theater.  In 
between,  he  had  starred  in  several  Lon- 
don productions  of  Broadway  hits. 

It  was  as  Hamlet  that  Massey  made 
his  professional  debut  in  New  York  in 
1931,  and  Universal  signed  him  for  one 
picture.  Returning  to  New  York,  and 
|  the  stage,  he  did  a  compelling  character- 
'  ization  of  the  Yankee  "Ethan  Frome." 


Playwright  Robert  E.  Sherwood  was  one 
of  those  struck  by  Massey's  convincing 
portrayal  and  six  years  later,  when  he 
finished  his  Pulitzer  Prize  winning  play, 
"Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois,"  he  announced 
he  had  written  the  title  role  with  Mas- 
sey in  mind. 

New  York  went  quietly  mad  about 
Massey's  stage  Lincoln.  Hollywood  is 
equally  enthusiastic  over  his  film  rec- 
ording of  the  play. 

Massey  himself  is  not  given  much  to 
effusive  enthusiasms.  Laconically,  he 
reminds  that  when  he  was  first  men- 
tioned for  the  role,  there  was  criticism 
because  he  was  not  an  American. 

It  wasn't  until  the  picture  form  of  the 
play  was  in  production  that  he  revealed, 
in  answer  to  the  forgotten  protests  about 
his  Canadian  nativity,  that  New  Salem, 
Illinois,  the  boyhood  home  of  Lincoln 
in  which  much  of  the  play's  action  is 
laid,  was  named  for  New  Salem,  Massa- 
chusetts, where  300  years  ago  Massey's 
ancestors  settled  just  about  the  time 
when  Lincoln's  forebears  first  arrived 
in  America. — W.M.Jr. 


Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree! 

When  young  Dennis  Morgan  needed  a 
job  the  worst  kind  of  way — he  got  it 
that  way.  He  went  to  the  devil  for  it. 
He  did  Mephistopheles  in  "Faust"  and 
never  a  handsomer  Satan  lived  than  this 
young  man — and  he'll  be  first  to  admit 
never  a  lousier  one,  either.  In  fact, 
there  were  only  five  members  in  that 
"Faust"  troupe  that  toured  the  Chatau- 
qua  circuits. 

The  curtain  now  goes  up  on  what 
happens  to  young  people  in  Hollywood. 

Mary  Garden  had  selected  the  young 
baritone  for  a  role  in  her  Chicago  pres- 
entation of  "Carmen"  and  had  arranged 
for  him  to  have  a  Hollywood  test  made 
by  M-G-M.  They  liked  him,  signed 
him,  and  for  four  years  ignored  him. 
Now,  strangely  enough,  it's  not  the 
penniless  in  Hollywood  that  suffer  the 
most;  no,  it's  those  boys  and  girls  of 
distinct  talent  who  are  paid  small  sal- 
aries weekly  but  who  still  get  only  bits 
— and  very  few  of  those.  Break  your 
heart  over  that  one,  you  creative  people! 
Morgan  broke  his.  "What  must  I  do  to 
work?"  he'd  ask,  bitterly.  Finally  Para- 
mount signed  him  and  he  began  all 
over  again,  the  waiting  for  parts  and 
the  bitterness.  Eventually  Warners  saw 
him,  grabbed  him,  and  in  one  year  he'd 
made  five  pictures  and  has  those  three 
Musketeers  of  Warner  Brothers,  Cag- 
ney,  O'Brien  and  McHugh,  rooting  for 
him.  All  through  "The  Fighting  69th" 
they  cheered  him  on.  "Look  at  him," 
Cagney  would  tell  visitors,  "an  Adonis, 
a  singer,  and  an  actor  all  in  one.  He's 
terrific.  He's  going  places."  Cagney  is 
right.  Or  rather  Morgan  has  already 
gone  those  places  in  the  romantic  lead 
in  "Three  Cheers  for  the  Irish"  in  which 
he  wins  Priscilla  Lane.  Not  bad,  not 
bad  at  all. 

His  Scotch  dialect  as  the  handsome  big 
policeman  in  "Three  Cheers  for  the 
Irish"  comes  naturally.  His  mother  was 
Scotch,  but  his  father  ban  a  great  beeg 
Swede  from  up  in  Wisconsin,  a  lumber- 
man and  banker.  Their  son  fully  ex- 
pected to  be  a  lumberman  himself,  un- 
til the  bottom  fell  out  of  the  business. 
During  summer  vacations  from  high 
school  in  Marshfield,  Wisconsin,  he'd 
go  up  into  his  father's  lumber  camps, 
and  wield  an  axe.  Luckily  he  had  a 
voice  to  fall  back  on  when  his  hopes  of 
becoming  a  lumberman  faded.  With 
that  voice  he  walked  into  a  Milwaukee 
radio  station,  announced  himself  as 
singing  a  song,  and  did.  He  stayed 
right  there  as  announcer  and  singer, 
and  later  went  on  to  Chicago  to  do  the 
same  thing  over  the  national  networks. 
Later  he  sang  with  the  Chicago  Sym- 
phony Orchestra  while  studying  at  the 
Chicago  Musical  College.  He  has  yet 
to   sing   on   the   screen   but   those   who 


know  him  say  "Just  wait  till  he  does!" 
Every  morning  before  leaving  for  the 
studio  he  vocalizes  a  bit  to  the  com- 
plete astonishment  of  his  two-year-old 
daughter,  and  five-year-old  Stanley,  Jr. 
Daddy's  own  name  is  Stanley  Morner. 
When  he  was  in  high  school  he  fell 
in  love.     That  sweetheart  is  his  wife. 
Six  foot   three,   eyes  that   can  laugh 
again,  blond  hair  that  doesn't  grow  so 
much  as  ripple,  he's  the   triple   threat 
man  to  many  a  movie  hero.    For  Mor- 
gan has  what  it  takes,  and,  brother,  he's 
on  his  way. — S.  H. 


Young  Lady  of  Talent- 
— A  la  1940 


-Streamlined 


Ida  Lupino,  in  her  very  early  twen- 
ties, is  a  veritable  storehouse  for  life's 
experiences.  This  is  because  her  papa 
and  her  papa's  papa  and  his  papa  before 
him  were  actors.  No  family  of  actors 
are  so  well  known  in  England  as  the 
Lupinos.  Stanley,  Ida's  father,  is  con- 
sidered to  be  the  highest-paid  comedian 
on  the  British  stage.  However,  this  fact 
didn't  induce  the  British  stage  to  stag- 
ger Ida  with  gold  on  her  first  theatrical 
appearance.  It  paid  her  exactly  five 
dollars,  if  you  want  facts  and  figures. 
In  between  that  first  five  dollars  and 
her  role  of  Bessie  in  "The  Light  that 
Failed" — a  perfect  treasure  of  a  per- 
formance— there  is  much  to  tell. 

She  was  a  good  little  girl  who  studied 
hard  at  one  of  London's  best  schools 
until  she  was  twelve.  Then  Ida  calmly 
announced  that  she  would  begin  her 
theatrical  career.  Oh,  she'd  had  ex- 
perience, mind  you.  From  seven  on  she 
and  her  sister  Rita  had  performed  in  a 
small  theater  in  their  London  home. 
Directed  in  scenes  by  their  father,  the 
youngsters  had  to  learn  lines  and  busi- 
ness perfectly  in  order  to  please  a  crit- 
ical family. 

No  wonder  that  at  twelve  she  felt 
capable  of  going  out  and  getting  the 
job  of  extra  with  a  British  film  com- 
pany. She  kept  at  the  work  until  she 
got  leads  with  Ivor  Novello  and  Carl 
Brisson  and  she  finally  arrived,  in  1934, 
in  Hollywood.  That  was  a  trying  period 
for  Ida.  A  young  English  actor  named 
Louis  Hayward  called  her  "a  fresh  snit 
who  thought  she  knew  everything" 
which  so  enraged  Ida  that  when  he 
asked  her  to  marry  him  she  couldn't 
say  no. 

They  were  engaged  four  and  one- 
half  years,  for  Ida  contracted  infantile 
paralysis  and  marriage  had  to  wait. 
She  thought  a  lot  during  her  illness  and 
discovered  the  real  Ida  inside.  She  gave 
up  all  pretense  of  smartness  which  had 
been  assumed  only  to  hide  the  fright  of 
a  fifteen-year-old  girl  at  the  bigness  of 
Hollywood.  She  worked  for  Paramount, 
and  yearned  for  the  chance  that  finally 
came  in  "The  Light  that  Failed."  Bui 
she  didn't  waste  time  yearning.  She 
sat  down  and  wrote  music  so  lovely, 
the  Los  Angeles  Philharmonic  Orches- 
tra played  her  "Aladdin  Suite."  Later, 
Andre  Kostelanetz  played  her  music 
over  the  air.  Today  Ida  is  writing  the 
music  for  a  New  York  play  for  which 
Ralph  Forbes  is  writing  the  lyrics. 

She  paints;  is  simply  out  of  her  mind, 
about  lamp  shades;  can  tell  fortunes 
with  cards;  is  psychic,  and  reveres  this 
psychic  thread  between  herself  and  her 
father  in  London.  Each  seems  to  know 
what  the  other  is  thinking. 

Her  oval  face  has  piquant  charm,  her 
violet  eyes  are  far  apart,  she's  much  too 
slim,  has  just  completed  one  year  of 
marriage  with  Louis,  thinks  he's  mar- 
velous and  vice  versa,  loves  to  dance 
and  hopes  one  day  to  make  a  dancing 
picture  with  Fred  Astaire,  is  enthu- 
siastic over  $16.75  dresses,  looks  severely 
smart  in  her  clothes,  and  dotes  on  cats. 

She  may  do  a  stage  play  before  her 
next  picture  for  Paramount.  She'd  be 
terrific— S.H. 


PHOTOPLAY 


The  Shadow  Stage 


(Continued  from  page  63) 


it  THE  INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS— Universal 

I  HIS  involved  mind-shattering  mon- 
strosity of  a  plot  is  absolutely  fascinat- 
ing. You  see,  Vincent  Price  is  in  jail, 
sentenced  to  be  executed  for  the  mur- 
der of  his  brother.  A  doctor,  played  by 
John  Sutton,  uses  his  brother's  formula 
to  make  Price  totally  invisible.  Thus 
Price  escapes  and  the  macabre  quality 
of  the  film  begins.  The  story  leads  from 
mines  to  a  cabin  in  the  woods,  to  an  in- 
spector's office,  to  a  coal  escalator  with 
that  invisible  man  carrying  on  some- 
thing disgraceful  for  someone  who  can't 
even  reflect  light.  After  Price  has 
caught  the  real  murderer,  lost  him  again, 
gotten  drunk  and  nearly  gone  crazy,  the 
coal  escalator  sequence  occurs  and  he 
is  shot.  Weak  from  loss  of  blood  he 
staggers  to  the  laboratory  where  his  girl 
friend,  Nan  Grey,  gives  of  her  blood 
for  a  transfusion,  and  as  soon  as  those 
fresh  corpuscles  get  chummy  with 
Price's  transparent  hemoglobin,  guess 
what  happens.  Now  you  see  him,  now 
you  don't,  in  other  words.  Price  is  very 
active  and  all  the  others,  including  Sir 
Cedric  Hardwicke,  are  their  usual  ca- 
pable selves. 

OH,  JOHNNY,  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE— Universal 

In  this  slap-happy  picture,  traveling 
salesman  Tom  Brown  rescues  runaway 
heiress  Peggy  Moran  on  her  way  to 
New  York  and  then  the  fun  begins.  At 
the  point  of  a  gun,  gangster  Allen 
Jenkins  makes  his  getaway  with  them, 
and  they  all  end  up  in  a  tourist  camp. 
It's  a  crazy  trip  that  ends  well.  Betty 
Jane  Rhodes  sings  "Oh,  Johnny,  How 
You  Can  Love"  and  you'll  remember  it. 
Little  Juanita  Quigley,  with  her  pranks 
and  firecrackers,  adds  to  the  excitement. 

HENRY  GOES  ARIZONA     M-G-M 

rRANK  MORGAN,  in  this,  is  a  vaude- 
ville performer  who  inherits  an  Arizona 
ranch  when  his  half-brother  dies. 
Frank  goes  to  his  ranch  to  discover  the 
brother  was  murdered  by  a  gang  who 
wants  the  property.  Virginia  Weidler 
sort  of  bosses  the  ranch  while  all  this 
is  being  worked  out — and  there  you 
have  it.  The  film  had  two  directors, 
was  rewritten  several  times,  and  might 
have  been  better  for  the  two  roles  even- 
tually excluded,  which  would  have  of- 
fered George  Murphy  and  Ann  Mor- 
riss. 

CALLING  PHILO  VANCE— Warners 

IT  will  depend  on  your  conception  of 
dear  old  Philo,  most  elegant  of  private 
detectives,  and  on  your  personal  pref- 
erence in  "who-did-its"  (that's  a  little 
more  Photoplay  than  "whodunits," 
don't  you  think?)  whether  or  not  you 
like  this.  After  the  slow  beginning — 
it's  hard  to  understand  why  the  first 
reel  or  two  was  included  at  all — the 
piece  perks  up  and  has  quite  a  lot  of 
suspense  as  well  as  pace.  James  Steph- 
enson does  not  lend  the  title  character 
quite  the  savoir  faire  we've  come  to  ex- 
pect of  Vance;  half  the  charm  of  the  old 
boy  was  the  way  he  flicked  a  scented 
cigarette,  polished  off  a  chartreuse 
frappe,  struggled  into  a  Bond  Street 
lounge  jacket  and  crisply  caught  the 
murderer — however.  Timeliness,  at 
least  in  the  opinion  of  the  Brothers 
Warner,  has  been  injected  by  making 
the  mystery  have  to  do  with  the  selling 
of    secret    airplane    plans    to    foreign 


How  Well  Do  You 
KnowYour  Hollywood? 


Love  in  bloom — as  demonstrated 
by  W.  C.  Fields  and  Mae  West  in 
Universal^  "My  Little  Chickadee" 

GRADE  yourself  ten  points  for 
every  one  you  guess  right.  If 
you  get  sixty  or  less,  you  don't 
keep  up  with  Hollywood.  If  your  score 
is  eighty,  you're  doing  quite  well;' and 
if  you  have  a  score  of  one  hundred, 
you  know  as  much  as  PHOTOPLAY. 
Check  up  on   page  92. 

1.  Two    of    these    actors    have    por- 
trayed Abraham  Lincoln  on  the  screen: 
Basil  Rathbone  Walter  Huston 
Henry  Fonda             William  Powell 

2.  This  former  star  is  now  one  of 
Hollywood's  foremost  interior  deco- 
rators: 

Norma  Talmadge      Lloyd  Hughes 
William  Haines  Gloria  Swanson 

3.  Before  he  came  to  Hollywood  he 
was  a   professional  model: 

Richard  Greene         Ray  Milland 
Leslie  Howard  Fred  MacMurray 

4.  Only  one  of  these  actresses  is  a 
star;  the  others  are  featured   players: 
Binnie  Barnes  Anita  Louise 
Ann  Rutherford  Ann  Sheridan 

5.  This    producer    guided    both    De- 
anna   Durbin  and  Gloria  Jean  to  fame: 
Mervyn  LeRoy  Gene  Markey 
Arthur  Hornblow       Joe  Pasternak 

6.  He  met  his  wife  when  he  was 
singing  at  the  Cocoanut  Grove: 

Bob  Hope  Bing  Crosby 

Tony  Martin  Allan  Jones 

7.  His  new  contract  is  a  three-way 
one — -he's  now  a  producer  and  director 
as  well  as  an  actor: 

Adolphe  Menjou        Warner  Baxter 
Richard  Dix  Ronald  Colman 

8.  According  to  box-office  records, 
she  was  the  biggest  money-making 
actress  of  the    1939-40  season: 

Mae  West  Alice  Faye 

Shirley  Temple  Bette  Davis 

9.  And  he  was  the  biggest  money- 
making  actor: 

James  Cagney  Mickey  Rooney 

Clark  Gable  Spencer  Tracy 


He 


*as    once   a    circus    trapeze 


artist: 

Charles  Winninger    Randolph  Scott 

Chester  Morris  W.  C.  Fields 


powers,  and  Philo's  patriotism  is  sur- 
passed only  by  his  ingenuity.  Henry 
O'Neill,  Margot  Stevenson  and  Edward 
Brophy  carry  on  in  rather  hackneyed 
roles. 

A  CHILD  IS  BORN-Warners 

PRODUCED  once  before  as  "Life  Be- 
gins," the  intimate  drama  of  the  ma- 
ternity ward  is  brought  to  you  again 
with  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  as  most  im- 
portant prospective  mother.  She  is  a 
lady  convict,  allowed  to  leave  prison 
for  her  great  experience;  and  as  a  back- 
ground for  her  personal  story  is  a  tap- 
estry of  other  ward  cases,  some  glad, 
some  angry,  some  dismally  unhappy 
because  of  what  is  about  to  happen. 
This  version  is  long  and  without  enough 
pace  to  keep  any  but  strictly  senti- 
mental female  audiences  spellbound. 
Spring  Byington,  Jeffrey  Lynn,  Gladys 
George  and  many  others  complete  the 
cast. 

*  THE  EARL  OF  CHICAGO-M-G-M 

nT  least  Hollywood  has  given  out  with 
one  really  new  idea  this  month.  "The 
Earl  of  Chicago"  is  not  like  any  picture 
story  you  have  seen  before;  it's  an  ex- 
periment, and  that's  news  in  this  town. 
You'd  expect  Robert  Montgomery  to  be 
mixed  up  in  something  of  the  sort  and 
he  is,  playing  the  title  role  with  ob- 
vious enjoyment.  Story  is  that  of  a 
Chicago  gangster  who  inherits  a  title 
and  estates  from  an  English  ancestor 
and  goes  abroad  to  liquidate  them; 
there  he  encounters  tradition  and  leg- 
end, whereupon  you  are  enabled  to 
watch  the  conflict  between  the  man  as 
he  is  and  the  man  he  might  have  been. 
Edward  Arnold  plays  the  financial  ad- 
visor Montgomery  has  double-crossed 
and  who  works  slyly  for  revenge. 
There  is  no  love  interest.  We  think  it's 
a  grand  film,  with  Montgomery's  por- 
trayal a  piece  of  art  and  the  entertain- 
ment value  A  plus.  However,  if  you're 
superpractical  you  may  not  like  it,  be- 
cause you  may  not  believe  it. 

THE  HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME- 
RKO-Radio 

I  HOSE  who  have  been  saying  that 
Chuck  Laughton  can't  even  haunt  a 
dream  any  longer  must  draw  in  their 
forked  tongues  before  the  impact  of  this 
impressive  film.  .  .  He  is  the  hunch- 
back of  Victor  Hugo's  imagination, 
emerging  after  a  succession  of  boring 
incidents  as  the  pitiful,  colorful  idiot 
of  the  bell  tower,  who  found  in  his 
warped  soul  a  quality  called  compas- 
sion, which  made  him  one  of  the  single 
lights  feebly  shining  in  the  Dark  Ages. 
His  mask  is  overdone;  after  a  first  reac- 
tion of  sheer  misery  you  recall  your 
courage,  open  your  eyes  and  discover 
you  don't  believe  it  any  more  than  you 
do  a  child's  Halloween  penny-card- 
board-with-mustaches.  Victor  Hugo,  of 
course,  dipped  a  dreary  pen  into  dismal 
ink  and  his  portraits  are  necessarily 
grey  in  color;  you  must  force  yourself 
to  wait  until  RKO's  oversized  budget 
catches  up  with  itself  —  then,  along 
about  halfway,  things  begin  to  happen. 
Maureen  O'Hara,  brought  here  by 
Laughton,  is  pretty  and  Edmond 
O'Brien,  Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke  (villain) 
and  all  the  rest  give  excellent  accounts 
of  themselves. 

•  SWANEE  RIVER-20th  Century-Fox 

WELL,  of  course,  it's  really  the  Suwa- 
nee    River.  .  .  But    the    tune    makes    a 


TO  WOMEN 

AFRAID 


TO  DYE 
THEIR  OWN  HAIR! 

FOR  YEARS,  many  women  have 
been  afraid  to  dye  their  own  hair. 
There  have  been  many  reasons  —  fear 
of  dangerous  dyes,  fear  that  it  is  too 
difficult,  fear  that  the  dye  will  destroy 
your  hair's  natural  lustre  and  sheen. 
And  fear,  most  of  all,  that  every  one 
will  know  your  hair  is  "dyed"l 

How  needless  these  fearsl  Today 
you  can  buy  at  your  drug  or  depart- 
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with  a  money-back  guarantee,  that 
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to  use  —  if  you  can  comb  your  hair, 
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Although  Mary  T.  Goldman  Hair 
Coloring  Preparation  has  proved  itself 
for  forty  years  in  millions  of  cases,  we 
do  not  ask  you  to  take  our  word. 

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containing  both  the  gray  and  natural 
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you  without  charge,  and  return  it  to 
you  with  a  complete  free  test  kit  so 
that  you  can  make  the  same  test 
yourself  and  compare  your  results 
with  ours.  If  you  prefer,  you  need  not 
send  the  lock  of  hair  to  obtain  the 


lire 


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good  harmony  selection  anyway;  it's 
been  a  long  time  since  the  "42nd  Street" 
type  of  musical  gave  way  to  the  biog- 
raphy-of-a-composer  school,  and  now 
comes  one  of  the  best  of  the  lot.  It's 
the  life  of  Stephen  Foster,  who  wrote 
those  songs  your  grandmother  played 
on  the  pump  organ  in  the  front  parlor. 
Don  Ameche  has  the  main  role,  Andrea 
Leeds  contributes  a  romantic  interest 
and  Al  Jolson,  returning  after  a  long 
screen  absence,  of  course  plays  the 
minstrel  man.  Such  songs  as  "Oh  Susan- 
nah!" "Old  Kentucky  Home,"  "Jeanie 
with  the  Light  Brown  Hair"  and  "Old 
Black  Joe"  are  calculated  to  bring  sighs 
of  reminiscence  to  the  more  middle- 
aged  audience.  It  does  sound  a  little 
funny  to  hear  the  melodies  played 
straight,  after  what  Maxine  Sullivan 
and  Tommy  Dorsey  have  recently  done 
to  them. 

INVISIBLE  STRIPES-Warners 

WHAT  happens  to  you  when,  as  an  ex- 
convict,  you  return  to  the  living  and 
find  they  don't  want  you  any  longer  is 
here  graphically  portrayed,  with  George 
Raft  wearing  the  invisible  stripes.  The 
story  has  many  new  twists  and  Jane 
Bryan;  still,  they've  brought  in  the  weak 
younger  brother,  William  Holden,  whom 
the  embittered  George  must  save  from 
a  life  of  crime.  It's  not  a  pleasant  pic- 
ture but  none  of  Warners'  prison  films 
are.     Raft  is  good,  as  usual. 

•  ENTENTE  CORDIALE-Max  Glass 

QUEEN  VICTORIA'S  wayward  son 
"Bertie,"  who  later  became  Edward  VII 
of  England,  is  admirably  depicted  in  this 
admirable  French  film.  Victor  Francen 
does  the  best  work  of  his  fine  career  in 
his  role  of  the  elderly  royal  playboy, 
whose  love  for  Paris  and  all  things 
French  eventually  brought  about  the 
"Entente  Cordiale" — the  friendly  alli- 
ance between  England  and  France.  It 
is  a  wise  and  witty  picture,  which  man- 
ages to  sidestep  the  stiffness  that  so 
often  marks  an  historical  film.  This  is 
far  more  than  a  pompous  pageant  of 
famous  people.  Victoria,  as  faithfully 
portrayed  by  Gaby  Morlay,  is  a  crotch- 


ety, intrepid  old  woman.  Joseph  Cham- 
berlain (father  of  Neville),  Clemenceau, 
President  Loubet  of  France,  Lord  Salis- 
bury, appear  as  real  people  rather  than 
shadowy  figures  of  government.  Here 
is  a  picture  which  should  inspire  you  to 
reread  your  history  books,  and  give  you 
an  evening's  entertainment  in  the  bar- 
gain. 

•  RAFFLES-Goldwyn-U.  A. 

IT  doesn't  seem  to  matter  how  many 
times  Hollywood  makes  a  movie  of 
"The  Amateur  Cracksman" — it's  always 
swell  drama  and  tense  entertainment. 
This  is  the  fourth  try,  with  David  Niven 
as  the  suave  Raffles,  Olivia  de  Havil- 
land,  his  betrothed,  and  Dudley  Digges 
as  the  inspector.  You  remember  that 
Raffles  is  a  champion  cricketer,  sports 
hero  of  the  nation,  except  at  night; 
then  he  accomplishes  ultra-clever  rob- 
beries. Upon  meeting  Olivia  he  decides 
to  reform,  but  her  brother,  Douglas 
Walton,  is  in  trouble — so  Raffles  goes 
after  Dame  May  Whitty,  the  Lady  Mel- 
rose of  the  story,  and  her  emeralds. 
Everyone  does  a  good  job.  The  end  is 
confusing,  probably  to  please  both 
moralists  and  those  who  want  the  hero 
to  escape. 

EVERYTHING  HAPPENS  AT  NIGHT- 
20th  Century-Fox 

I  HAT'S  a  nice,  risque  sounding  title, 
but  there's  nothing  suggestive  about  the 
picture,  or  even  particularly  entertain- 
ing. The  public  is  going  to  get  mad 
any  day  now  if  Hollywood  persists  in 
taking  the  greatest  ice  skater  in  the 
world  and  keeping  her  in  ordinary 
shoes.  She  skates  only  once.  Further- 
more, although  completely  charming, 
Miss  Henie  is  not  a  really  good  dra- 
matic actress.  The  plot,  her  routine  tri- 
angle story,  has  the  usual  two  men — 
Ray  Milland  and  Robert  Cummings 
this  time — chasing  her  all  over  Switzer- 
land's icy  mountains.  The  entire  pro- 
duction is  glittering  and  pleasant  and 
empty.  Most  people  still  go  to  Sonja's 
pictures  to  watch  her  fabulous  genius 
on  the  ice,  and  probably  will  feel  a  lit- 
tle grumpy  about  this  substitute. 


CHARLIE  MCCARTHY,  DETECTIVE-Universal 

I  HIS  may  turn  out  to  have  been  a 
good  idea  It's  hard  to  say,  when  you 
like  Charlie  McCarthy,  Edgar  Bergen's 
wooden  Fortune,  as  much  as  we  do. 
Unfortunately,  the  idea  of  a  ventrilo- 
quist's dummy  (or  dummies,  consider- 
ing Mortimer  Snerd's  in  it,  too)  carry- 
ing a  weak  murder  mystery  to  success 
is  too  much  to  hope  for.  Of  course,  you 
can't  quite  expect  to  get  away  from 
whimsey  when  you  are  giving  person- 
ality to  a  doll,  but  Charlie  goes  a  little 
overboard  here;  it's  not  to  be  wondered 
at  considering  the  plot.  Constance 
Moore  and  Robert  Cummings  are  among 
the  film's  witnesses  to  the  antics  of  the 
debonair  Charlie. 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL— Republic 

nELIGION  is  usually  a  taboo  subject 
on  the  screen,  particularly  when  it  holds 
up  Catholicism  and  Protestantism  to 
view  in  relation  to  each  other.  This 
piece  does.  It  deals  with  a  Presbyterian 
minister  in  a  small  town  who  takes  the 
confession  of  a  murderer  when  a  priest 
can't  get  there  to  do  the  job.  Charles 
Bickford  plays  the  minister,  surpris- 
ingly enough  when  you  remember  his 
usual  roles.  We'll  leave  approval  on 
this  offering  up  to  you  and  your  atti- 
tudes on  good  taste. 

BARRICADE— 20th  Century-Fox 

IHE  up-and-coming  reviewer,  upon 
witnessing  this  interesting  but  confus- 
ing film,  would  check  with  the  produc- 
ing studio  to  find  its  history.  This  is 
exactly  what  we  did.  Apparently  the 
picture  was  done  in  hunks,  over  a  six- 
teen-month period,  and  consists  mostly 
of  retakes.  No  one  can  say  it's  a  good 
picture,  hodgepodge  that  it  is;  but  Alice 
Faye,  Warner  Baxter  and  Charles  Win- 
ninger  do  beautiful  jobs  with  their  ma- 
terial. The  idea  is  that  a  forgotten 
American  consul  in  China  has  his  sta- 
tion used  by  brigands,  a  reporter  in 
trouble,  a  girl  running  away  from  a 
murder  conviction,  etc.  The  consul  has 
a  lot  of  faith  and  ideals,  and  imbues 
his  guests  with  good  morals. 


Brief  Reviews 


COAST  GUARD— Columbia 

Not  a  new  plot,  but  entertaining.  Randy  Scott  is 
a  cocky  pilot  in  the  coast  guard  who  wins  Ralph 
Bellamy's  sweetheart  (Frances  Dee)  away  from 
him.  then  gets  himself  into  a  situation  from  which 
Bellamy  has  to  save  him.  Walter  Connolly  has 
a  small  rcle.    (Dec.) 


COVERED  TRAILER.  THE— Republic 

The  best  Higgins  Family  film  to  date.  Pa  (James 
Gleason)  wants  to  vacation  in  South  America,  but 
Ma  (Lucile  Gleason)  bungles  everything,  as  usual, 
and  they  have  to  sneak  off  in  a  trailer  for  their 
holiday.  What  with  a  bank  robbery  and  false  re- 
ports, things  go  rapidly  from  bad  to  worse.  (Feb.) 

*  DAY  THE  BOOKIES  WEPT.  THE— 

RKO-Radio 
Good  comedy,  with  Joe  Penner  at  his  best.  He's 
a  cab  driver  in  love  with  Betty  Grable.  His  pals 
send  him  to  buy  a  horse  and,  of  course  he  gets 
stuck.  But  when  Betty  discovers  the  old  nag  loves 
liquor — do  they  have  funl  And  so  will  you.  (Dec.) 

*  DAY-TIME   WIFE— 20th   Century-Fox 

The  old  secretary-wife-husband  triangle,  done 
very  entertainingly.  Tyrone  Power  is  at  his  gay 
best  as  the  erring  husband,  Linda  Darnell  registers 
as  his  wife,  Wendy  Barrie  as  his  pretty  secretary, 
Warren  William  complicates  the  plot,  and  Binnie 
Barnes  helps  to  straighten  it  out  again.   (Feb.) 

*  DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN— Universal 
This  honey  of  a  Western  has  Brian  Donlevy  as 

a  frontier  crime  king,  with  Marlene  Dietrich  as 
his  honky-tonk  queen.  Enter  Jimmy  Stewart  in 
the  title  role,  determined  to  clean  up  the  town  with- 
out shootin'  irons.  Festivities  are  also  helped  along 

[  by  Una  Merkel,  Mischa  Auer  and  Irene  Hervey, 
but   Jimmy,   Marlene  and  Charlie  Winninger  are 

I  something  terrific!  (Feb.) 


(Continued  from  page  6) 


DISPUTED  PASSAGE— Paramount 

A  forceful  melodrama  dealing  with  the  struggle 
of  a  young  doctor  (John  Howard)  to  choose  be- 
tween science  and  love  for  Dorothy  Lamour.  Akim 
Tamiroff  plays  an  older  physician  who  ruins  the 
romantic  setup.  When  Dottie  marches  off  to  China 
and  Howard  follows,  Tamiroff  must  decide  whether 
to  stick  to  his  guns  or — (Dec.) 

*  DRUMS   ALONG   THE   MOHAWK— 20th 

Century-Fox 

Claudette  Colbert  and  Henry  Fonda  are  at  their 
best  in  this  saga  of  the  heroism  of  up-state  New 
York  pioneers  in  their  fights  against  the  Indians. 
Edna  May  Oliver  is  superb  in  the  role  of  the  widow 
who  takes  Hank'  and  his  bride  in  when  the 
Mohawks  burn  their  home.  Well  worth  seeing.  (Jan.) 

•k  END  OF  A  DAY— Juno  Films 

Poignant  drama,  this  French  film  dealing  with  a 
group  of  aged  Thespians  living  in  the  memories  of 
past  triumphs.  Fine  cast,  headed  by  Victor 
Francen,  Louis  Jouvet  and  Michel  Simon.  (Jan.) 

*  ESPIONAGE  AGENT— Warners 

Full  of  thrills,  and  sufficiently  timely  to  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end.  Joel  McCrea  is  the  Nemesis 
of  spies.  He  marries  one  (Brenda  Marshall)  and 
when  what  she's  done  catches  up  with  her,  Joel 
resigns  his  post  to  help  her  run  down  the  ringleader 
George  Bancroft,  Jeffrey  Lynn  and  others  com- 
plete the  cast.  (Dec.) 

EVERYBODY'S  HOBBY— Warners 

A  new  family-cycle  picture — with  stamp-col- 
lector Irene  Rich  the  mother  of  a  family  of  hobby- 
ists. Daughter  Jean  Sharon  collects  photograph 
records;  brother  Jackie  Moran  is  an  amateur  radio 
bug;  father  Henry  O'Neill  is  a  camera  fiend.  Fun 
for  juveniles.  (Nov.) 

FAST  AND  FURIOUS— M-G-M 

A  murder  mystery  built  around  a  beauty  pageant, 
with  bathing  beauties,  a  lion-taming  act  and  villains 
bumping  people  off.  Ann  Sothern  plays  Franchot 


FIGHT  FOR  PEACE.  THE— Warwick- 
Monogram 
A  medley  of  authentic  newsreels  and  graphic 
cartoons  issued  for  the  purpose  of  promoting 
anti-war  sentiment.  Its  fragmentary  record  of 
dying  monarchies  and  flourishing  dictatorships, 
from  the  cause  of  the  First  World  War  up  to  the 
eve  of  the  present  conflict  is  well  worth  seeing.  (Dec.) 

*  FIRST   LOVE— Universal 

What  this  lacks  in  suspense,  it  makes  up  in  gaiety 
and  charm.  Deanna  Durban  plays  a  modern 
Cinderella;  her  Prince  Charming  is  new  Bob  Stack; 
the  servants,  her  collective  Fairy  Godmother. 
Leatrice  Joy,  as  her  screwy  aunt;  Helen  Parrish,  as 
the  meany  cousin;  Eugene  Pallette,  as  the  uncle 
(and  good),  and  Kathleen  Howard,  as  the  eccentric 
schoolmarm  add  to  the  film's  liveliness.    (Jan.) 

FIVE  LITTLE  PEPPERS  AND  HOW  THEY 
GREW— Columbia 

Maybe  you  loved  the  Peppers  when  you  were 
six,  but  this  is  a  bit  thick  for  adults.  Edith  Fellows, 
Clarence  Kolb  and  Dorothy  Peterson  follow  the 
script  dutifully.  All  the  Little  Peppers  are  so 
virtuous,  and  this  has  the  expected  effect  on  a 
meanie  when  he  is  quarantined  in  their  house.  (Dec.) 

FLYING  DEUCES.  THE— RKO-Radio 

Laurel  and  Hardy  are  up  to  their  old  tricks — this 
time  as  enlistees  of  the  Foreign  Legion.  It's  all  slap- 
stick. Jean  Parker  and  Reggie  Gardiner  add  to  the 
cast.    (Jan.) 

FOUR   WIVES— Warners 

The  Lane  sisters  and  Gale  Page  carry  on  the  plot 
of  "Four  Daughters,"  but  it  isn't  as  good  this  time. 
Priscilla,  widowed  by  John  Garfield,  discovers  she's 
going  to  have  his  baby— after  marrying  Jeffrey 
Lynn.  Rosemary  pursues  newcomer  Eddie  Albert, 
and  the  others  (including  May  Robson  and  Claude 
Rains)  have  their  original  roles.  (Feb.) 


90 


PHOTOPLAY 


GERONIMO!— Paramount 

Nicely  authentic  in  lot-ling,  this  is  the  story  of 
the  cruel  Apache  Indian  chief  who  ravaged  the 
in  bygone  days.  Ralph  Morgan  is  the 
who  sots  out  to  fight  Goronimo  (Chief 
Thundercloud).  Bill  Henry  is  his  son  from  West 
Point.  There  isn't  much  personal  story,  but  there's 
a  riot  of  action.  {Feb.) 

if  GONE  WITH  THE  WIND— Selznick- 
M-G-M 

So  magnificent  is  this  re-creation  of  the  modern 
lu>ut  the  Civil  War's  effect  on  the  South 
that  it  would  take  volumes  to  review  it  adequately. 
In  brief:  Full  justice  has  boon  done  the  novel. 
Clark  Cable  IS  Rhell.  Vivien  Leigh  is  magnificent 
I.  Olivia  do  Havilland  does  her  host  work 
as  Melanie.  Leslie  Howard  (Ashley)  and  the  others 
fulfill  all  expectations.  The  whole  film  is  overwhelm- 
ing, oven  to  the  finest  Technicolor  yet.   (Feb.) 

if  GREAT  VICTOR  HERBERT,  THE— 
Paramount 

With  that  music — and  plenty  of  it — how  could  it 
fail  to  please?  Not  a  biography  of  the  composer 
(Walter  Connolly),  but  the  love  story  of  two  of  his 
stars,  fictional  characters  played  by  Allan  Jones 
and  Mary  Martin.  They're  both  great,  in  voice  and 
acting— as  is  young  Susanna   Foster.   (Feb.) 

if  GREEN  HELL— Universal 

Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.  is  exploring  the  South 
American  jungle  for  Inca  treasure  when  Joan 
Bennett,  widow  of  one  of  his  men.  arrives.  Between 
the  struggle  over  this  one  pretty  girl  in  a  group  of 
rough  men  (grand  actors  all)  and  Indian  hostiles, 
everybody   has  a  most  exciting  time.     (.Feb.) 

if  GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS— Fleischer- 
Paramount 

Sweet  music  and  the  still-pungent  satire  of  the 
original  Jonathan  Swift  classic  are  only  two  of  the 
many  virtues  of  this  full-length  animated  color 
Cartoon.  Story,  of  course,  is  that  of  Gulliver,  ship- 
wrecked among  six-inch-high  Lilliputians,  and 
how  he  settles  their  foolish  little  war  -with  a  Lilli- 
putian romance  thrown  in  for  good  measure.  (Feb.) 

if  HARVEST— Marcel  Pagnol 

Depth  of  spirit  and  soundness  of  characteriza- 
tion highlight  this  French  glorification  of  the 
ife.  Gabriel  Gabrio  is  a  tanner  who  remains 
faithful  to  the  good  earth  and  becomes  almost  a 
hermit,  until  Orane  Dcmazis  joins  him  and  they 
prove  what  honest  labor  can  accomplish.   (Feb.) 

HERE  I  AM  A  STRANGER— 20th  Century- 
Fox 
Richard  Greene  and  Richard  Dix  combine 
talents  here  and  both  are  good.  Greene,  raised 
by  his  mother  and  stepfather,  meets  his  real  father. 
The  piece  is  the  emotional  adjustment  of  the  two. 
Glady-  George  plays  the  mother.  (Dec.) 

HERO  FOR  A  DAY— Universal 

Charley  Grapewin,  ex-football  star  and  now  a 
night  watchman,  is  used  for  a  publicity  stunt  by 
his  alma  mater.  He  become-  a  male  "Apple  Annie.'' 
Meanwhile,  Dick  For.,n  carries  the  ball,  and  lovely 
Anita  Louise  falls  in  love  with  him.   (Dec.) 

if  HIS  GIRL   FRIDAY— Columbia 

Ultra-modern  version  of  "The  Front  Page,"  with 
Rosalind  Russell  as  an  ace  reporter,  divorced  from 
editor  Cary  Grant.  His  attempts  to  keep  her  on 
the  job  with  exciting  assignments  —  and  from 
marrying  Ralph  Bellamy  —  create  complications. 
but  it's  the  witty  performances  which  put  this 
over.  (Feb.) 


if  HOLLYWOOD  CAVALCADE— 20th 
Century-Fox 

A  gay  history  of  movieland,  told  in  terms  of 
drama  and  slapstick,  rainbowed  by  Technicolor 
and  gorgeously  acted  throughout.  A  would-be  di- 
rector, Don  Ameche.  discovers  a  would-be  star, 
Alice  Faye,  and  brings  her  to  Hollywood.  She  falls 
in  love  with  him,  but  marries  Alan  Curtis.  The 
tangle  of  their  love  serves  as  a  plot  on  which  to 
hang  such  milestones  as  the  Keystone  Kops  and 
Sennett   Bathing  Beauties.  See  it.   (Dec.) 

•  HONEYMOON  IN  BALI— Paramount 

This  lias  color  and  glamour,  and  Fred  MacMur- 
ray  and  Madeleine  Carroll  on  a  South  Sea  Island. 
You  see.  Madeleine  is  a  business  woman  content 
with  her  unromantic  lot  until  earthy  Mr.  Mac- 
Murray  comes  along.  Then  Sex,  a  la  Tropics, 
intrudes.  You'll  like  Helen  Broderick  and  little 
Carolyn  Lee,  too.   (Dec.) 


HONEYMOON'S  OVER,  THE— 20th  Century- 
Fox 
Stuart  Erwin  and  Marjorie  Weaver  are  teamed 
in  this  unassuming  but  brisk  and  often  amus- 
ing film.  The  two,  as  newlyweds,  go  into  debt  try- 
ing to  keep  up  with  the  country-club  set,  with  re- 
sultant situations  straight  from  life.  (Feb.) 

HOUSEKEEPER'S  DAUGHTER,  THE— 
Roach-U.A. 

A  rich  boy  who  turns  reporter  accidentally  un- 
covers a  gangster  murder.  Joan  Bennett  is  his 
housekeeper's  offspring  and  despite  the  fact  she  is 
a  reformed  moll,  she  gets  the  hero.  Adolphe 
Menjou    and    John    Hubbard    try    hard.     (Dec.) 

if  INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY— Warners 

Smash-bang  entertainment  in  which  Pat  O'Brien 
is  cast  as  a  cocky  racing  driver  who  wants  to  help 
his  kid  brother,  John  Payne,  at  the  racing  game,  but 
gets  mad  at  him  when  he  falls  for  Ann  Sheridan. 
There's  an  accidental  killing  when  Pat  gets  drunk, 
and  some  wonderful  racing  shots.    (Jan.) 

•  INTERMEZZO,  A  LOVE  STORY— 
Selznick  International 
This  is  art  in  the  cinema.  It's  a  love  interlude  in 
the  lives  of  concert  pianist  Ingrid   Bergman   (new 
to    our    screen    and    strangely    compelling)     and 
violinist  Leslie  Howard.  Edna  Best  plays  the  wife 


whom     Leslie   leaves   for   his   romantic   idyl    with 
Ingrid.  There's  charm  to  the  story.  (Dec.) 

JOE  AND  ETHEL  TURP  CALL  ON  THE 
PRESIDENT— M-G-M 
Jot  (William  Gargan)  and  Ethel  (Ann  Sothern) 
get  pretty  mad  when  their  veteran  postman  gets 
fired,  so  they  go  right  to  Washington  to  protest. 
It's  a  bit  dull  in  spots,  but  Lewis  Stone  is  swell 
as  the  President  and  Annie's  great,  too.  First  of  a 
new  series.'  (Feb.) 

if  JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON— M-G-M 

This  scries  gets  better  with  each  new  chapter. 
Mickey  Rooney  finds  himself  in  difficulties  when  he 
is  too  cocksure  of  winning  a  cash  prize  for  an  essay. 
But  financial  disaster  is  averted  when  he  finds  the 
missing  daughter  of  his  father's  client.  Martha 
O'DriscoIl,  a  new  character,  is  good,  and  you  know 
what  to  expect  from  Mickey  and  Lewis  Stone.  (Jan.) 

KATI  A— Mayer-Burstyn 

There's  little  dramatic  punch  in  this  story  which 
traces  the  devotion  of  Czar  Alexander  11  (John 
Loder)  for  his  mistress,  the  Princess  Kalia  (Dan- 
ielle Darrieux),  who  finally  becomes  his  wife;  how- 
ever, pictorially  speaking,  this  French  film  is  beauti- 
ful. Marie  Helene  Daste,  as  the  ailing  Czarina, 
dominates  every  scene  she  is  in.  (Dec.) 


KID  NIGHTINGALE— Warner 

This  singing  John  Payne  really  looks  promising. 
Here  he's  a  prize  fighter  who  warbles  when  he  isn't 
lighting.  Walter  Catlett,  fight  manager,  takes  him 
in  hand  and  leads  him  at  last  to  a  chance  at  the 
championship.  Jane  Wyman  furnishes  the  romantic 
interest.  Action  flies  along  at  a  fancy  pace.  (Dec.) 

LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS— Paramount 

Another  Hopalong  Cassidy,  in  which  Bill  Boyd  is 
assigned  to  deliver  cattle  in  South  America,  and  un- 
covers two  murders  en  route.  There's  romance  in 
the  person  of  Steffi  Duna.  Sidney  Blackmer  and 
Pedro  de  Cordoba  help  a  lot.     (Jan.) 


LEGION  OF  THE  LAWLESS— RKO-Radio 

With  the  usual  business  about  a  lawless  town,  a 
horde  of  vigilantes,  and  a  pretty  girl  (Virginia 
Vale),  this  latest  George  O'Brien  Western  turns  out 
to  be  topnotch,  full  of  pace  and  excitement.  (Feb.) 


LITTLE  ACCIDENT— Universal 

Baby  Sandy's  awfully  cute,  but  not  cute  enough 
to  carry  this.  Hugh  Herbert  is  cast  as  a  baby- 
columnist  of  a  newspaper  and  finds  Sarrdy  aban- 
doned in  his  office.  This  leads  to  a  contest,  in  which 
Sandy  is  entered.    (Jan.) 

MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN— RKO-Radio 

If  you  like  a  homey  film,  this  is  your  dish.  Jean 
I  hi -holt  plays  the  village  practitioner  who  heals 
with  word  as  well  as  pill.  In  the  first  of  thi-  series, 
lie's  trying  to  establish  a  hospital  in  the  town. 
Marcia  Mae  Jones,  Jackie  Moran,  Dorothy  Lovett, 
Robert  Baldwin  and  Paul  Harvey  support.    (Jan.) 

MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE— Monogram 

Based  on  a  Colorado  prison  riot  of  1929.  Charles 
Bickford  play-  a  priest  who  sacrifices  self  for  un- 
fortunate criminals.  Dennis  Moore  and  Barton 
MacLane  do  especially  good  work.    (Jan.) 

NICK  CARTER,  MASTER  DETECTIVE— 
M-G-M 
— or.  Dime  Novel  Hero  Comes  to  the  Screen  at 
La-t.  Walter  Pidgeon  plays  the  title  role  and  tracks 
down  the  missing  rocket-ship  blueprints,  while 
Rita  Johnson  flies  the  plane  for  him.  after  a  terrific 
gun  battle  in  the  desert.  (Feb.) 

NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS,  THE— Paramount 

Lugubrious  Laugh-Clown-Laugh  story  with  Pat 
O'Brien  playing  Pagliacci  so  his  little  girl,  Olympe 
Bradna,  won't  know  how  low  he's  sunk.  Pretty  good 
until  the  last  half,  when  it  bogs  down  with  its  own 
pathos.  (Feb.) 

if  OF  MICE  AND  MEN— Roach-U.A. 

John  Steinbeck's  wormwood-and-sugar  story  re- 
mains gripping  despite  censorship.  Burgess 
Meredith  is  George,  the  wandering  ranch  worker 
who  befriends  poor  Lennic.  i  Lon  Chaney,  Jr.) — 
who  doesn't  know  his  own  strength  and  winds  up  a 
murderer.  They're  swell,  and  so  are  Charles  Bick- 
ford and  Bob  Steele.   (Feb.) 

$1,000  A  TOUCHDOWN— Paramount 

There's  no  sense  to  this,  but  it's  funny.  Martha 
Raye's  broke,  sells  her  house  to  keep  the  college 
open,  discovers  Joe  E.  Brown,  descendant  of  a  long 
line  of  actors,  so  she  turns  the  place  into  a  dramatic 
school,  starts  a  football  team  and  puts  claustro- 
phobic Joe  in  it.  Guess  who  wins.  (Dec.) 

ON  YOUR  TOES— Warners 

Broadway's  musical  suffers  as  filmfare.  Eddie 
Albert  plays  the  hoofer  who  writes  a  great  American 
Ballet,  joins  up  with  a  traveling  Russian  company 
and  falls  for  the  premiere  danseuse,  Zorina.  The 
ballets  are  delightful.    (Jan.) 

OUR  NEIGHBORS,  THE  CARTERS— 
Paramount 

More  small-town  melodrama,  with  Mr.  Average 
Citizen  having  his  troubles  keeping  a  family  to- 
gether. Frank  Craven  and  Fay  Bainter  carry  the 
burden  of  the  story.  Edmund  Lowe,  Genevieve 
Tobin  and  others  carry  on. 

PACK  UP  YOUR  TROUBLES— 20th 
Century-Fox 
Time:  The  last  World  War.  Place:  France.  Plot: 
The  Ritz  Brothers,  a  vaudeville  team,  unable  to 
get  bookings  because  of  their  German  name,  join 
the  army.  In  France  they  team  up  with  Jane 
Withers,  whose  father,  Joseph  Schildkraut,  is  a 
spy.  There's  bombing  and  blasting— but  little 
entertainment  value  here.  (Dec.) 

PRIDE  OF  THE  BLUEGRASS— Warners 

This  is  the  story  of  a  blind  horse,  but  added  to  the 
pathos  there's  laughter  and  warm  sentimentality. 


Edith    Fellows,    James    McCallion    and     Granville 
Bates  are  the  troupers. 

if  PRIVATE  LIVES  OF  ELIZABETH  AND 
ESSEX,  THE— Warners 
You  may  feel  that  this  is  lacking  in  the  fire  that 
Queen  Elizabeth's  lusty  to-do  with  Lord  Essex 
might  have  inspired,  but  Bette  Davis,  as  the  evil- 
tempered,  enamorcd-of-power  .Queen  delights  in 
her  role,  and  Errol  Flynn,  as  Essex,  is  magnificent 
to  look  upon.  The  grandeur  of  that  court,  the  vital 
color  of  a  nation  not  yet  effete  called  for  Techni- 
color. Donald  Crisp,  Olivia  de  Havilland,  Vin- 
cent Price,  Henry  Daniell  and  Alan  Hale  add  to  the 
high  quality  of  the  production.  (Dec.) 

REMEMBER?— M-G-M 

This  has  sparkling  moments — but  the  trio, 
Robert  Taylor,  Greer  Garson,  Lew  Ayres,  deserves 
more.  Bob  is  an  advertising  genius  who  steals  Greer 
away  from  her  fiance,  Lew.  They  marry,  fight, 
divorce,  but  Lew  doses  them  up  with  a  drug  that 
makes  them  forget.  Whereupon  the  piece  becomes 
a  bedroom  farce.    (Jan.) 

REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT— Paramount 

Even  Fred  MacMurray  and  Barbara  Stanwyck 
can't  pull  this  out  of  the  average  class.  He's  a 
District  Attorney.  She's  a  wayward  girl  whom  he 
exposes  to  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  back  home 
in  Indiana  with  Mother,  Beulah  Bondi — after 
which  the  anticipated  reform  sets  in.   (Feb.) 

RENO— RKO-Radio 

Intended  to  be  an  epic  of  Reno  when  it  was  a 
silver  mining  town,  Richard  Dix  brings  this  up  to 
date  by  thinking  up  the  "Easy  Divorce"  plan.  His 
wife,  Gail  Patrick,  takes  advantage  of  it,  as  does  his 
daughter,  Anita  Louise.    Picture  lacks  pace.    (Jan.) 

RIO — Universal 

The  story  of  what  happens  to  the  trusted  wife  of 
a  French  convict  has  Victor  McLaglen  as  the 
friend  of  Basil  Rathbone,  who  is  the  French 
capitalist  under  conviction.  Sigrid  Gurie  is  the 
wife,  and  Robert  Cummings  the  young  American 
she  falls  for  in  Rio.  There's  a  good  escape  sequence 
and  some  bloody  killing.   (Dec.) 

ROARING  TWENTIES,  THE— Warners 

Those  mad,  prosperous.  Prohibition  Twenties! 
The  story  starts  when  World  War  veteran  Jimmy 
Cagney  looks  up  a  girl  who  has  been  writing  to 
him  and  discovers  she  is  Priscilla  Lane.  Circum- 
stances draw  him  into  the  liquor  racket,  take  him 
through  the  market  crash,  and  into  the  depression 
when  Priscilla  finds  happiness  with  his  buddy, 
Jeffrey  Lynn.  Gladys  George,  Frank  McHugh  and 
Humphrey  Bogart  have  supporting  roles.  (Dec.) 

RULERS  OF  THE  SEA— Paramount 

A  rousting  story  of  the  first  Atlantic  crossing  in  a 
steam-driven  boat,  with  Douglas  Fairbanks,  Jr. 
playing  the  young  mate  who  has  faith  in  steam. 
Will  Fyffe  is  superb  as  the .  Scotch  inventor  of 
steam  motors.  George  Bancroft  plays  a  die-hard 
sailing  skipper,  and  Margaret  Lockwood  is  ap- 
pealing. (Dec.) 

SCANDAL  SHEET— Columbia 

This  is  completely  wacky.  Otto  Kruger  is  a  news- 
paper publisher  with  a  secret  son  (Eddie  Norris);  a 
girl  friend  (Ona  Munson) ;  and  a  penchant  for  homi- 
cide. He  kills  off  one  of  his  employees  to  get  records 
of  Norris'  birth.    (Jan.) 

SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE,  THE— M-G-M 

Lew  Ayres  is  still  the  young  assistant  doctor, 
assigned  this  time  to  find  out  what's  the  matter  with 
Helen  Gilbert,  an  heiress.  When  Lionel  Barrymore 
collapses  (for  the  sake  of  the  plot)  Lew  pretends  he's 
more  interested  in  the  heiress'  millions  than  in  his 
work,  so  his  chief  will  take  a  rest.  Laraine  Day  is 
still  the  young  doctor's  sweetheart.    (Jan.) 

SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING— Warners 
A  piece  about  prison  and  convicts — and  a  par- 
ticularly exciting  jail  break.  Ronald  Reagan  plays 
G-Man;  Eddie  Foy  offers  comedy,  and  Margot 
Stevenson  furnishes  romance.    (Job.) 

SUED  FOR  LIBEL— RKO-Radio 

A  murder  picture  with  a  new  twist.  Morgan  Con- 
way is  acquitted  of  murder.  Reporter  Linda  Hayes 
pulls  a  trick  on  a  rival  pressman  by  telling  him  the 
verdict's  "guilty."  Kent  Taylor  dramatizes  the 
thing  on  the  air  and  Conway  sues.  Linda  and  Kent 
dig  into  his  past  and  find  he's  plenty  guilty.    (Jan.) 

THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE— Mayer-Burstyn 

A  strong  dose  of  propaganda — a  World  War 
veteran  is  convinced  that  his  comrades  have  not 
died  in  vain.  When  the  call  to  arms  comes  again,  he 
turns  to  the  War  dead.  They  arise,  mutilated  and 
bloody  and  accuse  the  world  of  breaking  its  pledge 
for  peace.    Victor  Francen  is  splendid.    (Jan.) 

THAT'S  RIGHT— YOU'RE  WRONG— RKO- 
Radio 

Kay  Kyser  brings  his  College  of  Musical  Knowl- 
edge to  the  screen  with  a  better  story  and  better 
support  than  radio  stars  usually  get.  The  result  is 
pleasant  and  Kyser  proves  to  be  a  screenable  per- 
sonality as  the  band-leader  whose  group  goes  Holly- 
wood on  him.  With  Adolphe   Menjou.   (Feb.) 

if  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED— Paramount 

This  new  version  of  Kipling's  novel  I 
handkerchief  film.  Ronald  Colman.  a  success! ul 
artist,  finds  himself  going  blind  from  an  old 
Sudanese  battle  injury,  paints  one  last  master- 
piece of  Ida  Lupino  -then  she  destroys  it.  t  olman. 
Walter  Huston  (as  his  friend)  and  the  photography 
are  superb.  (Feb.) 

THOSE  HIGH  GREY  WALLS— Columbia 

This  is  a  psychological  study  of  a  fear  trauma. 
Walter  Connolly  is  sent  to  prison  for  doctoring  I 
wounded  convict.  And  it's  the  prison  physician. 
Onslow  Stevens,  who  has  the  fear  complex.  Con- 
nolly gives  his  usual  fine  performance.     (Jan.) 

THREE  SONS— RKO-Radio 

It's  the  story  of  a  man  whose  consuming  interest 
is  his  department  store,  and  who  wants  his  boys  to 


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follow  in  his  footsteps.  Only  they  don't.  There 
isn't  much  to  keep  you  fascinated.  Edward  Ellis 
plays  I  he  lather,  Kent  Taylor.  Robert  Stanton  and 
Dick  llogan  the  offspring.    (Dec.) 

TOWER   OF   LONDON— Universal 

English  history  turns  out  to  be  more  gruesome 
than  a  modern  horror  film,  with  Basil  Rathhotie  <- 
King  Richard,  who  spends  his  time  killing  off  heirs 
to  the  throne,  and  Boris  Karloff  as  his  pet  ex- 
ecutioner. First-rate  mellerdrammcr,  with  a  fine 
all-around  cast.  (Feb.) 

*  TWO  THOROUGHBREDS— RKO-Radio 


Fine 


..'riling  and  beautiful  acting  prove  once 
more  what  this  studio  can  do  with  a  simple,  un- 
pretentious   story   to  make   it   memorable.    Jimmy 


I.ydon  gathers  special   honors  as  an  orphan  who 
finds  a  foal,  then   has  to  struggle  with  his  honor 
when  he  discovers  it  belongs  to  people  who  later 
befriend  him.   (Feb.) 
20.000  MEN  A  YEAR— 20th  Century-Fox 

Not  a  story  of  Sing  Sing,  but  of  how  Uncle  Sam 
is  training  young  men  to  fly.  Randy  Scott  plays  a 
washed-up  professional  pilot  who  takes  a  job  as 
flying  instructor,  rescues  some  lost  flyers  and  shares 
the  fade-out  with  Margaret  Lindsay.    (Jan.) 

TWO  BRIGHT  BOYS— Universal 

Freddie  Bartholomew  and  Melville  Cooper,  son 
and  father,  live  by  their  wits,  get  in  the  clutches  of 
Alan  Dinehart,  who  uses  them  to  make  a  grab  at 
oil  lands  owned  by  Jackie  Cooper  and  his  mother, 
Dorothy  Peterson.  The  boys  do  nice  jobs.   (Dec.) 


*  WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE— Warners 

Paul  Muni  is  an  English  country  doctor  who 
befriends  a  young  Austrian  dancer  (Jane  Bryan) 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  last  war.  His  wife  (Flora 
Robson)  takes  the  wrong  pills  and  dies,  and  Paul 
and  Jane  are  accused  of  her  murder.  An  uncom- 
promising presentation  of  the  James  Hilton  story, 
with  fine  production,  direction,  acting.   (Feb.) 


*  WHAT  A  LIFE— Paramount 

An  amusing  picture  in  which  Jackie  Cooper,  an 
adolescent  trying  to  make  adjustments  peculiar  to 
his  particular  age,  walks  away  with  a  difficult 
assignment.  Betty  Field,  Cooper's  sweetheart; 
James  Corner,  his  rival;  John  Howard  and  Kath- 
leen Lockhart  all  deliver  good  performances.  (Dec.) 


Casts  of  Current  Pictures 


"BARRICADE"— 20th  Century- Fox.— Screen 
play  and  story  by  Granville  Walker.  Directed  by 
Gregory  Ratoff.  Cast:  Emmy  Jordan,  Alice  Faye; 
Hank  Topping,  Warner  Baxter;  Samuel  J.  Cady, 
Charles  Winninger;  U plan  Ward,  Arthur  Treacher; 
Ling,  Keye  Luke;  Yen,  Willie  Fung;  Mrs.  Ward, 
Doris  Lloyd;  Mrs.  Little,  Eily  Malyon;  Winifred, 
Joan  Carol;  Russian  Consul,  Leonid  Snegoff;  Col. 
Wai  Rang,  Philip  Ann;  Assistant  Secretary  of  Stale, 
Jonathan   Hale;   Managing  Editor,  Moroni  Olsen. 

"BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY"— Warners. 

— Original  screen  play  by  John  Monks,  Jr.,  and 
Fred  F.  Finklehoffe.  Directed  bv  Ray  Enright. 
Cast:  "Bing"  Edwards,  Eddie  Albert;  Billy 
Randolph,  Wayne  Morris;  Joyce  Winfree,  Priscilla 
Lane;  flam:  fiamm,  Jane  Wyman;  Dan  Crawford, 
Ronald  Reagan;  Kale,  Jane  Bryan,  Harley  Har- 
rington, Larry  Williams;  Colonel  Kamin,  Henry 
O'Neill;  Mrs.  Brooks,  Jessie  Buslev;  ••Commence- 
ment," Peter  B.  Good;  Sterling  Randolph,  Paul 
Harvey;  Mr.  Harper,  Berton  Churchill;  Mrs. 
Harper,  Nana  Bryant;  McGregor,  Arthur  Treacher; 
Cab  Driver,  Edward  Gargan;  Girl  in  Bus,  Mayo 
Methot;  Expressman,  Billy  Wayne;  Major, 
Moroni  Olsen;   Hospital  Official,  Irving  Bacon. 

"CALLING  PHILO  VANCE"— Warners.  — 
Screen  play  by  Tom  Reed.  From  "The  Kennel 
Murder  Case,"  by  S.  S.  Van  Dine.  Directed  by 
William  Clemens.  Cast:  Philo  Vance,  James 
Stephenson;  Hilda,  Margot  Stevenson;  Mark- 
ham,  Henrv  O'Neill;  Ryan,  Edward  Brophy;  Tom 
MacDonald,  Ralph  Forbes;  Philip  Wrede,  Donald 
Douglas;  Gamble,  Martin  Kosleck;  Doris,  Sheila 
Bromley;  Dr.  Doremus,  James  Conlon;  Grassi, 
Edward  Raquello;  Du  Bois,  Creighton  Hale; 
Hennessey,  Harry  Strang;  Archer  Coe,  Richard  Kip- 
ling; Brisba  ne  Coe,  Wedgewood  No  well;  Ling  Toy, 
Bo  Ling. 

"Charlie  McCarthy,  detective-  — 

Universal. — Original  story  by  Darrell  Ware  and 
Robertson  White.  Directed  by  Frank  Tuttle. 
Cast:  Edgar  Bergen,  Himself;  Charlie  McCarthy, 
Himself;  Mortimer  Snerd,  Himself;  Scotiy  Hamil- 
ton, Robert  Cummings;  Sheila,  Constance  Moore; 
Bill  ISanning,  John  Sutton;  Arthur  Aldrich,  Louis 
Calhern;  Inspector  Daily,  Edgar  Kennedy;  Court 
Aldrich,  Samuel  S.  Hinds;  Tony  Garcia,  Harold 
Huber;  Fellon,  Milburn  Stone;  Gravy,  Ray 
Turner;    Dutch,  Warren  Hymer. 

"CHILD  IS  BORN,  A"— Warners.  —  Screen 
play  by  Robert  Rossen.  Based  on  a  play  by  Mary 
McDougal  Axelson.  Directed  by  Lloyd  Bacon. 
Cast:  Grace  Sutton,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald;  Jed 
Sutton,  Jeffrey  Lynn;  Florette,  Gladys  George; 
Miss  Bowers,  Gale  Page;  Mrs.  West,  Spring  Bying- 
ton;  Ringer  Banks,  Johnnie  Davis;  Dr.  Lee,  Henry 
O'Neill;  Dr.  Brett,  John  Litel;  Mrs.  Kempner, 
Gloria  Holden;  Johnny  Norton,  Johnny  Downs; 
Miss  Pinty,  Eve  Arden;  The  Woman,  Fay  Helm; 
Mr.  Kempner,  Louis  Jean  Heydt;  Gladys  Norton, 
Nanette  Fabares;  Mrs.  Banks,  Jean  Sharon;  Mr. 
West,  Hobart  Cavanaugh;  Dr.  Cramm,  George 
Irving;  Mrs.  Twitchell,  Nella  Walker;  Mrs.  Holt, 
Winifred  Harris. 

"CONGO  MAISIE"— M-G-M.— Screen  play  by 
Mary  C.  McCall,  Jr.  Based  on  the  book  "Congo 
Landing"  by  Wilson  Collison.  .  Directed  by  H.  C. 
Potter.  Cast:  Maisie  Ravier,  Ann  Sothern; 
Doctor  Michael  Shane,  John  Carroll;  Kay  McWadc, 
Rita  Johnson;  Doctor  John  McWade,  Sheppard 
Strudwick;  Captain  Finch,  J.  M.  Kerrigan;  Horace 
Snell,  E.  E.  Clive;  Jallah,  Everett  Brown;  Nelson, 
Tom  Fadden;  British  Consul,  Lionel  Pape; 
Lucmha,  Nathan  Curry;  Farley,  Leonard  Mudie; 
Zia,  Martin  Wilkins;    Varnai,  Ernest  Whitman. 

"EARL  OF  CHICAGO,  THE"— M-G-M. — 
Screen  play  by  Lesser  Samuels.  From  a  story  by 
Charles  de  Grandcourt  and  Gene  Fowler.  Photo- 
play is  adapted  from  the  book  "The  Earl  of  Chi- 
cago" by  Brock  Williams.  Directed  by  Richard 
Thorpe.  Cast:  ••.Silky"  Kilmount,  Robert  Mont- 
gomery; "Doc"  Ramsey,  Edward  Arnold;  Gcrvase 
Gonwe'll,  Reginald  Owen;  Munsey,  Edmund 
Gwenn;  Redwood,  E.  E.  Clive;  Gerald  Kilmount, 
Ronald  Sinclair;  Maureen  Kilmount,  Norma 
Vardcn;  Lord  Chancellor,  Halliwell  Hobbes;  Read- 
ing Clerk,  Ian.Wulf;  Judson,  Peter  Godfrey; 
Guide,  Billy  Bevan. 

"ENTENTE  CORDIALE"— Max  Glass  — 
Based  on  Andre  Maurois'  "Edward  VII  and  His 
Time."  Directed  by  Marcel  L'Herbier.  Cast: 
Edward  VII,  Victor  Francen;  Queen  Victoria, 
Gaby  Morlay;  Alexandra,  Arlette  Marchal; 
/'resident  Loubet,  Jean  Perier;  Lord  Salisbury,  Jean 
Toulout;  Joseph  Chamberlain,  Jean  D'yd;  Lord 
Kitchener,  Jean  Galland;  Lord  Balfour,  Andre 
Roanne;  Prince  Albert,  Jaque  Catelain;  Delcasse, 
Jean  Worms;  Clcmenceau,  Jacques  Baumer;  Paul 
Cambon,  Pizani. 

"EVERYTHING  HAPPENS  AT  NIGHT"— 
20th  Century-Fox. — Original  screen  play  by  Art 
Arthur  and  Robert  Harari.  Directed  by  Irving 
Cummings.  Cast:  Louise,  Sonja  Henie;  Geoffrey 
Thompson,  Ray  Milland;  Ken  Morgan,  Robert 
Cummings;  Dr.  Hugo  Norden,  Maurice  Moscovich; 
Groder,  Leonid  Kinskey;  Fred  Sherwood,  Alan 
Dinehart;     Gendarme,    Fritz    Feld;     Hilda,    Jody 


Gilbert;  Cams,  Victor  Varconi;  Hotel  Clerk, 
William  Edmunds;  Bellhop,  George  Davis;  Bar- 
tender, Paul  Porcasi;  Woodcutter,  Michael  Visaroff; 
Woodcutter's  Wife,  Eleanor  Wesselhoeft;  Philip, 
Lester  Matthews;  Telegrapher,  Christian  Rub; 
Conductor,  Ferdinand  Munier;  Feather slonehaugh, 
Holmes   Herbert;     Judge,    Roger   Imhof. 

"FIGHTING  69TH,  THE"— Warners.— Origi- 
nal screen  play  by  Norman  Reilly  Raine,  Fred 
Niblo,  Jr.,  and  Dean  Franklin.  Directed  by 
William  Keighley.  Cast:  Jerry  Plunkelt,  James 
Cagney;  Father  Duffy,  Pat  O'Brien;  "Wild  Bill" 
Donovan,  George  Brent;  Joyce  Kilmer,  Jeffrey 
Lynn;  "Big  Mike"  Wynn,  Alan  Hale;  "Crepe 
Hanger"  Burke,  Frank  McHugh;  Ll.  Ames,  Dennis 
Morgan;  "Long  John"  II "ynn,  Dick  Foran;  Timmy 
Wynn,  William  Lundigan;  Paddy  Dolan,  Guinn 
Williams;  "Mike"  Murphy,  Sammy  Cohen;  The 
Major,  Henry  O'Neill;  Colonel  Anderson,  Harvey 
Stephens;  Captain  Mangan,  John  Litel;  Private 
McManus,  Tom  Dugan;  Private  O'Reilly,  George 
Reeves;  Private  Ileffernan,  Herbert  Anderson; 
Private  Turner,  DeWolf  Hopper;  Private  Ryan, 
George  Kilgen;  Ll.  Norman,  Frank  Wilcox;  Joe 
Moran,  John  Ridgely;  Carroll,  John  Harron; 
Captain  Bootz,  Frank  Mayo;  Healev,  J.  A.  Hughes; 
Kelly,  Tom  Bennett;  O'Brien,  Elmo  Murray; 
Chaplain  Holmes,  Charles  Trowbridge. 

"GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN"— Warners.— 
Original  screen  play  by  Kenneth  Garnet.  Directed 
by  George  Amy.  Cast:  Minerva  Halton,  May 
Robson;  Nate,  Harry  Davenport;  Julie  Westcotl, 
Margot  Stevenson;  Phil  Westcotl,  Hardie  Albright; 
Smokt  v,  Clem  Bevans;  Riff  Daggett,  Clay  Clement; 
Fitzgerald,  William  Davidson;  Sheriff  Quinn, 
Arthur  Aylesworth;  Tom  Redding,  Granville 
Bates;  Charlotte,  Ann  Todd;  Carrie,  Vera  Lewis; 
Frayne,  Max  Hoffman  Jr.;    Joe,  Archie  Twitchell. 

"HENRY     GOES     ARIZONA"  —  M-G-M.  — 

Screen  play  by  Florence  Ryerson  and  Milton  Mer- 
lin. Based  on  a  story  by  W.  C.  Tuttle.  Directed 
by  Edwin  L.  Marin.  Cast:  Henry  Conroy,  Frank 
Morgan;  Molly  Cullison,  Virginia  Weidler;  Judge 
Van  Treece,  Guy  Kibbee;  Sheriff  Parlon,  Slim 
Summerville;  Ricky  Dole,  Douglas  Fowley; 
Danny  Regan,  Owen  Davis,  Jr. 

"HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  THE"— 
RKO-Radio. — Screen  play  by  Sonya  Levien. 
Adaptation  by  Bruno  Frank.  From  the  novel  by 
Victor  Hugo.  Directed  by  William  Dieterle.  Cast: 
Quasimodo,  Charles  Laughton;  Frollo,  Sir  Cedric 
Hardwicke;  Clopin,  Thomas  Mitchell;  Esmeralda, 
Maureen  O'Hara;  Gringoire,  Edmond  O'Brien; 
Phoebus,  Alan  Marshal;  Archbishop,  Walter 
Hampden;  King  Louis  XI,  Harry  Davenport; 
Fleur's  Mother,  Katharine  Alexander;  Procurator, 
George  Zucco;  Fleur,  Helene  Whitney;  Queen 
of  Beggars,  Minna  Gombell;  Old  Nobleman,  Fritz 
Leiber;  Doctor,  Etienne  Girardot;  Olivier,  Arthur 
Hohl;  Beggar,  George  Tobias;  Phillipo,  Rod  La 
Rocque;  Court  Clerk,  Spencer  Charters. 

"INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE"— Uni- 
versal.— Screen  play  by  Kurt  Siodmak,  Lester 
Cole  and  Cedric  Belfrage.  Original  story  by  Joe 
May  and  Kurt  Siodmak.  Directed  by  Joe  May. 
Cast:  Richard  Cobb,  Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke;  Geoffrey 
Redcliffe,  Vincent  Price;  Helen  Manson,  Nan  Grey; 
Dr.  Frank  Griffin,  John  Sutton;  Inspector  Sampson, 
Cecil  Kellaway;  Spears,  Alah  Napier. 

"INVISIBLE  STRIPES"— Warners.— Screen 
play  by  Warren  Duff.  From  an  original  story  by 
Jonathan  Finn.  Based  on  the  book  by  Warden 
Lewis  E.  Lawes.  Directed  by  Lloyd  Bacon. 
Cast:  Cliff  Taylor,  George  Raft;  Peggy,  Jane 
Bryan;      Tim    Taylor,    William    Holden;     Chuck 


HOW  WELL  DO  YOU 

KNOW  YOUR  HOLLYWOOD? 

Ch 

sck  your  answers  to  the  statements 

on 

sage  89  with  these  correct  ones: 

1. 

Henry   Fonda,   Walter   Huston 

2. 

William   Haines 

3. 

Richard   Greene 

4. 

Ann  Sheridan 

5. 

Joe  Pasternak 

6. 

Bing  Crosby 

7. 

Richard   Dix 

8. 

Shirley  Temple 

9. 

Mickey  Rooney 

10. 

Charles  Winninger 

Martin,  Humphrey  Bogart;  Mrs.  Taylor,  Flora 
Robson;  Ed  Kruger,  Paul  Kelly;  Molly,  Lee 
Patrick;  Parole  Officer  Masters,  Henry  O'Neill; 
Tommy,  Frankie  Thomas;  The  Warden,  Moroni 
Olsen;  Sue,  Margot  Stevenson;  Lefty,  Marc 
Lawrence;  johnny,  Joseph  Downing;  Jimmy,  Leo 
Gorcey;  Shrank,  William  Haade;  Old  Peter,  Tully 
Marshall. 

"MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE"— RKO-Radio.— 
Story  and  screen  play  by  S.  K.  Lauren.  Directed 
by  John  Farrow.  Cast:  Leslie  Yates,  Alan  Mar- 
shal; Helen  Yates,  Barbara  Read;  Paul  Wilding, 
Patric  Knowles;  Doris  Wilding,  Helen  Vinson; 
Hildegarde,  Hattie  Noel;  Man  in  Bar,  Frank 
Faylen;    Woman  in  Bar,  Carol  Hughes. 

"MEXICAN  SPITFIRE  '  —  RKO-Radio.  — 
Original  screen  play  by  Joseph  A.  Fields.  Directed 
by  Les  Goodwins.  Cast:  Carmelita,  Lupe  Velez; 
Uncle  Matt,  Leon  Errol;  Lord  Epping,  Leon  Errol; 
Dennis,  Donald  Woods;  Elizabeth,  Linda  Hayes; 
Aunl  Delia,  Elisabeth  Risdon;  Chumley,  Cecil 
Kellaway;    Butler,  Charles  Coleman. 

"OH,  JOHNNY,  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE"— 
Universal. — Screen  play  by  Arthur  T.  Horman. 
Directed  by  Charles  Lamont.  Cast:  Johnny  Sand- 
ham,  Tom  Brown;  "Kelly"  Archer,  Peggy  Moran; 
Junior,  Juanita  Quigley;  "The  Weasel,"  Allen 
Jenkins;  Thistlebottom,  Donald  Meek;  Gertie,  Isabel 
Jewell;  "Lefty,"  Horace  McMahon;  Belly,  Betty 
Jane  Rhodes. 

"RAFFLES" — Samuel  Goldwyn-United  Ar- 
tists.— Screen  play  by  John  Van  Durten  and  Sid- 
ney Howard.  Based  upon  the  celebrated  adven- 
tures of  "The  Amateur  Cracksman"  by  E.  W. 
Hornung.  Directed  by  Sam  Wood.  Cast:  Raf- 
fles, David  Niven;  Gwen,  Olivia  de  Havilland; 
Lady  Melrose,  Dame  May  Whitty;  Mackenzie, 
Dudley  Digges;  Bunny,  Douglas  Walton;  Lord 
Melrose,  Lionel  Pape;  Barraclough,  E.  E.  Clive; 
Crawshay,  Peter  Godfrey;  Maud  Holden,  Margaret 
Seddon;  Bingham,  Gilbert  Emery;  Wilson,  Hilda 
Plow-right;  The  Butler,  Vesey  O'Davoren;  The 
Footman,  George  Cathrey. 

"SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER,  THE"— 
M-G-M. — Screen  play  by  Samson  Raphaelson. 
Based  on  a  play  by  Nikolaus  Laszlo.  Directed  by 
Ernest  Lubitsch.  Cast:  Klara  Novak,  Margaret 
Sullavan;  Alfred  Kralik,  James  Stewart;  Hugo 
Malu\chek,  Frank  Morgan;  k'erencz  \'adas,  Joseph 
Schildkraut;  Flora,  Sara  Haden;  Pirovitch,  Felix 
Bressart;  Pepi  Kalona,  William  Tracy;  Ilona, 
Inez  Courtney;  Woman  Customer,  Sarah  Edwards; 
Doctor,  Edwin  Maxwell;  Detective,  Charles  Halton. 

"SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON"— Mayflower- 
Paramount. — Screen  play  by  Clemence  Dane. 
Directed  by  Tim  Whelan.  Cast:  Charles,  Charles 
Laughton;  Libby,  Vivien  Leigh;  Harley  Prentiss, 
Rex  Harrison;  Constantine,  Larry  Adler;  Gentry, 
Tyrone  Guthrie;  Arthur,  Gus  McNaughton;  Mr. 
Such,  Edward  Lexy;  Mrs.  Such,  Maire  O'Neill; 
Hackelt,  David  Burns;  Temperley,  Ronald  Ward; 
Duchesi,  Romilly  Lunge;  Lady  Selina,  Helen 
Haye;  Delia  Fordingbridge,  Phyllis  Stanley. 

"SLIGHTLY  HONORABLE"  —  Walter 
Wanger-United  Artists. — Screen  play  by  Ken 
Englund,  }  From  the  novel  by  F.  G.  Presnell. 
Adaptation  by  John  Hunter  Lay  and  Robert 
Tallmen.  Directed  by  Tay  Garnett.  Cast:  John 
Webb,  Pat  O'Brien;  Cushing,  Edward  Arnold; 
Rus  Sampson,  Broderick  Crawford;  Ann,  Ruth 
Terry;  Alma  Brchmer,  Claire  Dodd;  Commis- 
sioner Joyce,  Alan  Dinehart;  Mrs.  Cushing,  Janet 
Beecher;  Sarilla  Cushing,  Phyllis  Brooks;  George 
Taylor,  Douglas  Dumbrille;  Godena,  Bernard 
Nedell;  Miss  Aler,  Eve  Arden;  Miss  Vlissigen, 
Evelyn  Keyes;  Commissioner  Fromm,  Addison 
Richards;  Matter,  Douglas  Fowley;  Senator  Scott, 
Howard  Hickman;  Collins,  Ernest  Truex. 

"SWANEE  RIVER"— 20th  Century-Fox  — 
Screen  play  by  John  Taintor  Foote  and  Philip 
Dunne.  Directed  by  Sidney  Lanfield.  Cast: 
Stephen  Foster,  Don  Ameche;  Jane,  Andrea  Leeds; 
E.  P.  Christy,  Al  Jolson;  Henry  Kleber,  Felix 
Bressart;  Bones,  Chick  Chandler;  Andrew  Mc- 
Dowell, Russell  Hicks;  Old  Joe,  George  Reed; 
Hall  Johnson  Choir,  Themselves;  Tom  Harper, 
Richard  Clarke;  Marion  Foster,  Diane  Fisher; 
Pond,  Charles  Halton;  Ambrose,  George  Break- 
stone; Tambo,  Al  Herman;  Mr.  Foster,  Charles 
Trowbridge;  Henry  Foster,  George  Meeker;  Mrs. 
Foster,  Leona  Roberts;  Morrison  Foster,  Charles 
Tannen;  Erwin,  Harry  Hayden;  Mrs.  Griffin, 
Clara   Blandick;     Mrs.    McDowell,   Nella   Walker. 

"THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL"  —  Republic.  — 
Screen  play  by  Robert  Presnell.  Original  story  by 
George  Carleton  Brown.  Directed  by  John  H. 
Auer.  Cast:  Reverend  Chris,  Charles  Bickford; 
Allen  Stevens,  Owen  Davis,  Jr.;  Mary  Olsen,  Doris 
Dav;  Gordon  Mavis,  Paul  Guilfoyle;  Mr.  Miller. 
Granville  Bates;  Father  O'Reilly,  Charles  Waldron; 
Julie,  Shelia  Bromley;  Johnny,  George  Chandler; 
Lars  Olsen,  Charles  Middleton;  District  Attorney, 
Emmett  Vogan;  Mrs.  Stevens,  Leona  Roberts; 
Mrs.  Olsen,  Ethel  May  Halls;  Doctor  Holmes, 
Edmund  Elton;    Mrs.  Kron,  Elsie  Prescott. 


9: 


PHOTOPLAY 


» illi   their 
Parisian   smartness 

GliVIA  G 


'OVefys(ari 


tot*s»ft 


Good  Housekeeping  as  advertised  therein 


'•Spring  Styles  from 
The  Spring  Movies." 

Send  for  your  free  copy. 


Above:  actual  color  photograph. 
A.  B.  Mize  of  North  Carolina  grew 
some  of  the  finest  tobacco  he  ever 
raised — thanks  to  U.S.  Government 
methods. 


"#>V 

; 

■*   j»   *c    *■" 

/   Si  > 

-:] 

TOBACCO  EXPERT ! 


'U.  S.  Gov't  methods  have  made  crops  better  than  ever 
. . .  and  Luckies  always  buy  the  choicer  grades/7  says 
James  Walker,  19  years  an  independent  tobacco  buyer 

Here's  a  30-second  interview  with  this  veteran  to- 
bacco expert . . . 

Q.  "What  are  these  methods  of  Uncle  Sam's?" 
Mr.  Walker:  "They're  scientific  ways  of  improv- 
ing soil  and  plant  food  .  .  .  that  have  helped  farmers 
grow  finer  tobacco  in  recent  years." 
Q.  "And  that's  what  has  made  tobacco  better?" 
Mr.  W:  "The  best  in  300  years  .  .  .  even  though 
crops  do  vary  with  the  weather." 
Q.  "You  say  that  Luckies  buy  the  'Cream  of  the  Crop"?" 
Mr.  W:  "They  sure  do.  The  best  proof  is  that  they're 
the  2-to-l  choice  of  experts  not  connected 
with  any  tobacco  company — warehouse- 
men,  auctioneers  and  buyers.   For  my 
part,  I've  smoked  them  10  years." 
Try  Luckies  for  a  week.  You'll  find  that 
the  "Toasting"  process  makes  them  easy 
on  your  throat — because  it  takes  out 
certain  harsh   throat   irritants   that   are 
found  in  all  tobacco. 
You'll  also  find  out  why. . .  WITH  MEN  WHO 
KNOW  TOBACCO  BEST- ITS  LUCKIES  2  TO  1 


.>'"  u-/ 


COMPLETE  IN  THIS  ISSUE     Another  Movie  Book  for  Your  Library 

IE  NEW  DOCTOR  KILDARE  NOVEL  by  MAX  BRAND 

Hollywood's  Greatest  Lessons  in  Love  By  Gretta  Palmer 


I 


I 


After  yOUr  bath  apply  L'Orle  freely  and  you  will  keep  fragrantly  bath- 
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15,000,000 

women  &  men  can't  be  wrong 

in  recognizing  these  FACTS  by   <Sj^A 

( 

Men  and  women  today  freely  recognize  the  safeguarding  of  personal  charm  and 
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year  around  with  every  modern  woman. 

Men  —  athletes,  stage  and  screen  stars,  business  men  (he-men  all,  no  sissies) 
prefer  L'ORLE'S  special  MANLY  group  of  outdoor,  ( grassy  odors  as  an  insuring 
plus  to  their  daily  shower.  They  welcome  in  L'ORLE  (pronounced  Lor  lay)  their 
first  chance  to  use  a  completely  masculine  deodorizing  freshener. 

Though  L'ORLE  is  made  from  expensive  perfume  essences  it  is  not  costly.  $1  the  2 
oz.  flacon  at  Department  Stores,  Specialty  Shops,  Beauty  Salons  or  exclusive  Druggists. 

Learn  this  modern  fact  of  life.  For  your  personal  assurity ,  for  new  social  security,  try 
L'ORLE'S  Parfum  L'Odorante,  today!  Insist  on  the  original  perfume  that  deodorizes. 

AttBntlOn.  Should  your  favorite  shop  he  unable  to  supply  you,  send  $1  and  we  will  mail 
you  a  2  ounce  flacon  of  L'Orle' s  Parfum  L'Odorante  post  paid  on  a  guaranteed  money 
back  basis.  Parfum  L'Orle,  Inc.,  6  East  39th  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


Real  life  ClOSe-UpS  are  demanding.    L'Orle  brings 

exquisite  insurance  to  romantic  moments. 


Slinny  France's  flOWerS  form  the  rare  essences  from 
which  L'Orle's  exquisite  fragrances  are  produced. 


Ride  away  tO  romance  with  the  complete  personal  as- 
surance of  one  of  L'Orle's  outdoor  fragrances. 


NOW  for  the  prom  .  . .  after  victory  a  celebration.  Even 
200  pound  tackles  realize  they  are  no  roses  at  a  dance 
without  the  protection  (definitely  he-man)  of  L'Orle'. 


The  importance  of  personal  charm  in  social  as  well  as 

business  life  is  reflected  by  L'Orle's  tremendous  pop- 
ularity among  modern  men  and  women. 


BUSineSS  aSSUNty  as  well  as  social  security  is  fragrantly 
insured  the  year  around  by  the  daily  use  of  L'Orle's 
Parfum  L'Odorante. 


Ballet  Or  Ballroom,  Set  Or  Stage,  stars  of  the  entertainment  world  have  discov- 
ered how  refreshing  L'Orle  is  in  both  their  professional  and  private  lives.  Follow 
the  stars  and  find  delightful  security  in  the  perfume  that  deodorizes. 


For  women,  favored  fragrances  are:  Princesse  de  conds, 

Marquise  de  Maintenon,  Madame  de  Pompadour,  Marie 
Antoinette,  Duchesse  d'Orleans,  Madame  Holland, 
Duchesse  de  Chateauroux,  Gardenia.  Lily  of  the  Valley, 
Bonnie  Heather,  Orchard  Blossoms. 


For  men:  squire, 

Boots  &  Saddle, 
Tumble-weed,  Field 
&  Stream,  Stick  & 
Ball,  Skiing. 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU  AND 


"It's  SPRING!"  chirped  the  first  robin,  and  we  feel  like  chirping  with  him, 
only  we've  more  important  things  to  do  this  minute.  Everyone  around  here 
is  pining  out  loud  for  something  new  ...  in  clothes  ...  in  beauty  .  .  . 
in  gadgets.  You  get  the  idea — a  fine,  fresh  start  for  a  fine,  fresh  season! 
So  off  we  went  on  our  roller  skates,  to  round  up  a  thing  or  two  that  will  put 
you  in  the  pink.  As  you  pick  your  own  little  treasures  from  these  pages, 
check  off  the  birthdays  on  your  spring  list,  too — you'll  save  yourself  time 
and  money  if  you  do.  Just  write  to  the  Fashion  Secretary,  Photoplay 
Magazine.  122  E.  42nd  Street,  New  York  City,  for  the  name  of  the  shop 
nearest  you  that  sells  what  you  want. 


1.  FOR  LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN  . . . 

A  pretty  exchange  of  timepieces.  For  Her, 
Croton's  "Miami" — a  14-carat,  17-jewel  wrist- 
watch  with  two  winking  diamonds  where 
watch  and  link-bracelet  are  joined.  Perfect 
timing  for  $29.95.  For  Him — Croton's  "Resis- 
tal" — a  shockproof,  waterproof,  dustproof, 
non-magnetic,  17-jewel  he-man  watch — a  mir- 
acle of  timekeeping  at  $37.50. 


2.  CALLING  ALL  GLAMOUR  GIRLS 

If  there's  a  glamour  girl  on  your  list  who 
rates  a  handsome  present,  give  her  La 
Tausca  pearls.  Three  lovely  gleaming 
strands  with  a  rhinestone  glitter-clasp  will 
turn  classic  sweaters  into  conversation 
pieces.  She'll  flaunt  them  with  her  gala 
gowns  as  well,  thanking  you  and  her  lucky 
stars  as  she  collects  her  compliments.  Only 
$4.95,  and  you'd  better  wear  one  too! 


3.  BEAUTY  BARGAIN 

What  news!  Helena  Rubinstein's  three  big 
beauty  basics,  "Herbal  Cleansing  Cream," 
"Town  and  Country  Make-up  Film"  and 
"Youthifying  Stimulant,"  in  generous  new 
junior  sizes  at  $1.00  each.  One  is  death  on 
dust  and  dirt;  the  other  puts  new  glow  into 
your  skin;  the  third  blots  out  blemishes  like 
magic.  Don't  resist  them  at  their  new  and 
appealing  low. 


4.  ATTENTION,  PLEASE! 

And  Don  Juan's  new  Military  Red  lipstick 
will  get  it  for  you  guicker  than  you  can  say 
Jack  Robinson!  More  insistent  than  a  bugler's 
call — and  more  lasting  than  you've  ever 
thought  a  lipstick  could  be — is  this  new  Don 
Juan,  done  up  for  spring,  in  a  stirring  coat 
of  Military  red,  crested  with  the  famous 
cameo.    $1.00. 


t 


the^KTrs 


BY  FRANCES   HUGHES 


5.  TO  GET  THE  MOST  OUT  OF  YOUR 
PERFUME 

Use  a  De  Vilbiss  atomizer.  Perfumes  are 
blends  of  this  and  that — and  in  concentrated 
drops  the  more  delicate  scents  pale  besides 
the  stronger  odors.  But  spraying  breaks  them 
up  into  millions  of  tiny  particles  and  thus 
each  one  can  assert  itself.  It's  more  econom- 
ical too,  because  there's  less  evaporation. 
Try  this  one  in  sparkling  crystal  with  sap- 
phire or  topaz  top,  and  you'll  see.    $2.00. 


6.  NET  RESULTS 

The  net  results  of  taking  a  bath  without  net- 
ting your  curls  are  better  left  untold.  Avoid 
this  sorry  sight  by  wearing  a  "Fascinet." 
A  comfortable,  all-over  stretchable  cap  that 
won't  slip  and  won't  give  up  its  elastic 
grip,  but  will  protect  your  waves  while  you 
sleep  .  .  .  bathe  .  .  .  motor  .  .  .  play  tennis 
.  .  .  whatever  you  do  between  shampoos  that 
plays  such  havoc  with  your  hair!  $1.00 
buys  this  gentle  persuader  in  colors  to  match 
your  sports  clothes  or  your  hair. 


7.  HAND  IN  GLOVE 

"There's  a  time  in  a  girl's  life  for  wearing 
gloves  indoors,"  says  Miss  Peggy  Sage,  who 
ought  to  know  about  such  things.  She  re- 
fers, of  course,  to  her  own  pink  cotton  gloves, 
designed  to  wear  at  night  over  rough,  un- 
sightly hands  liberally  coated  with  "Hand 
Smoother  and  Softener"  cream.  The  gloves 
are  a  present,  tucked  into  every  $1.00  pack- 
age of  cream.  Try  this  routine  and  you  won't 
know  your  own  knuckles! 


8.  WHAT  NOT? 

Grandmother's  parlor  whatnot  stored  all  sorts 
of  gadgets — dust-catchers,  mostly.  But  Eigh- 
teenth Century's  whatnot  stores  six  handy 
cakes  of  spicily  scented  soap,  "Old  Colonial" 
it's  called,  and  it's  ever  so  nice  to  have  on 
hand  in  guest  bathrooms.  The  whatnot  itself 
is  made  of  cardboard,  and  under  the  gaily 
painted  shelves  are  bars  of  soap — two  to 
each  shelf.    $1.00. 


9.  HOW'S  YOUR  SOUTHERN  ACCENT? 

Ever  since  Scarlett  O'Hara  took  the  movie 
world  by  storm,  gals  have  been  practicing 
up  on  their  southern  accents  and  copying 
Scarlett's  other  charms.  You  might  start  with 
Olympic's  Scarlett  O'Hara  sweater,  inter- 
preted by  Leon  in  Tish-U-Knit's  Shetland 
blend,  captivating  in  baby  colors  like  Melanie 
pink  and  Bonnie  blue,  at  $1.98. 


10.  THE  CAPSULE  ERA 

First  we  took  vitamins  in  capsules.  And  now, 
it's  Margaret  Brainard's  cleansing  cream  in 
sparkling  jewel  colors — 30  capsules  to  a 
cunning  plastic  cylinder  for  $1.00,  with 
cleansing  oil  enough  in  each  one  for  one 
thorough  facial.  Tell  us  whether  your  skin 
is  normal,  dry  or  oily  and  we'll  get  Margaret 
Brainaid  to  send  you  a  sample,  free. 


(For  More  Shopping  Ncivs,  See  Pag 


APRIL,      I  940 


A  MAN  AND  A  WOMAN 

fleeing  nameless  terror  .  .  , 
through  angry  seas  and  the 
tropics'  dangers  .  .  .  yearning 
for  the  peace  they  had  never 
known,  the  happiness  they 
could  find  only  in  each  other's 
arms  .  .  .  You'll  remember 
this  star-crowded  M-G-M  pic- 
ture as  one  of  the  great  emo- 
tional experiences  of  the  year! 


GABLE  •  CflAWFOflD 

in  Metro-Goldwyn- Mayer' 's  Dramatic  Triumph 


-wkb  IAN   HUNTER 

PETER    LORRE-PAUL    LUKAS 

ALBERT   DEKKER     •     J.  EDWARD    BROMBERG 
EDUARDO  CIANNELLI 

A    FRANK    BORZAGE    Production 

Screen   Play  by  Lawrence  Hazard     •     Directed  by  Frank  Borzage 

Based  on  the  Book  "Not  Too  Narrow,  Not  Too  Deep"  by  Richard  Sale 

Produced  by  Joseph  L.  Mankiewicz 


PH  OTOPLAY 


4r  °r  mot.oh  »* 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN 

EXECUTIVE    EDITOR 


HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL 


ART   EDITOR 


RUTH  WATERBURY 

EDITOR 


FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 


On  the  Cover — Tyrone  Power,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse 

HIGHLIGHTS    OF    THIS    ISSUE  *\ 

Don,  Alice  and  Ty Ruth  Waterbury        14  \ZQ4tSi£j£i& 

The  off-screen  story  of  that  Ameche-Faye-Power  triumvirate  ^^  g^ 

Hawaiian  Honeymoon Hagar  Wilde       16 

Beginning  a  saucy  new  novel  about  a  cinema  serpent  in  Paradise! 

Glamour  Girl— 1940  Style Dorothy  Spensley  18                       |N  RECENT  months  Hollywood  has  shown  more  courage 

Can  you  see  yourself  in  this  sly  composite  picture?  I  than  ever  before.   One  of  the  reasons  seems  to  be  the 

Portrait  of  the  Man  with  the  Chin Joseph  Henry  Steele  19                       '   loss  of  the  foreign  market.   No  longer  concerned  about 

Profile  view  of  Bob  Hope,  champion  wrong-guesser  profih  on  +he  Continent,  producers  have  now  turned  to 

Cars  for  Stars 20                      profits  in  their  own  country.  This  new  daring  should  bring 

Four-wheeled  vehicles  for  four-star  players-in  full  color  !  a   nQyf  pub|;c  +Q  +he  moy;es>     My  Qn|y  question  is:  Wi||  ft 

Hollywood's  Greatest  Lessons  in  Love Gretta  Palmer  22  perhaps  antagonize  some  of  us  movie-goers  who  want  es- 

Required  reading  for  the  modern  student  of  matrimonial  customs  cape  an<J   re|ease  rather  +han  new  problems  when  we  go 

Round-Up  of  Familiar  Faces Sara  Hamilton  24  to  the  theater? 

Hitherto  unsung  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  current  movies 

When  Sonja  Henie  Met  Alan  Curtis Barbara  Hayes  26                           ' J\3V? ,  P3^."1,3^  In  ^"u   *  Pic+u/e  'ike     Th*  GraPe* 

Illuminating  sidelight  on  a  girl  who's  making  romance  headlines  of  Wrath,      which   IS  probably  one  of  the  greatest  social 

Dr.  Kildare's  Girl Max  Brand  27                     documents  the  movies  have  yet  produced,  but  I  wonder 

Photoplay's  April  Movie  Book— the  new  Doctor  Kildare  novel  lf  '+  can  be  called  entertainment  to  sit  and  sutter,  as  I  did, 

Photoplay  Fashions Gwenn  Walters  53                      until  the  back  of  my  head  ached,  for  two  hours?     It  is  a 

Designed  for  spring,  patterned  for  popularity,  styled  for  texture  great  symptom  ot  artistic  progress  when  an  art  dares  to 

"We  Have  a  Wonderful  Time  Together"         ...       Wilbur  Morse,  Jr.  64                      bLe   3S   relentlessly   honest  as   Zanuck  was   in   showing   us 

First  hand  information  on  the  Stewart-de  Havilland  romance!  the  Joad  tamily  S  toethsemane.      I  he  right  tor  Lite,     which 

This  Woman  Has  Loved! Adele  Whitely  Fletcher  70                      you    may   not  yet   have   seen    deals   artistically   and   dy- 

Ilona  Massey  in  "The  Story  of  My  Life"— directed  by  Cupid  namically  with  the  problems  of  childbirth  among  the  poor. 

Pare  Lorentz,  working  for  the  United  States  Government, 
The  Camera  Speaks:  nas  done  an  astounding  job,  but  it  is  not  escape.    Nor  is 
Femmes  Exquises 42                      the  fine  picture  about  Doctor  Ehrlich,  or  the  honest  pic- 
Saying  it  in  French,  with  four  visions  of  feminine  loveliness  turization  of  John  Steinbeck's  "Of  Mice  and  Men."    Per- 

Battle  of  Fashion 44                      haps  the  answer  is  in  such  brilliant  pieces  of  entertainment 

Candid  style  news  in  the  making,  from  our  own  Western  Front  as  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington,"  which  dares  to  assail 

Too  Many  Husbands — and  Too  Many  Wives 46                      political  corruption  and  still  makes  you  superbly  happy. 

How  to  be  blithe,  though  bigamous,  in  two  hilarious  lessons  Or  "Ninotchka,"  which  pokes  fun  at  the  Communists  with- 

Photos  They'd  Like  to  Forget 48                      out  restraint  but  is  filled  with  constant  laughter. 

You'll  be  glad — they' 11  be  sorry — they  ever  posed  for  these !  ....          ,.                .                          ..              ,      ,    .                    .,,      . 

When  the  movies  can  combine  entertainment  with  dar- 

NEWS      VIEWS     AND     REVIEWS  ing,  it  is  a  divine  combination.    But  I  think  we  should  ap- 

Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars Frances  Hughes  1  P,a"d  evf "  whe"  that  cf ur^e  hff  us  only  unrelieved 

reality.     It  was  the  greatest  fereek  dramatic  theorist  who 

Boos  and  Bouquets 4  pointed  out  that  by  experiencing  pity  for  others  and  fear 

Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures 6  for  f  heir  destinies  we  purge  ourselves  of  our  own  torments. 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury  11                           Let  us  hope  that  these  daring  producers  will  gain  a  new 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade  50  pub|;c  and   lose  no   part  of  the  old  as  reward  for  their 

Patterned  for  Spring 58  courage. 

Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 65 

The  Shadow  Stage 68                                                                                 ^-^                            . 

PHOTOPLAY'S  Own  Beauty  Shop Carolyn  Van  Wyck  74                                                                           C                ihi/^^T^ 

How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 76                                                                         (J\mM^    '          0 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 95 

VOL  LIV.,  No.  4,  APRIL,  1940 

Published  Monthly  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.,  333  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  111.  •  Bernarr  Macfadden,  President  •  Irene  T.  Kennedy,  Treasurer  •  Wesley  F.  Pape,  Secretary  •  General  Offices, 
205  East  42nd  St  New  York  N  Y.  •  Editorial  and  Advertising  Offices,  Chanin  Building,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Curtis  Harrison,  Advertising  Manager  •  Charles  H.  Shattuck,  Manager,  Chicago 
Office  •  London  Agent  Atlas  Publishing  and  Distributing  Company,  Ltd.,  18  Bride  Lane,  London,  E.  C.  4  •  Price  per  copy  in  the  United  States  and  Canada:  25c.  Yearly  Subscription:  $2  50  in  the  United 
States  and  Possessions  Canada  and  Newfoundland.  $3.00  m  Cuba,  Mexico,  Haiti,  Dominican  Republic,  Spain  and  Possessions,  and  Central  and  South  American  countries  excepting  British  Honduras,  British, 
Dutch  and  French  Guiana  All  other  countries  $5  00.  Remittances  should  be  made  by  check,  or  postal,  or  express  money  order  •  CAUTION  Do  not  subscribe  through  persons  unknown  to  you  •  While 
manuscripts  photographs  and  drawings  are  submitted  at  the  owner's  risk,  every  effort  will  be  made  by  this  organization  to  return  those  found  unavailable  if  accompanied  by  sufficient  1st  class  postage,  and 
explicit  name  and  address    But  we  will  not  be  responsible  for  any  losses  of  such  matter.  Entered  as  second-class  matter  April  24,   1912,  at  the  post-office  at  Chicago,  111.,  under  the  act  of  March3,  1879. 

Copyright,  1940,  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  de  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  o£  America 


CLAIRE  TREVOR  and 

JOHN 

WAYNE    in    a 

scene 

from     Repub- 

lie's  ' 

["he  DarkCom- 

maud 

'.   Your  hamls. 

too,  CM   bo  enchant- 

ingl, 

soft  if  vou  use 

Jergens  Lotion. 

How  this  simple,  quick 

Beauty  Care  helps  Prevent  ugly 

Roughness  and  Chapping 

Have  coaxing  soft  "Hollywood  Hands"! 
Masculine   hearts   are   wax   to   their 
smooth,  caressing  touch. 

Even  the  snappiest  cold,  and  constant 
use  of  water,  can't  roughen  and  coarsen 
your  pretty  hands  if  you  use 
Jergens  Lotion  regularly. 
Jergens  furnishes  beautifying 
moisture  for  your  skin;  sup- 
plements depleted  natural 
moisture.  Helps  guard  the 
softness  of  your  hands. 

FOR   SOFT,  ADORABLE   HANDS 

For  satin-smooth,  kissable  complexion  — 
use  the  new  Jergens  all-purpose  Face 
Cream.  Cleanses  expertly,  swiftly.  Vita- 
min Blend  help*  vitalize  drab,  dry  skin. 
Try  it  now!  SOc,  25*.  IOC 


Many  doctors  use  2  fine  ingredients  to  help 
smooth  and  soften  harsh,  roughened  skin. 
Both  these  ingredients  are  in  Jergens  Lotion. 
Apply  Jergens  after  every  handwashing. 

Smooth  well  on  wrists  and  finger  tips. 
Takes  no  time!  Leaves  no  stickiness!  Jergens 
soon  helps  you  have  hands  whose  soft  touch 
thrills!  Start  now  to  use  Jergens  Lotion. 
50tf,  25<t,  10^— $1.00,  at  beauty  counters. 
Get  Jergens  Lotion  today,  sure. 


More  women  use 
Jergens  nowadays 
than  any  other  Lo- 
tion. It's  so  effec- 
tive for  lovable  soft 
hands!  Easy  to  use! 
Never  feels  sticky. 


FREE!  purse-size  bottle 

(Paste  coupon  on  a  penny  postcard,  if  you  wish) 
See — at  our  expense — how  Jergens  Lotion  helps  you 
have  adorable,  soft  hands.  Mail  this  coupon  today  to: 
The  Andrew  Jergens  Co.,  4014  Alfred  St.,  Cincinnati, 
Ohio.  (In  Canada:  Perth,  Ont.) 


BOOS 


LOYALTY  VS.  JEALOUSY 

I  AM  not  a  Loy  fan.  My  songs  of  praise 
usually  go  to  Flynn  as  a  dashing 
Essex,  Ty  as  a  doctor,  or  Sonja  as  a 
schoolmarm,  but  sometimes  things  go 
too  far.  Recently,  in  every  film  maga- 
zine I  look  at,  there  are  boos  for  Myrna 
Loy.  All  the  way  from  England,  some- 
one had  to  write  you  saying  that,  after 
seeing  "Lucky  Night,"  they  arrived  at 
the  conclusion  Myrna  couldn't  act. 
Someone  else  says  that  "The  Rains 
Came"  washed  her  up  with  them  for 
good.  She's  not  really  that  bad.  I 
can't  believe  it's  just  luck  that  put  her 
where  she  is.  I'm  not  saying  she's  a 
Bette  Davis,  but  she's  pretty  and  she 
acts  better  than  plenty  of  others.  I 
suppose  you're  going  to  tell  me  Dottie 
Lamour  sings! 

So  far  as  I've  read,  all  the  writers  are 
girls.  Supposing  it's  just  jealousy,  why 
not  be  frank?  It's  no  disgrace  to  be 
jealous  of  such  a  charming  personality 
as  Myrna  Loy. 

Patricia  Kernahan, 
Curepe,  Trinidad,  B.  W.  I. 


Anne  Nagel,  featured  player 
in  Universal's  "Black  Friday" 
spends  a  day  on  the  beach 
in  shorts  that  stress  a  diag- 
onally tucked  high  waistband, 
a  short-sleeved  sweater,  and 
clogs  with  nail-studded  canvas 
straps   to    hold    them   in    place 


THE  GENTLE  ART  OF  KISSING 

I  WISH  someone  would  explain  to  me 
why  kissing  is  gradually  being  elimi- 
nated from  the  screen.  Years  ago,  we 
could  go  to  the  movies  and  thrill  to 
the  ecstasy  of  a  kiss,  we  could  see  love 
scenes  that  held  us  spellbound;  they 
were  cherished  in  our  memories. 

Is  the  world  getting  so  modern  that 
kissing  is  considered  old-fashioned? 
Surely,  the  censors  can't  think  that 
kissing  is  harmful — crime  wasn't  as 
prevalent,  when  more  love  scenes  were 
shown  in  the  movies,  as  it  is  today. 

I  don't  expect  this  letter  to  sway  the 
censors,  but  I  just  want  to  join  the 
silent  multitude  who  have  the  seme 
opinion  I  have. 

Mrs.  Louis  Humphrey, 
St.  Paul,  Minn. 

HOLLYWOOD  TAKES  THE  RAP 

WHAT'S  all  this  panning  of  Carole 
Lombard  just  because  she  didn't  smear 
her  face  with  make-up  and  glamorize 
her  hair  in  "In  Name  Only"? 

At  the  time  that  picture  was  being 
cast,  I  well  remember  reading  some- 
thing to  the  effect  that  Miss  Lombard 
requested  specifically  that  Kay  Francis 


PHOTOPLAY 


'fev^fifc^ 


be  given  the  role  of  the  wife.  Now,  we 
all  know  what  a  good  sport  Miss  Fran- 
cis has  been  all  through  her  troubles 
with  poor  pictures,  and  what  a  fine 
actress  she  really  is.  Also,  we  all  well 
know  how  beautiful  and  glamorous 
Carole  Lombard  can  be,  and  how  "reg- 
ular" she  is  in  real  life. 

Not  that  Miss  Francis  needed  it,  but 
I  wouldn't  be  one  bit  surprised  if  the 
sporting  Miss  Lombard  didn't  deliber- 
ately submerge  her  own  glamour  to 
give  Miss  Francis  a  fighting  chance, 
since  it  was  a  comeback  picture — and 
for  a  grand  star — in  a  supporting  role! 
More  power  to  the  producer  and  direc- 
tor who  let  her  do  it,  because  it  didn't 
detract  a  bit  from  the  splendid  story — 
her  being  an  u?isirenish  "other  woman." 
I  don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  such 
a  true-to-life  story,  so  perfectly  cast 
and  so  splendidly  played. 

Sometimes  I  wonder  if  much-ma- 
ligned Hollywood  doesn't  take  the  rap 
for  a  lot  of  plain  stupidity  on  the  part 
of  us  movie-goers! 

Mrs.  J.  H.  Willis, 
West  Los  Angeles,  Calif. 

LO.  THE  TIRED  BUSINESS  WOMAN! 

I  HERE  is  some  excuse  for  the  "leg  art" 
stills  of  girls,  but  what  is  the  object 
of  showing  us  male  stars,  both  in  films 
and  in  stills,  needlessly  and  too  fre- 
quently almost  naked? 

If  producers  imagine  that  the  Tired 
Business  Woman  is  thirsting  to  undress 
her  favorite  star  and  gloat  over  his  con- 
tours, they  are  making  the  common 
mistake  of  judging  other  people's  tastes 
by  their  own.  Men  like  to  see  pretty 
legs,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  women 
do.  Besides,  what  makes  men  imagine 
that  their  limbs  are  worth  seeing? 

Were  they  commonly  like  Jon  Hall 
or  Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.  this  fashion  for 
male  nudity  would  be  tolerable,  but 
there  are  very  few  who  do  not  look 
far  better  clothed.  Many  an  actor  who 
appears  handsome  while  camouflaged 
in  the  universal  tweed  uniform  is  a 
hideous  disappointment  when  deprived 
of  it.  Then  is  revealed  a  pair  of  skinny 
legs,  a  pallid  skin  dotted  with  bristles 
like  a  badly  plucked  fowl,  a  slight 
"corporation,"  a  concave  chest,  arms 
without  muscle,  or  a  prominent  Adam's 
apple.  If  it  is  the  actors  themselves 
who  insist  upon  these  poses,  their  van- 
ity must  indeed  be  colossal. 

I  suggest  that,  if  they  must  strip 
tease,  they  should  first  take  a  course 
in  physical  training. 

Bertha  Barwis, 
London,  England. 

SINGING  ACTOR— OR  VICE  VERSA 

RECENTLY,  I  walked  out  of  a  theater 
feeling  more  elated  and  full  of  happi- 
ness than  I  have  felt  for  a  long  time. 
The  reason?  The  picture  I  had  seen 
was  "The  Great  Victor  Herbert."  I 
have  now  seen  it  five  times  and  hope 
to  see  it  again  in  the  future.  The  music 
was  captivating,  Mary  Martin  is  one  of 
the  year's  greatest  finds  and  the  same 
goes  for  Susanna  Foster,  but  none  of 
these  is  the  reason  for  my  joy.  It  was 
Allan  Jones,  my  favorite  of  favorites. 
I  saw  him  in  "A  Night  at  the  Opera" 
quite  a  while  ago  and,  since  then,  I 
have  followed  his  career  with  interest. 
During  the  long  period  in  which  he 
was  idle  and  more  or  less  forgotten  by 
his  public,  I  prayed  continually  for  him 
to  get  the  break  he  so  deserved.    Then, 


finally,  after  almost  two  years  of  wait- 
ing, it  came.  He  has  a  superb  voice 
and  has  proved  to  be  a  wonderful  actor. 
In  this  picture,  he  actually  seemed  to 
live  the  part  and  left  you  with  tears  in 
your  eyes,  deeply  moved  by  his  touch- 
ing performance.  Who  said  singers 
never  made  good  actors?  I  would  like 
to  see  him  teamed  with  Mary  Martin 
again,  and  please  won't  you  print  more 
articles  about  him? 

Harriet  Heath, 
Williamsport,  Pa. 

FOR  MEN  ONLY? 

I  READ  with  interest  the  letter  from 
a  reader  in  Illinois  insisting  that  Doro- 
thy Lamour  should  have  her  hair  cut 
if  she  ever  expects  to  amount  to  any- 
thing in  pictures. 

I  am  a  man  and  I  disagree  intensely 
with  the  advice.  Moreover,  I  think  I 
express  the  sentiment  of  most  men, 
because  almost  every  man  likes  long 
hair.  If  Dorothy  Lamour  should  cut 
her  hair,  she  would  look  like  millions  of 
other  women  in  this  country,  while,  as 
she  is,  she  is  one  of  the  most  (if  not 
the  most)  beautiful  girls  in  Hollywood. 

I  could  add  that,  if  Hollywood  pro- 
ducers had  more  feminine-looking  girls 
in  the  movies,  they  would  have  more 
manly  men  looking  at  the  movies. 

And  I  could  add  that  I  think  Dorothy 
Lamour  is  doing  pretty  well  for  her- 
self "as  is." 

Frank  Julien, 
Charlotte,  N.  C. 

TRANS-PACIFIC  PICTURES 

I  AM  taking  the  liberty  of  sending  you 
some  photographs  of  our  leading  mo- 
tion-picture actors  and  actresses. 

This  idea  occurred  to  me  some  time 
ago.  First  of  all,  I  am  the  still  photog- 
rapher of  the  Filippine  Films,  Inc., 
Manila,  leading  motion-picture  com- 
pany of  the  Philippines;  second,  your 
magazine  is  the  most  popular  here,  es- 
pecially picturing  the  latest  films  and 
also  snowing  the  latest  fashions. 

Perhaps,  since  production  of  motion 
(Continued  on  page  87) 


"The  Colbert  of  the  Philippines" 
is  Mina  de  Gracia,  photographed  by 
reader    Murillo   (see   letter   above] 


JEAN  ARTHUR 

FRED  MELVYN 

MacMURRAY  •  DOUGLAS 

Directed  by  WESLEY  RUGGLES    •    Screen  play  by  CLAUDE  BINYON 
Based  on  the  play  by  W.  Somerset  Maugham  •  A  COLUMBIA  PICTURE 


APRIL,      I  940 


*   INDICATES    PICTURE    WAS    ONE    OF    THE 
BEST    OF   THE    MONTH    WHEN    REVIEWED 


*M  V 


av>( 


\0 


ALLEGHENY  UPRISING-RKO-Radio 

Before  the  American  Revolution  the  Allegheny  Valley  settlers 
worked  up  a  rebellion  to  keep  industrialists  from  seiling  ammunition 
to  the  Indians.  John  Wayne  plays  the  leader  of  the  protesting 
settlers  and  Claire  Trevor  adds  the  romance.  Recommended  with 
reservations.    (Jan.) 

ALL  WOMEN  HAVE  SECRETS-Paramount 

A  college  picture  in  which  football  gives  way  to  the  problems  of 
undergraduate  marriages.  The  story  revolves  around  the  marital 
woes  of  Joseph  Allen,  Jr.,  and  Jean  Cagney;  John  Arledge  and  Betty 
Moran;  Peter  Hayes  and  Virginia  Dale.    (Jan.) 

•  AMAZING  MR.  WILLIAMS,  THE-Columbia 

Melvyn  Dougla*  carries  off  his  role  of  a  slap-happy  detective 
with  much  zest,  but  Joan  Blondell,  his  sweetheart,  can't  be  too 
happy  when  every  date  is  broken  because  of  a  murder.  Edward 
Brophy,  a  convicted  criminal,  Ruth  Donnelly  and  others  add  to  the 
fun.    Full  of  laughs. 

•  ANOTHER  THIN  MAN-M-G-M 

Bill  Powell's  first  since  his  illness — and  it's  amusing.  As  usual, 
the  Myrna  Loy-Powell  family,  now  blessed  with  a  baby,  sparkles 
with  smart  talk.  Bill,  of  course,  gets  mixed  up  in  another  murder 
mystery  in  which  C.  Aubrey  Smith  is  the  victim  and  his  daughter, 
Virginia  Grey,  complicates  the  plot.  Otto  Kruger  is  the  D.  A., 
aided  and  hindered  by  Nat  Pendleton.    (Jan.) 

*  BAD  LITTLE  ANGEL-M-G-M 

It's  a  touchy  subject,  religion;  but  Virginia  VVeidler  has  made  this 
an  inspirational  film.  She's  an  orphan  whose  faith  lias  its  effect  on 
adults.  Gene  Reynold,  foils  for  her;  Guy  Kibbee,  Ian  Hunter  and 
Henry  Hull  contribute.    (Jan.) 

*  BALALAIKA-M-G-M 

The  title  is  the  name  of  a  cafe  in  Russia  in  1914  where  Cossack 
Prince  Nelson  Eddy  comes  upon  the  stunning  Ilona  Massey  of  the 
g.rgeous  voice.  There's  a  revolutionist  plot,  the  war,  and  Paris 
after  the  war.  Eddy  does  a  fine  job  and  is  in  perfect  voice.  Ilona  is 
a  discovery  and  an  important  one.    You'll  like  this.    (Jan.) 

BARRICADE-20th  Century-Fox 

A  hodge-podge — but  Alice  Faye,  Warner  Baxter  and  Charles 
Winninger  do  beautiful  jobs  with  their  material.  It's  about  a  for- 
gotten American  consul  in  China  whose  station  is  used  by  brigands, 
a  reporter  and  a  girl  evading  a  murder  charge.  (March) 

BEWARE  SPOOKS-Columbia 

Rookie  cop  Joe  E.  Brown  is  assigned  to  catch  Marc  Lawrence, 
bank  robber,  but  Joe's  off  on  his  honeymoon  with  Mary  Carlisle. 
At  the  resort,  however,  he  runs  up  against  some  murders,  and 
there's  a  climax  in  a  spook  house.    Boo!    (Jan.) 

BIG  GUY,  THE— Universal 

Jackie  Cooper,  working  on  his  inventions  in  a  garage,  manages 
to  stay  out  of  trouble  until  he  gets  involved  in  a  jail  break  which 
uses  warden  Victor  McLaglen  as  a  shield.  Power,  emotional 
appeal  and  the  Cooper-McLaglen  teamwork  raise  this  above  the 
average  prison  picture.  (Feb.) 


SHADOW     STAGE 

THIS   ISSUE 

Page 
ABE  LINCOLN  IN  ILLINOIS-RKO-Radio 

ADVENTURE  IN  DIAMONOS-Paramoant  68 

BAKER'S  WIFE,  THE— Pagnol  Prod.     ...  94 
BLUE  BIRO,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox              .68 

BROADWAY  MELODY  OF  1940—  M-G-M       .  68 

DR.  EHRLICH'S  MAGIC  BULLET-Warners  69 

FIGHT  FOR  LIFE,  THE-United  States  Film    .  95 

GRAPES  OF  WRATH,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox  68 

HE  MARRIED  HIS  WIFE— 20th  Century-Fox  .  94 

HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  BAY,  THE— Wanger-U.A.  69 

I  TAKE  THIS  WOMAN-M-G-M     ...  94 

LION  HAS  WINGS,  THE-Korda-U.  A.  94 

LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK-20th  Century-Fox  95 

LONE  WOLF  STRIKES,  THE-Columbia       .  94 

MAN  FROM  DAKOTA,  THE-M-G-M       .  69 
MAN    WHO   WOULDN'T   TALK,   THE— 20th 

Century-Fox 95 

MUSIC  IN  MY  HEART-Columbia  .95 

MY  LITTLE  CHICKADEE-Universal    ...  95 

OUTSIDER,  THE-Alliance 95 

PINOCCHIO-RKO-Radio 69 

SAINT'S    DOUBLE    TROUBLE,    THE-RKO- 

Radio 94 

SOUTH  OF  THE  BOROER-Republic  95 

SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON-RKO-Radio      .  69 

VIGIL  IN  THE  NIGHT-RKO-Radio  95 


BLONDIE  BRINGS  UP  BABY-Columbia 

Dagwood  Bumpstead  loses  his  job;  Baby  Dumpling  loses  the  dog 
Daisy  and  goes  off  to  find  her.  Whereupon  the  original  catastrophe 
pales  into  insignificance.  Penny  Singleton,  Arthur  Lake  and  Larry 
Sirnms  remain  the  Bumps/eads.    (Jan.) 

*  BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY-Warners 

This  sequel  to  that  original  rib-cracker  makes  for  delicious 
comedy.  Wayne  Morris,  the  "fixer,"  gets  Eddie  Albert  a  coaching 
job,  but  the  baby  (remember  Eddie  was  secretly  married  to  Jane 
Bryan)  gums  up  everything.  Priscilla  Lane,  Jane  Wyman,  Ronald 
Reagan  and  young  Peter  B.  Good  will  have  sou  yelling  for  more. 
(March) 

CAFE  HOSTESS— Columbia 

There's  a  lot  of  action  (including  a  fine  brawl)  in  this  rather 
sordid  story,  which  presents  Ann  Dvorak  as  "hostess"  who  picks 
the  pockets  of  her  partners — until  sailor  Preston  Foster  catches  her 
at  it.  Then  the  fun  begins.  (Feb.) 

CALLING  PHILO  VANCE-Warners 

Philo  Vance's  patriotism  is  surpassed  only  by  his  ingenuity 
in  this  mystery  which  has  to  do  with  selling  secret  airplane  plans 
to  foreign  powers.  Henry  Stephenson  lacks  the  suavity  we've  come 
to  expect  of  Vance.  Henry  O'Neill,  Margot  Stevenson  and  Edward 
Brophy  carry  on  in  hackneyed  roles.  (March) 

CHARLIE  MCCARTHY,  DETECTIVE-Universal 


■  '■:.  ■■   . 


Snerd  going  whimsical  all  over 


CHILD  IS  BORN,  A-Warners 


A  re-make  of  that  maternity  ward  drama,  "Life  Begins,"  with 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  portraying  the  prospective  mother  who  is  re- 
leased from  prison  to  have  her  baby.  Spring  Byington,  Jeffrey 
Lynn,  Gladys  George  and  many  others  are  well  cast.   (March) 

CISCO  KID  AND  THE  LADY,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

'Cesar  Romero  fills  Warner  Baxter's  boots  as  the  Cisco  Kid  with 
grace  and  humor,  Virginia  Field  is  fine  as  a  dance-hall  girl,  and 
Gloria  Ann  White  is  a  pleasant  child.  But  they  didn't  have  much 
to  work  with  in  this  story  of  how  the  Kid  and  his  band  save  a 
mine  for  a  little  orphan.  (Feb.) 

CITY  IN  DARKNESS— 20th  Century-Fox 

Just  another  Charlie  Chan  picture,  with  Sidney  Toler  solving 
mysteries  in  Paris  during  the  blackouts.  Lynn  Ban  is  in  it,  too, 
but  the  result  is  only  fairish.  (Feb.) 

•  CONGO  MAISIE-M-G-M 

Gorgeous  comedy,  with  stars  Ann  Sothern  and  John  Carroll 
capably  backed  up  by  Rita  Johnson  and  Shepperd  Strudwick. 
The  scene  is  laid  at  the  medical  post  of  a  rubber  plantation,  where 
a  former  surgeon  gets  mixed  up  with  a  stranded  show  girl  who 
helps  him  subdue  mayhem-minded  witch  doctors.  You'll  like  this. 
(March). 

COVERED  TRAILER,  THE-Republic 

The  best  Higgins  Family  film  to  date.  Pa  (James  Gleason) 
wants  to  vacation  in  South  America,  but  Ma  (Lucile  Gleason) 
bungles  everything,  as  usual,  and  they  have  to  sneak  off  in  a  trailer 
for  their  holiday.  What  with  a  bank  robbery  and  false  reports, 
things  go  rapidly  from  bad  to  worse.   (Feb.) 

*  DAY-TIME  WIFE-20th  Century-Fox 

The  old  secretary-wife-husband  triangle,  done  very  entertain- 
ingly. Tyrone  Power  is  at  his  gay  best  as  the  erring  husband, 
Linda  Darnell  registers  as  his  wife,  Wendy  Barrie  as  his  pretty 
secretary,  Warren  William  complicates  the  plot,  and  Binnie  Barnes 
helps  to  straighten  it  out  again.  (Feb.) 

*  DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN-Universal 

This  honey  of  a  Western  has  Brian  Donlevy  as  a  frontier  crime 
king,  with  Marlene  Dietrich  as  his  honky-tonk  queen.  Enter 
Jimmy  Stewart  in  the  title  role,  determined  to  clean  up  the  town 
without  shootin'  irons.  Festivities  are  also  helped  along  by  Una 
Merkel,  Mischa  Auer  and  Irene  Hervey,  but  Jimmy,  Marlene  and 
Charlie  Winninger  are  something  terrific!  (Feb.) 

*  DRUMS  ALONG  THE  MOHAWK-20th  Century-Fox 

Claudette  Colbert  and  Henry  Fonda  are  at  their  best  in  this 
saga  of  the  heroism  of  up-state  New  York  pioneers  in  their  fights 
against  the  Indians.  Edna  May  Oliver  is  superb  in  the  role  of  the 
widow  who  takes  Hank  and  his  bride  in  when  the  Mohawks  burn 
their  home.  Well  worth  seeing.  (Jan.) 

-k  EARL  OF  CHICAGO,  THE-M-G-M 

Something  new — and  it's  grand.  Robert  Montgomery,  a  Chicago 
gangster,  inherits  a  title  and  estates  from  an  English  ancestor 
and  goes  abroad  to  liquidate  them.  Up  against  tradition,  you 
watch  the  conflict  between  the  man  he  is  and  the  man  he  might 
have  been.  Edward  Arnold  plays  the  financial  adviser  Mont- 
gomery double-crosses.   There's  no  love  interest.   (March) 

if  END  OF  A  DAY-Juno  Films 

Poignant  drama,  this  French  film  dealing  with  a  group  of  aged 
Thespians  living  in  the  memories  of  past  triumphs.  Fine  cast, 
headed  by  Victor  Francen,  Louis  Jouvet  and  Michel  Simon.  (Jan.) 

•  ENTENTE  CORDIALE-Glass 

Victor  Francen  does  superb  work  in  the  role  of  Edward  VII  of 
England — that  royal  playboy  whose  love  for  Paris  brought  about 
the  friendly  alliance  between  his  country  and  France.  A  wise  and 
witty  picture,  with  Victoria  faithfully  portrayed  by  Gaby  Morlay. 
(March) 

EVERYTHING  HAPPENS  AT  NIGHT-20th  Century-Fox 

Ah,  the  pity  of  it!  Sonja  Henie  skates  only  once  in  this  triangle 
story,  with  the  usual  two  men — this  time  Ray  Milland  and  Robert 
Cummings — chasing  her  all  over  Switzerland's  icy  mountains. 
(March) 

•  FIGHTING  69th,  THE-Warners 

The  story  of  New  York's  famous  regiment  has  Jimmy  Cagney 
giving  a  memorable  performance  as  the  toughy  who  cracks  up 
under  shell  fire.  George  Brent  is  excellent,  but  it's  the  performance 
of  Pat  O'Brien,  as  the  beloved  Father  Duffy,  that  will  leave  a 
lasting  impression.  Jeffrey  Lynn,  Alan  Hale,  Dick  Foran,  Dennis 
Morgan,  William  Lundigan,  "Big  Boy"  Williams,  Frank  McHugh 
and  Sam  Levene  help  make  this  more  than  just  an  evening's  en- 
tertainment. (March) 

if  FIRST  LOVE-Universal 

What  this  lacks  in  suspense,  it  makes  up  in  gaiety  and  charm. 
Deanna  Durbin  plays  a  modern  Cinderella;  her  Prince  Charming  is 
new  Bob  Stack;  the  servants,  her  collective  Fairy  Godmother. 
Leatrice  Joy,  as  her  screwy  aunt;  Helen  Parrish,  as  the  meany 
cousin;  Eugene  Pallette,  as  the  uncle  (and  good),  and  Kathleen 
Howard,  as  the  eccentric  schoolmarm  add  to  the  film's  liveliness. 
(Jan.) 

FLYING  DEUCES,  THE-RKO-Radio 

Laurel  and  Hardy  are  up  to  their  old  tricks — this  time  as  en- 
listees of  the  Foreign  Legion.  It's  all  slap-stick.  Jean  Parker  and 
Reggie  Gardiner  add  to  the  cast.  (Jan.) 

FOUR  WIVES— Warners 

The  Lane  sisters  and  Gale  Page  carry  on  the  plot  of  "Four 
Daughters,"  but  it  isn't  as  good  this  time.  Priscilla,  widowed  by 
John  Garfield,  discovers  she's  going  to  have  his  baby — after 
marrying  Jeffrey  Lynn.  Rosemary  pursues  newcomer  Eddie 
Albert,  and  the  others  (including  May  Robson  and  Claude  Rains) 
have  their  original  roles.  (Feb.) 

(Continued  on  page  S) 


PHOTOPLAY 


CW  Wl 


Original  Screen  Play  by  Robert  Buckner  •  Music  by  Max  Steiner  •  A  Warner  Bros.  First  National  Picture 


"Have  you  ever  wished  for  a 

BRAND 
NEW  SKIN? 

f|  Well,  you're  going  to  get  one!" 


i/WWWl/WWl 


Just  beneath  your  present  skin  lies  a 
Lovelier  You !  Help  reveal  your  new 
beauty  to  the  world  with  my  4-Purpose 
Face  Cream! 

EVERY  SECOND  that  you  live  and  breathe 
a  new-born  skin  is  coming  to  life  upon 
your  face— your  arms— your  whole  body! 
Will  it  flatter  you— be  soft  and  lovely— 
make  you  look  more  youthful?  Yes,  says 
Lady  Esther,  that  new-born  skin  can  bring 
you  a  new-born  beauty— if— 

If  only  you  will  let  my  4-Purpose  Face 
Cream  help  you  to  free  your  skin  from 
those  tiny,   invisible   flakes  of  worn-out 


(Continued  from  page  6) 


that  must  be  removed  gently  before 


your  new-born  skin  will  be  revealed  in  all 


its  glory! 

For  these  almost  invisible  flakes  of  old, 
worn-out  skin  can  be  the  thieves  that 
steal  your  beauty.  They  leave  little  bumps 
you  can  feel  with  your  fingertips— they 
can  make  your  complexion  look  drab  and 
dull!  My  4-Purpose  Face  Cream  gently 
and  soothingly  wafts  away  these  tiny 
flakes  — cleanses  the  very  apertures  of 
your  pores— loosens  embedded  impurities 
—leaves  your  complexion  softer— lovelier 
—more  glamorous ! 

Get  the  Truth  about  Your  Face 
Cream  from  Your  Doctor 

He  will  be  a  strange  physician  indeed  if 
he  tells  you  to  try  and  push  vitamins  or 
hormones  into  your  skin.  Ask  him  if  every 
word  Lady  Esther  says  isn't  absolutely 
true— that  her  cream  clears  away  the  dirt, 
impurities,  and  worn-out  skin  concealing 
your  new,  young  skin  about  to  be  born! 

Then,  says  Lady  Esther,  try  my  face 
cream  at  my  expense.  Use  it  faithfully  for 
thirty  days.  See  what  a  perfect  base  it 
makes  for  your  powder.  See  how  it  does 
help  reveal  your  glamorous  new  skin  — 
how  it  does  help  you  to  keep  your  Accent 
on  Youth! 


Accept  Lady  Esther's  10  DAY  Sample  FREE  J 


(Youc 

Lady  Esther, 
7118  West  65th  St.,  Chicago,  111. 
FRFF  Please  send  me  your  gener- 
JT  AV  C  Jjr  ous  sample  tube  of  Lady 
Esther  Face  Cream;  also  ten  shades  of  Face 
Powder,  free  and  postpaid. 


GERONIMO 

Nicely  authentic 
the  cruel  Apache  I 
frontier  in  bygone 
general  who  sets  o 
Thundercloud).  Bill 
Poi 


Paramount 
ic  in  feeling, 


;  is  the  story  of 
ho  ravaged  the 

Morgan  is  the 
eronimo  (Chief 
son   from  West 


If  you  live  in  Canada,  write  Lady  Esther.  Toronto,  Ont 


Ont.         I 
vvvwww? 


*  GONE  WITH  THE  WIND— Selznick- 
M-G-M 

So  magnificent  is  this  re-creation  of  the  modern 
classic  about  the  Civil  War's  effect  on  the  South 
that  it  would  take  volumes  to  review  it  adequately. 
In  brief:  Full  justice  has  been  done  the  novel. 
Clark  Gable  IS  Rhetl.  Vivien  Leigh  is  magnificent 
as  Scarlett.  Olivia  de  Havilland  does  her  best  work 
as  Melanie.  Leslie  Howard  (Ashley)  and  the  others 
fulfill  all  expectations.  The  whole  film  is  overwhelm- 
ing, even  to  the  finest  Technicolor  yet.   (Feb.) 

GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN— Warners 

May  Robson  is  cast  as  an  indomitable  old  woman 
who  fights  for  the  safety  and  happiness  of  her 
granddaughter  (Margot  Stevenson),  when  her 
divorced  husband  (Hardie  Albright)  is  murdered. 
It's  much  ado  about  people  who  aren't  very  nice. 
(March) 

ic  GREAT  VICTOR  HERBERT,  THE— 
Paramount 

With  that  music — and  plenty  of  it — how  could  it 
fail  to  please?  Not  a  biography  of  the  composer 
(Walter  Connolly),  but  the  love  story  of  two  of  his 
stars,  fictional  characters  played  by  Allan  Jones 
and  Mary  Martin.  They're  both  great,  in  voice  and 
acting — as  is  young  Susanna  Foster.  (Feb.) 

ic  GREEN  HELL— Universal 

Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.  is  exploring  the  South 
American  jungle  for  Inca  treasure  when  Joan 
Bennett,  widow  of  one  of  his  men,  arrives.  Between 
the  struggle  over  this  one  pretty  girl  in  a  group  of 
rough  men  (grand  actors  all)  and  Indian  hostiles, 
everybody   has  a  most  exciting  time.     (Feb.) 

-k  GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS— Fleischer- 
Paramount 
Sweet  music  and  the  still-pungent  satire  of  the 
original  Jonathan  Swift  classic  are  only  two  of  the 
many  virtues  of  this  full-length  animated  color 
cartoon.  Story,  of  course,  is  that  of  Gulliver,  ship- 
wrecked among  six-inch-high  Lilliputians,  and 
how  he  settles  their  foolish  little  war — with  a  Lilli- 
putian romance  thrown  in  for  good  measure.  (Feb.) 


ic  HARVEST— Marcel  Pagnol 

Depth  of  spirit  and  soundness  of  characteriza- 
tion highlight  this  French  glorification  of  the 
simple  life.  Gabriel  Gabrio  is  a  farmer  who  remains 
faithful  to  the  good  earth  and  becomes  almost  a 
hermit,  until  Orane  Demazis  joins  him  and  they 
prove  what  honest  labor  can  accomplish.  (Feb.) 

HENRY  GOES  ARIZONA— M-G-M 

Vaudevillian  Frank  Morgan  inherits  an  Arizona 
ranch  when  his  half-brother  is  murdered  by  a  gang 
who  wants  the  property.  Virginia  Weidler  bosses 
the  ranch  while  Frank  sees  that  justice  is  done. 
There  you  have  it.  (March) 

*  HIGH  SCHOOL— 20th  Century-Fox 

The  first  of  a  one-school-picture-a-year  plants 
Jane  Withers  in  San  Antonio's  famous  Jefferson 
High  where  her  uncle  is  principal.  She  thinks  she's 
big  potatoes  till  the  kids  snub  her  down  to  her  size. 
Joe  E.  Brown,  Jr.  adds  to  the  film's  merits.  (March) 

ic  HIS   GIRL   FRIDAY— Columbia 


editor  Cary  Grant.  His  attempts  to  keep  her  on 
the  job  with  exciting  assignments  —  and  from 
marrying  Ralph  Bellamy  — ■  create  complications. 
but  it's  the  witty  performances  which  put  this 
over.  (Feb.) 

HONEYMOON'S  OVER,  THE— 20th  Century- 
Fox 

Stuart  Erwin  and  Marjorie  Weaver  are  teamed 
in  this  unassuming  but  brisk  and  often  amus- 
ing film.  The  two,  as  newlyweds,  go  into  debt  try- 
ing to  keep  up  with  the  country-club  set,  with  re- 
sultant situations  straight  from  life.  (Feb.) 

HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  THE— 
RKO-Radio 

Charles  Laughton  is  the  hunchback  of  Victor 
Hugo's  imagination  and  emerges  as  the  pitiful  bell 
ringer  who  found  in  his  warped  soul  a  quality 
called  compassion.  Maureen  O'Hara  is  pretty  as 
the  gypsy.  Edmond  O'Brien  and  Sir  Cedric  Hard- 
wicke  give  excellent  accounts  of  themselves. 
(March) 

*  INDIANAPOLIS  SPEEDWAY— Warners 
Smash-bang  entertainment  in  which  Pat  O'Brien 
is  cast  as  a  cocky  racing  driver  who  wants  to  help 
his  kid  brother,  John  Payne,  at  the  racing  game,  but 
gets  mad  at  him  when  he  falls  for  Ann  Sheridan. 
There's  an  accidental  killing  when  Pat  gets  drunk, 
and  some  wonderful  racing  shots.    (Jan.) 

+  INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE— 
Universal 

It's  fascinating,  this  monstrosity  of  a  plot  in 
which  Vincent  Price  is  to  be  executed  for  the  mur- 
der of  his  brother.  A  doctor  (John  Sutton)  uses  a 
formula  to  make  Price  totally  invisible.  What 
happens  after  that  will  give  you  a  permanent  up- 
coiffure.   (March) 

INVISIBLE  STRIPES— Warners 

What  happens  when  an  ex-convict  returns  to  the 
living  and  finds  he  isn't  wanted  is  graphically 
portrayed  with  George  Raft  wearing  the  invisible 
stripes.  The  story  has  new  twists — and  Jane  Bryan. 
William  Holden  plays  George's  weak  younger 
brother.  (March) 

JOE  AND  ETHEL  TURP  CALL  ON  THE 
PRESIDENT— M-G-M 
Joe  (William  Gargan)  and  Ethel  (Ann  Sothern; 
get  prett/  mad  when  their  veteran  postman  gets 
fired,  so  they  go  right  to  Washington  to  protest. 
It's  a  bit  dull  in  spots,  but  Lewis  Stone  is  swell 
as  the  President  and  Annie's  great,  too.  First  of  a 
new  series?  (Feb.) 

ic  JUDGE  HARDY  AND  SON— M-G-M 

This  series  gets  better  with  each  new  chapter. 
Mickey  Rooney  finds  himself  in  difficulties  when  he 
is  too  cocksure  of  winning  a  cash  prize  for  an  essay. 
But  financial  disaster  is  averted  when  he  finds  the 
missing  daughter  of  his  father's  client.  Martha 
O'Driscoll,  a  new  character,  is  good,  and  you  know 
what  to  expect  from  Mickey  and  Lewis  Stone.  (Jan.) 

LAW  OF  THE  PAMPAS— Paramount 

Another  Hopalong  Cassidy,  in  which  Bill  Boyd  is 
assigned  to  deliver  cattle  in  South  America,  and  un- 
covers two  murders  en  route.  There's  romance  in 
the.  person  of  Steffi  Duna.  Sidney  Blackmer  and 
Pedro  de  Cordoba  help  a  lot.    (Jan.) 

LEGION  OF  THE  LAWLESS— RKO-Radio 

With  the  usual  business  about  a  lawless  town,  a 
horde  of  vigilantes,  and  a  pretty  girl  (Virginia 
Vale),  this  latest  George  O'Brien  Western  turns  out 
to  be  topnotch,  full  of  pace  and  excitement.  (Feb.) 


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HEb&^l 

"She  certainly  can  can-can" — but  this  is  as  close  as  photographers  got 
to    a    pre-release    of    the    Miriam    Hopkins    scene    in    "Virginia    City" 


PHOTOPLAY 


LITTLE  ACCIDENT— Universal 

Baby  Sandy's  awfully  cute,  but  not  cute  enough 
to  carry  this.  Hugh  Herbert  is  cast  as  a  baby- 
columnist  of  a  newspaper  and  finds  Sandy  aban- 
doned in  his  office.  This  leads  to  a  contest,  in  which 
Sandy  is  entered.    (Jan.) 

:  if  MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE— RKO-Radio 

This  is  the  story  of  a  married  woman  trying  to 
:  get  back  an  old  sweetheart,  and  his  struggle  to 
keep  faith  with  his  unglamorous  wife.  Helen  Vinson 
is  the  other  woman;  Alan  Marshall  the  man,  and 
Barbara  Read  the  wife.  It's  unpretentious — and 
superior  cinema.   (March) 

MEET  DR.  CHRISTIAN— RKO-Radio 

If  you  like  a  homey  film,  this  is  your  dish.  Jean 
,  Hershult   plays  the  village   practitioner  who  heals 

with  word  as  well  as  pill.  In  the  first  of  this  series, 
I  he's  trying   to   establish   a    hospital   in   the   town. 

Marcia  Mae  Jones,  Jackie  Moran,  Dorothy  Lovett, 
,  Robert  Baldwin  and  Paul  Harvey  support.    (Jan.) 

it  MEXICAN  SPITFIRE— RKO-Radio 

Pure  slapstick,  with  no  compromise.  Lupe  Velez 
I  comes  from  Mexico  as  the  bride  of  Donald  Woods, 

I  scion  of  a  rich  family  who  give  Lupe  the  lorgnon 
treatment.  Leon  Errol  is  excellent  in  a  dual  role 
of  an  English  lord  and  Donald's  eccentric  uncle. 
Elisabeth  Risdon  and  Linda  Hayes  play  the  nasty 
'  aunt  and  previous  fiancee.  (March) 

MUTINY  IN  THE  BIG  HOUSE— Monogram 

Based  on  a  Colorado  prison  riot  of  1929,  Charles 
Bickford  plays  a  priest  who  sacrifices  self  for  un- 
fortunate criminals.      Dennis   Moore  and    Barton 
f  MacLane  do  especially  good  work.    (Jan.) 

NICK  CARTER.  MASTER  DETECTIVE— 
M-G-M 
— or,  Dime  Novel  Hero  Comes  to  the  Screen  at 
Last.  Walter  Pidgeon  plays  the  title  role  and  tracks 
down  the  missing  rocket-ship  blueprints,  while 
Rita  Johnson  flies  the  plane  for  him,  after  a  terrific 
gun  battle  in  the  desert.  (Feb.) 

'  NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS.  THE— Paramount 

I  Lugubrious  Laugh-Clown-Laugh  story  with  Pat 
O'Brien  playing  Pagliacci  so  his  little  girl,  Olympe 
Bradna,  won't  know  how  low  he's  sunk.  Pretty  good 

I  until  the  last  half,  when  it  bogs  down  with  its  own 

1  pathos.  (Feb.) 

I  ^  OF  MICE  AND  MEN— Roach-U.A. 

1  John  Steinbeck's  wormwood-and-sugar  story  re- 
mains gripping  despite  censorship.  Burgess 
Meredith  is  George,  the  wandering  ranch  worker 
who  befriends  poor  Lennie.  (Lon  Chaney,  Jr.)  — 
who  doesn't  know  his  own  strength  and  winds  up  a 
murderer.  They're  swell,  and  so  are  Charles  Bick- 
ford and  Bob  Steele.  (Feb.) 

OH.  JOHNNY.  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE— 
Universal 
A  slap-happy  little  ditty  in  which  traveling  sales- 
man Tom  Brown  gets  mixed  up  with  heiress  Peggy 
Moran.  gangster  Allen  Jenkins  and  a  tourist  camp. 
You'll  remember  Betty  Jane  Rhodes  singing  the 
title  song.  (March) 

ON  YOUR  TOES— Warners 

Broadway's  musical  suffers  as  filmfare.  Eddie 
Albert  plays  the  hoofer  who  writes  a  great  American 
Ballet,  joins  up  with  a  traveling  Russian  company 
and  falls  for  the  premiere  danseuse,  Zorina.  The 
ballets  are  delightful.    (Jan.) 

OUR  NEIGHBORS.  THE  CARTERS— 

Paramount 

More  small-town  melodrama,  with  Mr.  Average 
Citizen  having  his  troubles  keeping  a  family  to- 
gether. Frank  Craven  and  Fay  Bainter  carry  the 
burden  of  the  story.  Edmund  Lowe,  Genevieve 
Tobin  and  others  carry  on. 

PRIDE  OF  THE  BLUEGRASS— Warners 

This  is  the  story  of  a  blind  horse,  but  added  to  the 
pathos  there's  laughter  and  warm  sentimentality. 
Edith  Fellows,  James  McCallion  and  Granville 
Bates  are  the  troupers. 

*  RAFFLES— Goldwyn-U.A. 

It's  the  same  old  story,  but  it's  still  swell  drama. 
This  time  David  Niven  is  the  suave  Raffles,  Olivia 
de  Havilland  his  fiancee,  and  Dudley  Digges  the 
inspector.  You  remember.  Raffles  decides  to  reform 
when  he  meets  Olivia,  but  her  brother  (Douglas 
Walton)  is  in  trouble,  so  Raffles  goes  on  the  prowl 
again.  (March) 

REMEMBER?— M-G-M 

This  has  sparkling  moments — but  the  trio, 
Robert  Taylor,  Greer  Garson,  Lew  Ayres,  deserves 
more.  Bob  is  an  advertising  genius  who  steals  Greer 
away  from  her  fiance.  Lew.  They  marry,  fight, 
divorce,  but  Lew  doses  them  up  with  a  drug  that 
makes  them  forget.  Whereupon  the  piece  becomes 
a  bedroom  farce.    (Jan.) 

REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT— Paramount 

Even  Fred  MacMurray  and  Barbara  Stanwyck 
can't  pull  this  out  of  the  average  class.  He's  a 
District  Attorney.  She's  a  wayward  girl  whom  he 
exposes  to  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  back  home 
in  Indiana  with  Mother,  Beulah  Bondi — after 
which  the  anticipated  reform  sets  in.  (Feb.) 

RENO— RKO-Radio 

Intended  to  be  an  epic  of  Reno  when  it  was  a 
silver  mining  town,  Richard  Dix  brings  this  up  to 
date  by  thinking  up  the  "Easy  Divorce"  plan.  His 
wife,  Gail  Patrick,  takes  advantage  of  it,  as  does  his 
daughter,  Anita  Louise.   Picture  lacks  pace.    (Jan.) 

SCANDAL  SHEET— Columbia 

This  is  completely  wacky.  Otto  Kruger  is  a  news- 
paper publisher  with  a  secret  son  (Eddie  Norris);  a 
girl  friend  (Ona  Munson);  and  a  penchant  for  homi- 
cide. He  kills  off  one  of  his  employees  to  get  records 
of  Norris'  birth.    (Jan.) 


SECRET  OF  DR.  KILDARE.  THE— M-G-M 

Lew  Ayres  is  still  the  young  assistant  doctor, 
assigned  this  time  to  find  out  what's  the  matter  with 
Helen  Gilbert,  an  heiress.  When  Lionel  Barrymore 
collapses  (for  the  sake  of  the  plot)  Lew  pretends  he's 
more  interested  in  the  heiress'  millions  than  in  his 
work,  so  his  chief  will  take  a  rest.  Laraine  Day  is 
still  the  young  doctor's  sweetheart.    (Jan.) 

*  SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER,  THE— 

M-G-M 

This  is  a  gem,  packed  with  charm,  superb  acting 
and  the  inimitable  Lubitsch  touch.  It's  a  simple 
story — about  a  boy  and  girl  (Jimmy  Stewart  and 
Margaret  Sullavan)  who  are  employees  working  in 
a  gift  shop  and  find  romance  by  writing  to  an  un- 
known sweetheart  through  a  correspondence 
agency.  Of  course  they  discover  they  are  writing 
to  each  other.  Frank  Morgan  is  superb  in  a 
straight  role.  (March) 

•k  SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON— Mayflower- 
Paramount 
Even  in  pre-GWTW  days  Vivien  Leigh  was 
being  a  Scarlett  O  llara  character  (to  Charles 
Laughton  this  time)  in  the  story  of  a  girl  who,  by 
ruthless  determination,  succeeds  in  rising  above  the 
lowly  "busking"  (those  London  sidewalk  enter- 
tainers) profession.  There  are  magnificent  scenes 
between  Leigh  and  Laughton.   (March) 

*  SLIGHTLY   HONORABLE— Wanger-U.A. 

Murder  and  comedy  all  mixed  up,  this  has  Pat 
O'Brien  as  the  engaging  attorney  plotting  the 
downfall  of  political  boss  Edward  Arnold.  When 
Arnold's  sweetheart,  then  Pat's  secretary  are  killed 
things  look  bad  for  Pat.  You'll  be  mad  about  Ruth 
Terry,  the  naive  little  singer  who  pursues  Pat. 
Broderick  Crawford  helps  the   plot.   (March) 

SMASHING  THE  MONEY  RING— Warners 

A  piece  about  prison  and  convicts — and  a  par- 
ticularly exciting  jail  break.  Ronald  Reagan  plays 
G-Man;  Eddie  Foy  offers  comedy,  and  Margot 
Stevenson  furnishes  romance.    (Jan.) 

SUED  FOR  LIBEL— RKO-Radio 

A  murder  picture  with  a  new  twist.  Morgan  Con- 
way is  acquitted  of  murder.  Reporter  Linda  Hayes 
pulls  a  trick  on  a  rival  pressman  by  telling  him  the 
verdict's  "guilty."  Kent  Taylor  dramatizes  the 
thing  on  the  air  and  Conway  sues.  Linda  and  Kent 
dig  into  his  past  and  find  he's  plenty  guilty.    (Jan.) 

if  SWANEE  RIVER— 20th  Century-Fox 

Here's  the  life  of  Stephen  Foster,  who  wrote 
such  songs  as  "Oh,  Susannah!"  "  My  Old  Kentucky 
Home,"  "Jeanie  with  the  Light  Brown  Hair.' 
You'll  hear  them  all  in  this,  with  Don  Ameche 
playing  the  role  of  composer,  Andrea  Leeds  con- 
tributing to  romance  and  Al  Jolson  doing  a  grand 
minstrel  man.   (March) 

THAT  THEY  MAY  LIVE— Mayer-Burstyn 

A  strong  dose  of  propaganda — a  World  War 
veteran  is  convinced  that  his  comrades  have  not 
died  in  vain.  When  the  call  to  arms  comes  again,  he 
turns  to  the  War  dead.  They  arise,  mutilated  and 
bloody,  and  accuse  the  world  of  breaking  its  pledge 
for  peace.    Victor  Francen  is  splendid.    (Jan.) 

THAT'S  RIGHT— YOU'RE  WRONG— RKO- 
Radio 

Kay  Kyser  brings  his  College  of  Musical  Knowl- 
edge to  the  screen  with  a  better  story  and  better 
support  than  radio  stars  usually  get.  The  result  is 
pleasant  and  Kyser  proves  to  be  a  screenable  per- 
sonality as  the  band  leader  whose  group  goes  Holly- 
wood on  him.  With  Adolphe  Menjou.   (Feb.) 

it  THE  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED— Paramount 

This  new  version  of  Kipling's  novel  is  a  four- 
handkerchief  film.  Ronald  Colman,  a  successful 
artist,  rinds  himself  going  blind  from  an  old 
Sudanese  battle  injury,  paints  one  last  master- 
piece of  Ida  Lupino — then  she  destroys  it.  Colman, 
Walter  Huston  (as  his  friend)  and  the  photography 
are  superb.  (Feb.) 

THOSE  HIGH  GREY  WALLS— Columbia 

This  is  a  psychological  study  of  a  fear  trauma. 
Walter  Connolly  is  sent  to  prison  for  doctoring  a 
wounded  convict.  And  it's  the  prison  physician, 
Onslow  Stevens,  who  has  the  fear  complex.  Con- 
nolly gives  his  usual  fine  performance.    (Jan.) 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL— Republic 

Religion  is  usually  taboo  on  the  screen,  but  this 
deals  with  a  Protestant  minister  who  takes  the 
confession  of  a  murderer  when  a  priest  can't  get 
there  to  do  it.  Charles  Bickford  plays  the  minister. 
(March) 

TOWER   OF   LONDON— Universal 

English  history  turns  out  to  be  more  gruesome 
than  a  modern  horror  film,  with  Basil  Rathbone  as 
King  Richard,  who  spends  his  time  killing  off  heirs 
to  the  thrcne,  and  Boris  Karloff  as  his  pet  ex- 
ecutioner. First-rate  mellerdrammer,  with  a  fine 
all-around  cast.  (Feb.) 

it  TWO  THOROUGHBREDS— RKO-Radio 

Fine  writing  and  beautiful  acting  prove  once 
more  what  this  studio  can  do  with  a  simple,  un- 
pretentious story  to  make  it  memorable.  Jimmy 
Lydon  gathers  special  honors  as  an  orphan  who 
finds  a  foal,  then  has  to  struggle  with  his  honor 
when  he  discovers  it  belongs  to  people  who  later 
befriend  him.   (Feb.) 

20.000  MEN  A  YEAR— 20th  Century-Fox 

Not  a  story  of  Sing  Sing,  but  of  how  Uncle  Sam 
is  training  young  men  to  fly.  Randy  Scott  plays  a 
washed-up  professional  pilot  who  takes  a  job  as 
flying  instructor,  rescues  some  lost  flyers  and  shares 
the  fade-out  with  Margaret  Lindsay.    (Jan.) 

*  WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE— Warners 

Paul  Muni  is  an  English  country  doctor  who 
befriends  a  young  Austrian  dancer  (Jane  Bryan) 
at  the  outbreak  of  the  last  war.  His  wife  (Flora 
Robson)  takes  the  wrong  pills  and  dies,  and  Paul 
and  Jane  are  accused  of  her  murder.  An  uncom- 
promising presentation  of  the  James  Hilton  story, 
with  fine  production,  direction,  acting.   (Feb.) 


Why  risk  frowns 
when  you  could  have  kisses? 


Win -and  hold -his  love  with  lasting  charm! 
Keep  safe  from  underarm  odor—  each  day  use  Mum! 


"and  HE  fell  in  love  with  her  for 
A  life!"  A  story-book  ending?  Not 
at  all!  Lasting  love  comes  in  real  life 
too... when  you're  lovely  to  be  near 
always . . .  when  you're  wise  enough  to 
let  gentle  Mum  guard  your  charm  each 
day!  Frowns— or  kisses ...  just  which 
you  get  depends  on  you! 

So  don't  take  chances— not  even 
once.  For  where  is  the  girl  who  can 
dare  risk  underarm  odor— and  expect 
to  get  away  with  it? 

Don't  expect  even  a  daily  bath  to  pre- 
vent underarm  odor!  A  bath  removes 
perspiration  that  is  past.  To  avoid  risk 
of  odor  to  come . . .  more  women  use 


Mum  than  any  other  deodorant.  Mum 
isso< 


SAVES  TIME!  Just  half  a  minute  a  day 
keeps  underarms  fresh.  And  you  can  use 
Mum  right  after  you're  dressed. 

SAVES  CLOTHES!  The  American  Insti- 
tute of  Laundering  Seal  tells  you  Mum 
won't  harm  fabrics.  And  it  does  not  harm 
your  skin. 

SAVES  ROMANCE!  Without  attempting 
to  prevent  perspiration,  Mum  prevents 
underarm  odor.  (Men  like  this  pleasant 
cream,  too.)  Get  Mum  at  your  druggist's 
today.  Use  it  for  underarms,  for  hot,  ten- 
der feet.  Mum  is  always  safe  and  sure . . . 
use  Mum  every  day! 


Avoid  Embarrassment 

Because  Mum  is  so  safe 
. . .  and  so  dependable . . . 
more  women  use  it  for 
sanitary  napkins  than 
any  other  deodorant. 


Mum 


TAKES  THE  ODOR  OUT  OF  PERSPIRATION 


MARCH  ,      I  940 


'■"<■"> 


We  predict  that  for 
many  years  to  come, 
you  will  remember 
THE  BLUE  BIRD  as 
the  most  beautiful  pic- 
ture ever  made  and 
the  most  human  story 
ever  told. 


*  fk+ 


h  Tor  • 
Mfe   j 

A    :-,«...W"li; 


W$M 


,;;;//' 


^,^£*SSft 


^c^ce  MAETERLINCK 

THE  BLUE  BIRD 

in  TECHNICOLOR 

with 
Shirley  Temple  •  Spring  Byington  •  Nigel  Bruce  •  Gale 
Sondergaard  •  Eddie  Collins  •  Sybil  Jason  •  Jessie  Ralph 
Helen  Ericson  •  Johnny  Russell  •  Laura  Hope  Crews 
Russell  Hicks  •  Cecilia  Loftus  •  Al  Shean  •  Gene  Reynolds 

Directed  by  Walter  Lang  •  Associate  Producer  Gene  Markey  •  Screen  Play 
by  Ernest  Pascal  •  Additional  Dialogue  by  Walter  Bullock 


59 


20th  Century- Fox 

Picture 

Darryl  F.  Zanuck 

In  Charge  of  Production 


Now  at  popular  prices. 

Watch  for  it  at  your 

favorite  theatre. 


10 


PHOTOPLAY 


THE  Showman's  Trade  Review,  a  publica- 
tion which  all  Hollywood  reads  and  respects 
for  accurate  information  on  what  movies 
take  in  at  the  box  office,  lists  the  twenty-five 
leading  money-making  pictures  for  1939  .  .  . 
big  productions  like  "Gone  with  the  Wind," 
"Ninotchka"  and  "Elizabeth  and  Essex"  came 
too  late  for  1939  to  be  included  in  the  record 
.  .  .  but  up  until  last  November  fifteenth  the 
following,  in  the  order  of  their  popularity,  were 
the  films  that  we,  the  great  American  public, 
preferred  .  .  .  "Jesse  James,"  "Dodge  City," 
"Union  Pacific,"  "Kentucky,"  "Mr.  Smith  Goes 
to  Washington,"  "Andy  Hardy  Gets  Spring 
Fever,"  "Babes  in  Arms,"  "The  Wizard  of  Oz," 
"Stanley  and  Livingstone,"  "Goodbye,  Mr. 
Chips,"  "Bachelor  Mother,"  "Out  West  with  the 
Hardys,"  "Tarzan  Finds  a  Son,"  "The  Rains 
Came,"  "Three  Smart  Girls  Grow  Up,"  "The 
Hardys  Ride  High,"  "Adventure  of  Huckleberry 
Finn,"  "Only  Angels  Have  Wings,"  "Rose  of 
Washington  Square,"  "Dark  Victory,"  "Gunga 
Din,"  "Hollywood  Cavalcade,"  "Angels  with 
Dirty  Faces,"  "Young  Mr.  Lincoln,"  "Stage- 
coach." 

Studying  that  list  I  don't  see  how  any  pro- 
ducer can  advance  that  old  argument  that  you 


never  can  tell  what  the  public  wants  .  .  .  the 
producers  ought  to  be  able  to  guess  what  we  do 
want  from  the  list  of  the  things  we  obviously 
don't  want  .  .  .  for  example,  we  don't  seem  to 
want  love  .  .  .  find  a  really  romantic  love  story 
in  that  bunch  of  pictures  .  .  .  maybe  you  say 
"Dark  Victory"  .  .  .  but  while  this  and  the 
lightsome  "Bachelor  Mother"  come  nearest  to 
being  love  stories  of  any  of  those  listed,  "Dark 
Victory"  is  primarily  a  story  of  sickness  and  of 
courage  .  .  .  the  inspiration  of  love  is  in  it  .  .  . 
but  the  great  appeal  of  the  picture  turns  as  def- 
initely on  tragedy  as  that  of  "Bachelor  Mother" 
turns  on  farcical  comedy.  .  .  . 

But  laughter  .  .  .  how  we  did  go  for  that  .  .  . 
laughter  and  spectacles  about  America,  our  own 
great  land  .  .  .  look  how  the  Hardy  Family 
clicked  .  .  .  every  film  about  the  Hardys  was  a 
hit  .  .  .  Mickey  Rooney,  in  fact,  is  represented 
in  the  list  of  twenty-five  films  by  five  appear- 
ances .  .  .  more  in  fact,  than  any  other  star  .  .  . 
Tyrone  Power  is  second  with  three  appearances 
in  the  winning  twenty-five,  with  Alice  Faye, 
George  Brent,  Henry  Fonda  and  Cary  Grant 
tied  for  third  place  with  two  appearances  each 
.  .  .  otherwise,  this  list  is  startling  in  its  reveal- 
ing that  the  story  and  not  the  star  is  "the  thing" 
.  .  .  except  for  "Dark  Victory"  which  was  de- 
vised solely  to  provide  Bette  Davis  with  a  me- 
dium for  her  bright  talents  .  .  .  there  isn't 
actually  a  "stellar  vehicle"  on  the  list.  .  .  . 

We  want  adventure,  that's  plain  .  .  .  there 
are  four  real  "Westerns,"  .  .  .  "Gunga  Din"  and 


Money-makers  of  1939  —  "Stagecoach" 
above  left)  and  "Dark  Victory,"  with 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and  Bette  Davis 
(above),  indicate  —  but  for  entirely 
different  reasons  —  what  we,  the  great 
American    Public,    prefer    in    filmfare 


one  "Southern"  .  .  .  "Jesse  James,"  "Dodge 
City,"  "Union  Pacific"  and  "Stagecoach"  .  .  .  plus 
"Kentucky,"  which  in  my  opinion  is  as  pure- 
ly a  pictorial  picture  as  ever  made,  and  "Gunga 
Din"  was  really  a  "Western"  even  if  the  dialogue 
did  insist  its  action  took  place  in  India  ...  (it 
didn't  .  .  .  they  filmed  most  of  it,  just  as  they 
did  "The  Rains  Came,"  in  Utah)  ...  the  male 
beauty  rides  high  in  these  .  .  .  Ty  Power,  Errol 
Flynn,  Joel  McCrea,  John  Wayne,  Richard 
Greene,  Cary  Grant  and  George  Brent  are  all 
extremely  handsome  ...  in  fact  to  a  feminist 
like  me,  it's  tough  to  admit  that  Bette  Davis, 
Myrna  Loy,  Ginger  Rogers,  Alice  Faye  and 
Deanna  Durbin,  were  the  only  important  girls 
to  survive  the  male  competition  in  1939  .  .  . 
"Only  Angels  Have  Wings"  had  Jean  Arthur, 
I  know,  but  I  believe  the  appeal  of  it  was  chiefly 
Cary  Grant's,  just  as  the  big  draw  on  "Angels 
with  Dirty  Faces"  was  Jimmy  Cagney's.  .  .  . 

"TARZAN  Finds  a  Son"  has  to  be  listed  under 
pure  adventure  .  .  .  it's  probably  the  most 
original  film  in  the  whole  list,  because  the  events 
in  "Tarzan"  aren't  related  to  anything  on  heaven 
or  earth  .  .  .  and  there  again,  a  beautiful  man, 
Johnny  Weissmuller,  was  the  star  .  .  .  with  all 
this  chatter  about  Lamarr,  Dietrich,  Shearer, 
Crawford  .  .  .  that  is,  the  glamour  girls  ...  it 
is  interesting  that  they  are  conspicuous  in  1939 
by  their  absence  .  .  .  and  that  the  women  stars 
who  did  win  out  this  past  year  are  the  ones  who 
are  distinguished  by  their  naturalness.  .  .  . 

Next  to  adventures,  we  prove  we  want  laughs 
.  .  .  the  three  Hardy  pictures  .  .  .  the  youthful 
zest  of  "Babes  in  Arms"  .  .  .  the  gay  fantasy  of 
"The  Wizard  of  Oz"  .  .  .  the  nonsense  of 
"Bachelor  Mother"  .  .  .  which  latter  film  by  the 
way,  is  the  only  money-earner  which  had  any 


APRIL,      I  940 


sly  sex  implications  to  bother  the  censors.  .  .  . 
Musicals  don't  rate  much  .  .  .  "Rose  of  Wash- 
ington Square"  had  a  few  songs  but  only  "The 
Wizard  of  Oz"  can  truly  be  listed  in  the  musical 
category,  and  maybe  the  music  was  even  dis- 
counted in  its  popularity  ...  on  the  score  that 
it  did  have  fantasy  and  color  .  .  .  for  color  we 
do  seem  to  go  for,  too  .  .  .  "Jesse  James," 
"Dodge  City,"  "Kentucky,"  "The  Wizard  of  Oz" 
.  .  .  show  that. 

TEAR-JERKERS  we'll  take  .  .  .  "Goodbye,  Mr. 
Chips"  and  "Dark  Victory"  were  both  four 
handkerchief  pictures  .  .  .  and  we'll  even  be 
serious  and  watch  biographies  as  witness 
"Young  Mr.  Lincoln"  and  "Stanley  and  Living- 
stone" .  .  .  though  in  the  latter  I  think  it  was 
the  appeal  of  a  serious  spiritual  message  that  got 
us  .  .  .  "Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington"  most 
cleverly  combined  two  appeals,  that  of  high- 
browishness  about  Washington  and  of  laughter 
about  an  innocent  dupe  who  won  out  against 
the  forces  of  corruption  .  .  .  but  you'll  find  no 
really  serious,  problem-play  in  all  this  list  .  .  . 
I  know  that  "The  Rains  Came"  has  subtle  char- 
acters in  it,  but  I  think  it  was  the  earthquake 
and  the  flood  that  sold  it  to  us  and  not  the  in- 
volved relationships  of  Ty  Power,  Myrna  Loy 
and  George  Brent  therein  ...  to  re-emphasize 
how  true  this  is,  it  is  interesting  that  "Wuther- 
ing  Heights,"  a  film  that  won  the  New  York 
Film  Critics  award  as  the  best  film  of  1939 
(which,  if  you  care,  I,  personally,  do  not  think 
is  anything  of  the  kind)  does  not  enter  into  the 
popular  earning  group  at  all  .  .  .  "Wuthering 
Heights"  was  an  artistic  production,  magnifi- 
cently acted  .  .  .  but,  for  me,  and  seemingly 
once  again  I'm  just  an  average  movie  fan,  it  was 
too  dreary  to  be  purely  enjoyable  .  .  .  maybe 
it  was  art  .  .  .  but  it  wasn't  entertainment.  .  .  . 

WHAT  gives  out  on  this  is  that  such  a  list 
clinches  what  I've  been  arguing  right  here  in 
Photoplay  for  several  years  .  .  .  that  it  isn't 
the  money  that  is  spent  on  a  film  that  attracts 
us  .  .  .  it's  what  it's  about  and  the  emotional 
kick  it  provides  .  .  .  "Jesse  James"  .  .  .  "Dodge 
City"  .  .  .  "Union  Pacific"  .  .  .  "The  Rains 
Came"  .  .  .  "Stanley  and  Livingstone"  .  .  . 
"Gunga  Din"  and  "The  Wizard  of  Oz"  were 
very  expensive  pictures  .  .  .  but  those  are  only 
seven  films  in  the  twenty-five  winners  .  .  .  the 
other  eighteen  were  only  average  in  cost  .  .  .  Ty 
Power  .  .  .  Spencer  Tracy  .  .  .  Myrna  Loy  are 
the  only  big  box-office  stars  represented  in  the 
list,    too  .  .  .  for    when    1939    started    Mickey 


.  .  .  while   "Mr.   Smith   Goes  to  Washington,"   starring   Jimmy   Stewart  and   Jean 
Arthur,  combined  two  appeals  that  were  "naturals"  to  make  it  a  box-office  smash 


Rooney  wasn't  so  big  and  Ginger  Rogers  had 
slipped  from  her  former  fair  estate  .  .  .  thus 
proving  we  don't  go  exclusively  by  who's 
starred  in  the  picture  .  .  .  proving,  in  fact,  the 
opposite  .  .  .  we  want  our  eyes  appealed  to  with 
beautiful  human  beings  in  beautiful  settings, 
and  our  hearts  touched  with  warmth  and 
laughter. 

I. HE  stars  of  today  realize  these  facts  .  .  .  it's 
a  realization  that  they  have  much  more  clearly, 
apparently,  than  the  producers  and  it  gives 
a  feeling  of  insecurity  to  any  Hollywood  group 
.  .  .  the  old  rule  of  personalities  not  lasting 
more  than  five  years  is  long  since  gone.  .  .  today 
one  may  last  as  long  as  one's  pictures  are  good 
.  .  .  which  can  be  twenty  years  or  two  .  .  . 
because  of  this  situation  no  one  in  Hollywood 
blames  Robert  Taylor  for  quarreling  with 
Metro  ...  or  the  exotic  Vivien  Leigh  for  being 
unhappy  over  being  cast  in  "Waterloo  Bridge" 
as  her  next  production  after  "Gone  with  the 


Wind"  .  .  .  that  smart  young  woman  knows 
that  the  Scarlett  O'Haras  are  few  and  far  be- 
tween, if  they  ever  repeat  at  all  .  .  .  but  as  she 
shrewdly  told  me,  this  is  no  time  to  be  putting 
out  a  dreary  romance  about  the  last  World  War 
...  it  is  criminal  to  waste  such  moving  talent 
as  Geraldine  Fitzgerald's  on  "A  Child  is  Born," 
or  the  lovely  charm  of  Greer  Garson's  on  such 
tripe  as  "Remember?"  .  .  .  but,  reversely,  when 
you  see  Rosalind  Russell  coming  into  her  long 
overdue  glory  with  a  rambunctious,  warm,  gay 
performance  in  "His  Girl  Friday,"  you  know 
that  at  least  one  swell  trouper  is  safe  for  a  little 
while  longer  .  .  .  they've  had  the  label  hung  up 
in  Hollywood  for  a  long  while  saying  that  Roz 
was  "cold"  .  .  .  meaning  only  that  she  didn't 
have  the  standardized  type  of  sex  appeal  .  .  . 
when  you  see  her  in  "His  Girl  Friday,"  you 
know  she's  got  sex  appeal  all  right,  the  brainy, 
witty  kind  such  as  at  least  one  in  four  of  our  ten 
million  women  in  this  country  are  proud  to 
flourish.  .  .  . 


APRIL,      1940 


DON, 


The  heartwarming  story  of  two  men 
and  a  woman  who  have  found  the 
secret  of  Hollywood  friendship 

BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


ONE  friendship  started  out  of  tragedy  and 
the  other  out  of  comedy,  but  added  to- 
gether, they  created  the  riotous  Three 
Musketeers  of  Hollywood,  Power  and  Faye  and 
Ameche. 

There's  always  talk  about  there  being  no 
friendships  in  Hollywood,  and  of  how  jealous 
stars  are  of  one  another.  That's  true  enough  of 
the  time  to  make  this  explosive  combination  the 
exception  that  proves  the  rule. 

But  Ty,  Alice  and  Don  work  on  the  same  lot. 
They  play  in  one  another's  pictures.  They  con- 
tinually sing  one  another's  praises  and  they  go 
in  for  horseplay  and  practical  joking  between 


themselves  that  gets  so  rough  at  times  it  nearly 
wrecks  the  whole  Twentieth  Century-Fox  plant. 

Men  frequently  get  together  in  friendship,  but 
this  setup  is  unique  in  having  a  girl  mixed  up 
in  it.  And  the  fact  that  two  handsome  young 
men  think  enough  of  a  slim  blonde  girl  to  spend 
hours  thinking  up  new  ways  to  tease  her,  spells 
out  in  letters  a  mile  high  what  a  swell  number 
the  Faye  is. 

This  three-cornered  friendship  (and  make  no 
mistake,  it  is  friendship  and  never  was  ro- 
mance) started  off  on  a  noble  fine  note.  Tyrone 
Power,  very  unknown,  definitely  unsung,  was 
kicked  out  of  Alice  Faye's  picture,  "Sing,  Baby, 
Sing."  Maybe  you've  heard  this  before,  but  it 
has  to  be  repeated  for  you  to  get  this  unusual 
relationship  going  in  its  proper  sequence. 

It  was  Ty's  first  picture  and  thus  the  event 
was  discouraging.  At  that  moment  if  Alice  had 
acted  according  to  the  guide  to  stardom  she 
would  never  have  spoken  to  Ty,  not  because  he 
had  done  anything  wrong,  but  because  it  looked 
as  though  he  were  to  be  that  Hollywood  thing 
worse  than  death,  a  failure. 

Alice,   however,   barged  over  at  this  crucial 


moment  of  artistic  disgrace  and  asked  Ty  to  take  * 
her  to  dinner.  She  didn't  know  him  then,  or 
he  her,  but  they  spent  the  evening  together. 
They  got  solemn  as  owls  about  everything. 
Alice  gave  Ty  a  great  pep  talk,  and  Ty  said  she 
was  his  Inspiration.  Alice  said  he  was  her 
Friend.  They  told  each  other  that  each  under- 
stood. They  promised  to  be  friends  forever  and 
ever.  On  such  a  high,  moral,  sweetness-and- 
light  plane  the  Faye-Power  friendship  rested 
until  Dominic  Felix  Ameche  came  along. 

Now  there  is  no  guy  who  has  been  made  to 
seem  such  a  plaster  saint  in  his  publicity  as  Don, 
and  who  is,  in  actual  fact,  such  an  impudent 
devil.  Don  does  go  to  church  every  Sunday 
and  he  does  adore  his  wife  and  sons,  but  those 
things,  and  those  only,  are  what  he  is  serious 
about.  Everything  else  is  a  laugh  to  Don,  and 
if  you  don't  laugh  with  him,  he'll  soon  find  a 
way  to  make  you. 

His  way  of  achieving  that  is  dead-pan  kid- 
ding, right  in  the  middle  of  any  production's 
most  portentous  scenes.  It's  a  little  difficult  to 
convey  to  you  the  nerve  tension,  the  solemnity 
that  ordinarily  reigns  on  sets.     I  suppose  it  is 


TY 


unavoidable.  Millions  are  at  stake,  moods  are 
the  equation  on  which  the  whole  hinges  and  the 
star  to  keep  her  moods  happy  must  be  pampered. 
Any  star  can  walk  from  a  scene  on  any  set  and 
without  even  turning  her  head,  have  a  chair  ap- 
pear instantly  back  of  her.  Hairdressers  spring 
forward  wordlessly  to  run  their  combs  through 
already  perfect  locks.  Make-up  men  solici- 
tiously  pat  cheeks  and  nose  with  unnecessary 
powder.  Publicity  men  flutter  and  the  yes-boys 
go  into  their  gurglings.  The  star  is  either  very 
gracious  about  it,  or  pretends  she  doesn*t  notice 
all  this  fuss,  depending  upon  which  type  of  per- 
son she  is.  Either  attitude  kills  Ameche,  and 
he  kills  the  attitude. 

Don  and  Ty  were  old  friends  from  their  starv- 
ing Chicago  days,  and  after  the  "Sing,  Baby, 
Sing"  episode  Ty  had  communicated  to  Don 
what  a  regular  person  Alice  was.  Don  had 
never  met  her  however  until  they  were  cast 
together  in  "You  Can't  Have  Everything." 

"You  Can't  Have  Everything"  was  a  very  im- 
portant picture  to  Alice  and  she  was  prepared 
to  treat  her  role  with  due  respect,  but  the  first 
day  Don  reported  on  the  set  he  came  equipped 


Hollywood  calls  them  the 
Three  Musketeers  —  Ty- 
rone, Alice  and  Don — and 
in  their  work,  and  in  their 
play,  they've  proved  they 
are  one  for  all,  and 
for  one.  Don  and  Alice  are 
together  in  "Lillian  Rus- 
sell," while  Ty  is  soloing 
in  "Dance  with  the  Devil" 


with  combs,  flowers,  folding  chairs,  powder 
puffs  and  the  firm  determination  to  reduce  her 
to  laughter.  He  was  polite  as  all  get  out  at  the 
introduction  but  once  on  the  set,  every  time 
Alice  moved, he  popped  up  to  serve  her,  a  mock- 
ing gleam  in  his  eyes.  He  raved  over  her  beauty. 
He  was  speechless  with  adoration  when  she  put 
over  some  big  scene.  The  little  Faye  hadn't 
grown  up  on  New  York's  Tenth  Avenue  and 
fought  her  way  up  through  the  song-plugging 
game  to  movie  stardom  without  knowing  a  rib- 
bing when  she  saw  it.  She  knew  Don  was  kid- 
ding the  socks  off  her  and  it  made  her  mad  as 
a  snapping  turtle.  She  wasn't  actually  too 
happy  in  those  days.  She  didn't  like  Hollywood 
or  Hollywood  men.  She  wanted  to  go  back  to 
New  York — either  that  or  be  a  great  dramatic 
actress — and  here  was  this  clown,  making  her 
want  to  giggle  all  the  time.  She  resolved  she 
wouldn't  and  the  more  fiercely  she  resolved  that, 
the  more  determined  Don  grew  that  she  would. 

I  HE  spoofing  feud  went  on  for  two  whole 
weeks  of  production  or  up  until  Don  enlisted 
Ty's  aid  in  it.  That  brought  results  on  the  eve- 
ning of  the  day  Alice  had  been  presented  with 
a  new  dressing  room. 

The  rooms  the  boys  were  dressing  in  at  that 
time  weren't  exactly  hovels  but  still  there  was 
nothing  about  them  to  do  them  proud.  Alice's 
new  dressing  room,  however,  was  a  Class  A, 
super  deluxe  special  and  she  didn't  hesitate  to 
let  them  know  about  it.  In  fact,  she  invited 
them  to  call  and  observe  her  splendor  and  that 
was  what  led  to  her  downfall.  For  those  two 
pranksters  looked  at  the  room's  miles  of  white 
satin,   covering  chairs  and  dressing  table  and 


hangings.  They  saw  exquisite  Victorian  lamps 
with  their  big  pink  shades.  They  saw  the  neat 
closets  for  Alice's  gowns,  closets  concealed  be- 
hind mirrors  that  reached  from  floor  to  ceiling. 
They  observed  all  that  and  they  just  waited  for 
Alice  to  be  called  away. 

The  call  to  return  to  the  set  finally  came  and 
away  tripped  innocent  Alice.  When  she  re- 
turned she  saw  what  their  loving  hands  had 
done.  They'd  wrecked  the  joint,  that's  all.  The 
lamps  were  overturned.  The  bows  were  off  the 
satin.  Her  gowns  lay  in  limp  attitudes  over 
everything.  Her  mirrors  were  scrawled  with 
grease  paint.  One  whole  mirror  just  said  "Hello, 
dear."  Alice  surveyed  that  desolation  and  if 
thoce  two  boys  had  been  anywhere  around  she 
would  probably  have  wrung  their  necks.  But 
they  carefully  weren't  around  and  then  the  more 
Alice  looked,  the  more  she  realized  how  big  she 
had  taken  all  this  luxury,  and  how  silly  that 
was,  and  when  she  thought  of  that,  she  began  to 
laugh.  Laugh  and  think  about  revenge.  A 
simple  call  to  the  decoration  department  in  the 
studio  would  do  away  with  most  of  the  damage, 
but  she  had  to  do  the  revenging  herself. 

She  rushed  over  to  Don's  dressing  room  but 
it  was  discreetly  locked.  But  Ty,  the  most  tem- 
peramental of  the  three  of  them,  hadn't  thought 
that  far  ahead.  Alice  crept  into  his  diggings. 
There  before  her  she  saw  Ty's  first  pair  of  im- 
ported English  shoes.  She  knew  them  on  sight 
because  Ty  had  already  proudly  displayed  them 
to  her  and  even  boasted  that  he  had  gone 
berserk  and  paid  thirty-five  dollars  for  them. 
Another  telephone  call  and  Miss  Faye  had  a 
hammer  and  nails  in  hand.  Five  or  six  neat 
blows  and  Mr.  Powers'  beautiful  dog-coverings 
were  fastened  tight  to  the  floor.  They  didn't 
show  it.  They  sat  there  slyly  waiting  for  the 
moment  when  Tyrone,  the  3rd,  would  put  his 
feet  in  them  and  attempt  to  walk  away.  For 
that  moment  Alice  also  left  a  note  on  Ty's  mir- 
ror.   It  merely  said,  "Thanks,  kids." 

After  that,  there  was  no  stopping  them.  There 

was  always  two  against  one,  though  in  different 

(Continued  on  page  94) 


15 


Randy  rolled  over  and  opened  his  eyes 
gradually.  "Caroline,"  he  said,  "do 
pineapples  grow  on  trees  in  bunches  or 
do   you    pull    them    up    like    potatoes?" 


A 


H  AWA  MAN 
HONEYMOON 


Beginning— a  sparkling  new  novel  of  two  young  stars  who  didn't  know 
what  they  wanted,  and  a  worldly  one  who  did— and  meant  to  get  it 

BY  HAGAR  WILDE 


thirty-five,  Randolph  Grimes  had  not 
yet  learned  to  accept  hangovers  with 
the  philosophical  detachment  befitting 
his  age.  Each  time  he  achieved  one  he  was 
surprised  and  slightly  hurt.  Now,  stretched 
full-length  on  the  sands  of  Waikiki  Beach  he 
was  mumbling  to  himself,  "Oh-kool-e-how. 
Poonay.  Lah-nigh.  Mah-lah-hee-nee.  Kah- 
mah-i-nah." 

Caroline  Hathaway,  brunette,  slender  and  in 
the  first  stages  of  a  good  even  tan,  reared  up  on 
her  elbows  and  regarded  him  suspiciously. 
"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  are  do- 
ing?" 

"I  am  pronouncing  all  the  Hawaiian  words  I 
learned  last  night  and  trying  to  decide  which 
one  is  responsible  for  the  condition  I  now  find 
myself  in,"  said  Randy  with  dignity. 

"The  word,"  said  Caroline,  "is  okoelehau. 
Properly  defined,  it  would  be:  Liquid  dynamite 
reserved  for  the  unwary  such  as  one  Randolph 
Grimes  who  thinks  anything  that  pours  is  suit- 
able to  drink." 

"I  was  only  practicing  saying  it,"  said  Randy. 
"If  I  practiced  saying  a  million  dollars  I 
wouldn't  wake  up  with  several  million  dollars 
in  my  fist,  now  would  I?" 

"No,  darling,"  said  Caroline. 

"But  every  time  I  said  oh-kool-e-how  they 
gave  me  a  glass  of  it." 

"They  certainly  did,"  said  Caroline. 

"Caroline,  did  I  make  an  ass  of  myself?" 

"Yes,  darling,"  Caroline  said  cheerfully. 

Randy  rolled  over  and  opened  his  eyes  grad- 
ually. A  pained  expression  flitted  across  his 
face  as  a  number  of  healthy  people  engaged  in 


16 


LLUSTRATED    BY    BRADSHAW   CRANDELL 


/ 


All  her  life  Ann  had  re- 
sponded to  certain  symp- 
toms with  one  course  of 
action  —  a  bath.  Now 
she  sat  or  the  edge  of 
the  tub  undressing  and 
crying    at    the    same    time 


healthy  pursuits  crossed  his  line  of  vision.  Far 
out  in  the  king  surf  tiny  figures  balanced  gaily 
on  surfboards  and  swooped  in  on  the  wave 
crests.  The  outrigger  canoes  rocked  gently,  the 
steersmen  watchfully  waiting  the  telltale  swell 
from  far  out  which  promised  a  good,  long,  swift 
ride  in  to  shore.  Randy  shuddered  and  turned 
away  his  eyes. 

"Caroline,"  he  said,  "do  pineapples  grow  on 
trees  in  bunches  or  do  you  pull  them  up  like 
potatoes?" 

"I'm  ashamed  to  say  that's  a  subject  I  have 
never  gone  into,"  said  Caroline. 

"But  you  must  have  some  idea." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous.  There's  no  idea  that  I 
must  have.  If  I  don't  know,  I  simply  say  I 
don't  know  and  people  ask  somebody  who 
does." 

"Last  night,"  said  Randy,  wrestling  valiantly 
with  a  memory  which  disappeared  and  reap- 
peared as  unpredictably  and  illogically  as  the 
Cheshire  cat,  "I  met  a  man  who  cans  pine- 
apple." 

"Do  tell,"  said  Caroline. 

"And  I'm  sure  I  borrowed  twenty  dollars 
from  him,"  said  Randy.  "He  invited  me  to 
come  and  see  the  pineapple  plantation.  Now 
the  point  is,  suppose  he  leads  me  up  to  a  pine- 
apple and  stands  back  proudly  and  I  don't  rec- 
ognize it?" 

"That's  simple,"  Caroline  said.  "If  you  rec- 
ognize the  man,  you'll  identify  him  with  pine- 
apple at  once.  Then  whatever  he  leads  you 
up  to,  you  just  exclaim  in  admiration.  And 
pay  him  his  twenty." 

"If  we  put  you  in  the  diplomatic  service,"  said 


Randy,  "we'd  be  at  war  before  you  could  drop 
a  hat.  How  a  good  mind  like  mine  puts  up  with 
a  mind  like  yours  I've  no  idea." 

Caroline  grinned.  "I've  often  wondered  how 
so  many  good  minds  got  to  Hollywood.  And 
were  they  good  minds  in  New  York  or  did  they 
hand  them  to  you  gentlemen  when  you  got  off 
the  train  at  Los  Angeles?" 

"You're  a  bitter  woman,"  Randy  said  admir- 
ingly. 

"No  I'm  not,"  said  Caroline.  "I'm  just  vicious. 
I've  met  so  many  good  minds  and  they  seem  to 
get  better  as  the  salary  checks  get  bigger. 
Maybe  associating  with  such  a  raft  of  other  good 
minds  makes  a  commonplace  mind  get  ashamed 
of  itself  and  start  trying.  Or,  like  the  Coue 
system,  a  mind  could  keep  saying  to  itself, 
'Every  day  in  every  way  I  am  getting  smarter 
and  smarter  and  God  keep  J.B.  head  of  the 
studio  until  after  option  time.'     Or.  .  .  ." 

"I  catch,"  Randy  said. 

"Now  that  is  a  good  mind,"  said  Caroline, 
"and  when  I'd  barely  outlined  the  idea." 

"Well,  in  six  years  I've  come  from  forty 
bucks  a  week  on  a  paper-and-twine  trade  jour- 
nal to  a  producer's  salary  which  modesty  for- 
bids me  to  name,"  Randy  said.  "That  proves 
something,  doesn't  it?" 

"It  proves  you  came  to  Hollywood,"  Caroline 
said  sweetly. 

"I'd  hate  to  be  married  to  you.  It'd  be  like 
living  with  a  fluoroscope." 

UAROLINE  sat  up  and  dug  her  fist  into  the 
sand.  "Speaking  of  being  married,  didn't  we 
come  to  Honolulu  with  a  couple  who  were?" 


Randy  gave  it  a  moment's  thought.  "I  be- 
lieve we  did.  Very  famous  people  they  were, 
weren't  they?     A  man  and  a  woman." 

"That's  the  usual  combination."  Caroline's 
voice  was  at  its  most  soothing.  "Was  the 
woman  a  little  thing  with  a  snub  nose,  kind  of? 
And  red  hair?  Could  her  name  have  been 
Ann?" 

"She's  your  best  friend.     You  should  know." 

"Have  you  seen  them  today,  Randy?" 

"I  haven't  seen  anybody  today.  Or,"  Randy 
added  bitterly,  "anything." 

"Look,"  said  Caroline.     "I'm  worried." 

"I'm  too  sick  to  get  up  and  move.  Tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"I'm  afraid  Ann  isn't  happy." 

Randy  closed  his  eyes  and  groaned.  "You 
find  the  strangest  things  to  worry  about."  He 
opened  his  eyes  again.  "If  a  woman's  not  happy 
on  her  honeymoon,  when  the  devil  would  she 
be?" 

"Have  you  noticed  how  she  watches  David?" 

"To  be  absolutely  frank  and  aboveboard  with 
you,"  Randy  said,  "I  haven't  noticed  a  thing 
except  a  buzzing  sound  in  my  ears  and  an  in- 
ability to  walk  in  a  straight  line  ever  since  I 
left  Hollywood." 

"David's  out  surfing,"  Caroline  said  irrele- 
vantly. 

Randy  shook  all  over  with  an  involuntary 
reaction  of  distaste.  "You  mean  out  in  all  that 
mess  of  water  with  people  zooming  past  him  on 
other  people's  shoulders?" 

"But  Ann  isn't,"  Caroline  said  significantly. 

"Good  for  Ann,"  Randy  said  heartily.  "That 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


Our  Bureau  of  Standards  looks  over 
the  Hollywood  glitter  market.  Could 
you    fulfill   these  specifications? 


BY  DOROTHY  SPENSLEY 


IF  you  are  a  Hollywood  glamour  girl,  1940 
style,  your  given  name  is  short,  staccato  and 
smacks  of  the  exotic.  Preferably,  it  is  Hedy, 
Myrna,  Carole,  Sonja,  Greta,  Bette  (not  finished 
off  with  a  plain  old  "y,"  either) ,  Isa,  Irene,  Joan, 
Miriam,  Kay,  Alice,  Gloria,  Norma,  Ginger. 
Other  accepted  glamour  names  are  Claudette, 
Jeanette,  Marlene,  Madeleine,  Katharine,  Mar- 
garet, although  they  are  many  syllables  too  long 
for  swank.  Lucy,  as  a  cinema  glamour  name  is 
taboo. 


Your  surname  is  hand-picked  for  euphony 
unless  your  family  moniker  is  a  good  one. 
Hepburn's  was  all  right,  so  were  the  Bennetts' — 
Joan,  Constance,  Barbara;  Gloria  Stuart's  too. 
Miss  Gustafsson  changed  hers  to  Garbo,  LeSeuer 
to  Crawford,  Williams  to  Loy,  Peters  to  Lom- 
bard. A  glamour  gal's  name  must  be  packed 
with  enough  marquee  magnetism  (whatever 
that  is)  to  lure  people  to  the  box  office. 

If  you  are  the  synthesis  of  a  Hollywood  glam- 
our gal  you  are  about  thirty  years  old  and  admit 
it.  What  is  there  to  lose?  The  World  Almanac 
will  give  you  away  if  you  lie  about  your  age, 
anyway.  You  wear  artificial  eyelashes  before 
the  cameras  and,  just  for  the  heluvit,  to  a  cos- 
tume party  given  by  another  glamour  gal.  You'd 


rather  do  that  than  use  the  waterproof  mascara 
of  your  profession  because  that  hardens  and 
pulls  the  eyelashes  out  when  you  remove  it. 
Even  little  pre-glamour  maiden  Deanna  Durbin 
rues  that.  You  use  one  of  those  lipstick  pencils 
to  outline  your  rather  full  lips  (you,  like  all 
glamour  lasses  think  full  lips  make  a  woman 
look  "sexy"  and  sexy  you  must  look  for  your 
constituents) . 

Your  hair  has  been  all  shades  from  plati- 
num blonde  (during  the  late  Jean  Harlow 
reign),  through  the  copper  tones,  and  now  you 
are  mulling  over  a  period  in  black.  You  have 
discovered  that  you  are  practically  a  Hedy 
Lamarr  in  a  black  wig,  and  La  Lamarr  is  the 
(Continued  on  page  82) 


Marital  vacations  are  taboo  for  the  Bob  Hopes 

PORTRAIT 

OF  THE  MAN  WITH  THE 

CHIN 

A  black  and  white  of  Bob  Hope — a 
comedian  on  whom  Fate  cast  a  benign 
eye  when  a  hunch  played  him  false 

BY  JOSEPH  HENRY  STEELE 


HIS  favorite  Scotch  joke  is  the  one  about 
the  Scotchman  who  sat  up  all  night  and 
watched  his  wife's  vanishing  cream. 

He  considers  the  most  foolish  act  of  his  life 
the  time  he  rejected  his  first  radio  offer  because 
"radio  would  never  amount  to  anything."  He 
recalls,  wistfully,  that  he  lost  five  years  before 
he  began  to  get  his  share  of  the  ether  bonanza. 

He  loves  smorgasbord. 

He  is  almost  punctual. 

He  is  very  abashed  when  confessing  that  his 
baptismal  name  is  Leslie  Townes  Hope. 

He  never  wears  a  hat  and  hat  manufacturers 
are  forever  beseeching  the  studio  to  make  him 
wear  one.  He  has  a  casual,  yet  lusty  attitude 
towards  life,  taking  it  in  full  stride. 

He  thinks  Parisians  are  the  happiest  people 
he  has  ever  known.  He  likes  caviar,  gum-soled 
shoes,  canaries  and  garlic  seasoning. 


Likes  pickled  herring  .  .  .  thinks  he's 
a  jinx  as  best  man  .  .  .  thought  his 
profile  would  keep  him  out  of  pictures 


He  sees  an  average  of  two  pictures  a  month 
and  doesn't  care  much  for  smoked  salmon. 

He  was  born  in  London. 

He,  in  self-defense,  adopted  the  cognomen, 
Bob. 

His  nose  and  chin  are  profiled  like  ski-slides 
and  because  of  that  he  was  the  most  surprised 
man  in  the  world  when  he  clicked  in  the  movies. 
He  is  five  feet,  eleven  and  three-quarter  inches 
tall. 

He  is  married  and  has  a  four-year-old  daugh- 
ter adopted  from  The  Cradle. 

He  has  a  strong  aversion  for  hillbilly  and 
Hawaiian  music. 

He  is  fond  of  a  six  by  eight-and-half  foot  bed 
which  he  brought  from  New  York  and  in  which 
he  does  all  his  reading.  He  brushes  his  hair 
fifty  times  a  day  ard  massages  his  scalp.  He  en- 
dorses physical  examinations  before  marriage. 


His  chief  hobby  is  collecting  bad  notices, 
framing  them,  and  displaying  them  in  his  bar. 
He  is  an  incurable  sentimentalist. 

His  favorite  comic  strip  is  the  Bungle  Fam- 
ily and  he  unconsciously  observes  all  the  usual 
theatrical  superstitions. 

He  is  a  sucker  for  lending  his  services  Eor  any 
kind  of  a  benefit,  but  he  resents  being  invited 
to  social  functions  merely  to  provide  entertain- 
ment. He  likes  quoting  the  late  Will  Rogers, 
who,  following  a  dinner  at  which  he  was  em- 
barrassingly made  to  amuse  them,  sent  his 
(Continued  on  page  72) 


IDEA  of  the  Month:  Automobiles  to  express  film  personalities. 
Not  that  these  are  actual  jaloppies  you'll  see  them  riding  in 
among  the  hills  of  Hollywood  .  .  .  just  that  here's  a  young  man 
who  enjoys  conjuring  up  designs  like  these  as  much  as  we  hope 
you'll  enjoy  previewing  them  .  .  .  Man  Behind  the  Idea:  Wil- 
liam Jenks  by  name;  born  twenty-two  years  ago  in  New  York. 
Calif ornian  by  adoption;  his  family  settled  there  when  he  was 
ten — now  married,  he  still  lives  in  Glendale.  Artist  by  inclina- 
tion, cultivated  by  study  at  the  Chouinard  School  of  Art. 
Specialist  in  mechanical  drawing  by  preference,  developed  by 
work  with  a  well-known  local  manufacturer  of  custom-built 
cars,  where  he  learned  the  inside  intricacies  and  outside  stream- 
lines of  special  jobs  for  Gary  Cooper,  Countess  di  Frasso,  et  al. 


"The  Liner  she's  a  lady,"  sang  Kipling — but  here's  a 
streamliner  for  a  modern  perfect  lady — a  convertible 
sedan  for  the  gracious  adaptability  of  an  Irene  Dunne 


For  Clark  and  Carole  Lombard  Gable — 
San  Fernando  Valley  station  wagon,  with 
air-conditioning,  movable  seats,  rear  engine 


otoplay,  in  search  for  new  delights, 
*sents  these  products  of  a  brilliant 
fist's  imagination  —  "personal"  auto- 
ibiles    for   streamlined   personalities 


s*ZfSt>, 


By. 


H 


>e 


"of*  fte  l    T°r 


x 


x 

ti 


Practically  stripped  to  the  gears,  with  detachable 
fenders,  convertible  as  all  get-out — presenting  the 
"Oomph"    roadster — for    Ann    Sheridan,    of    course 


-*o 


-teSVu 


^*^S*. 


*<?*£> 


eiss 


ft 


The  Paul  Munis  have  passed  the  acid  test  for  happiness  in  the  home 


7/iere's  o  certain  surprising  truth 
to  be  learned  from  matrimony  among 
the  stars,  where  the  sanctions  of 
wealth,  of  society  and  of  religion 
are  not  what  keep  people  together! 

BY  GRETTA  PALMER 


SO  Constance  Bennett  is  planning  to  get  a 
divorce  from  her  Marquis — that  same  Mar- 
quis de  la  Falaise  whom  actresses  seem 
always  divorcing!  And  Madeleine  Carroll  and 
Captain  Philip.  Astley  have  ended  their  mar- 
riage by  divorce.  Those  in  the  know  will  whis- 
per to  you  that  that  famous  couple  which  re- 
cently appeared  so  battered  on  the  lot  were  not 
hurt  in  an  "automobile  accident,"  as  the  pub- 
licity department  would  have  you  believe;  they 
had  a  bang-up,  shantytown  Saturday  night  row, 
in  which  the  devoted  wife  gave  as  good  as  she 
got.  Domestic  affairs,  among  the  stars,  are  suf- 
fering from  the  doldrums  once  again. 

So  we  rise  to  ask    (with,  heaven  knows,  no 


illusion  as  to  the  novelty  of  the  question) :  What 
about  Hollywood  marriage?  Is  it  true  what  the 
press  agents  say — that  all  of  these  glamorous 
men  and  women  live  on  so  high  a  domestic  plane 
that  life  is  one  long,  sweet  honeymoon  (until 
the  divorce  is,  somewhat  embarrassingly,  an- 
nounced) ?  Is  it  true  what  the  expose-writers 
would  have  you  believe — that  the  whole  screen 
colony  wallows  in  inconstancy,  and  that  mar- 
riages occur  only  for  purposes  of  box-office  ap- 
peal? 

What,  in  a  word,  is  the  truth  about  matrimony 
on  the  Coast? 

On  a  recent  whirlwind  tour  of  the  colony  I 
became  the  Marriage  Reporter  Pro  Tern  of  the 
Coast.  I  looked  at  the  stars  with  no  eye  for 
their  wardrobes,  their  coiffures  or  their  con- 
versation, if  any.  I  studied  them  as  wives.  Not 
even  Clark  Gable's  eyelashes  were  able  to  deter 
me  from  my  chosen  point  of  view.  Mr.  Gable, 
bless  his  heart,  was  interesting  to  me  only  as  a 
married  man.  And  having  angled  some  of  the 
famous  pairs  from  a  strictly  Married  Love  ap- 
proach, I  can  report  that  things  out  there  are 
just  about  as  always.  There  are  more  divorces, 
to  the  mile,  than  there  are  in  Newton,  Kansas. 
There  are  fewer  Darbys  and  Joans  than  in,  say, 
South  Carolina.  But  when  a  Hollywood  mar- 
riage is  good,  it's  terribly,  terribly  good! 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gable  are  a  case  in  point.  They 
are  a  good  case  simply  because  we  have  here 
two  stellar  personalities  in  a  field  which  is  sup- 
posed to  be  the  most  highly  competitive  in  the 
field.  The  legend  has  it  that  no  marriage  can 
survive  when  one  partner  exceeds  the  other's 


success.  Well,  both  Carole  Lombard  and  Clark 
Gable  are  doing  everything  in  their  power  to 
hoist  each  other  to  as  high  a  step  on  the  ladder 
as  possible.  Miss  Lombard,  when  talked  to, 
was  full  of  excitement  over — guess  what? — her 
husband's  picture,  "Gone  with  the  Wind"!  She 
was  as  delighted  about  the  praise  for  his  mag- 
nificent portrayal  of  Rhett  Butler  as  if  she  had 
never  been  inside  a  studio  herself! 

Clark  Gable  is  as  thrilled  over  his  ranch  as, 
any  settled,  married  man.  He  has  taught  his 
wife  to  ride  and  to  enjoy  his  out-of-door  life 
with  him — because,  you  see,  he  doesn't  want  to 
be  married  to  a  mere  glamour  girl  of  the  cafes 
— he  wants  a  wife  who  will  share  his  interests 
and  his  hobbies. 

I  HERE'S  one  Hollywood  marriage  that's  work- 
ing like  a  breeze.  Take,  for  a  moment,  a  less 
conspicuous  couple — Anne  Shirley  and  John 
Payne.  They  don't  go  in  for  extensive  ranches, 
but  anyone  who  has  spent  a  week  in  Beverly 
Hills  has  seen  these  two  together,  having  a 
whale  of  a  time.  They  are  among  the  most  en- 
thusiastic of  the  couples  dancing  at  the  night 
clubs — and  dancing  together,  Madam!  When 
they  go  out  for  an  evening's  fun  they  may  be 
surrounded  by  the  most  spectacular  names  in 
America,  but  they're  oblivious  to  this — as  ob- 
livious as  when  the  reader  and  his  wife  drop 
in  for  a  Saturday  dance  or  two  at  the  local 
roadhouse — that  is,  if  the  reader  likes  his 
wife! 

Among  the  older  married  couples,  take  a  look 
at  Joel  McCrea  and  Frances  Dee,  who  don't  go 


2? 


out  dancing  as  much  now  as  they  used  to.  You 
see,  the  children  are  older  now,  and  they  want 
to  stay  at  home  with  them.  And  there  are  the 
Fredric  Marches,  whose  life  revolves  around 
their  home  and  their  gracious  social  life  there. 
There  are  couples  like  the  Darryl  Zanucks: 
When  he  is  kept  late  at  the  studio,  Mrs.  Zanuck 
comes  and  routs  him  out  and  says,  "You've 
worked  enough  for  one  night,  now  you're  com- 
ing to  a  party  with  me!" 

There  are  couples  in  Hollywood  whose  mar- 
riages date  back  to  the  '20's.  There  are  many 
couples  who  have  celebrated  their  tenth  (or 
tin)  anniversaries,  a  few  who  have  made  their 
twenty-fifth  (or  silver)  wedding  days,  and 
they're  not  obscure  bit-players  either.  These 
veterans  include  James  Cagney  and  Frances 
Vernon — Paul  Muni  and  Bella  Finkel — Basil 
Rathbone  and  Ouida  Bergere — Spencer  Tracy 
and  Louise  Treadwell — Warner  Baxter  and 
Winifred  Bryson.  All  these  marriages  have 
lasted  ten  years,  or  more. 

"Well,"  you  may  say,  "I  can  match  such  cases 
in  any  town  or  city  in  America,  and  they  will 
occasion  no  great  surprise."  It  is  only  in  Holly- 
wood that  the  man  or  woman  married  ten  years 
is  regarded  as  a  cross  between  a  saint  and  a 
side-show  freak.  Hollywood  is  conditioned  to 
divorce.    It  doesn't  expect  marriages  to  last. 

"Why  not?" 

I  asked  that,  too.  Why  are  the  dice  of  the 
marriage-gods  so  heavily  loaded  in  this  town? 
What  dooms  so  many  young  couples  who  started 
their  married  life,  cameras  grinding,  with  youth 
and  wealth  and  good  looks  in  their  favor?  Why 
is  the  divorce  rate  in  Hollywood  about  three 
times  as  high  as  for  the  country  as  a  whole? 

There's  only  one  way  to  find  out  about  a  thing 
(Continued  on  page  79) 


'^Cof 


*&"<** 


^^Z^-^j 


Typical  of  today's  crop — Brenda  Joyce  of 
"The  Rains  Came,"  "Little  Old  New  York" 


A   sports    announcer   turned    actor — that's 
Ronald  Reagan  of  "Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby" 


One  turn-down  wouldn't  stop  Ann  Morriss, 
featured   in   "Broadway   Melody  of    1940" 


FAMILIAR 
FACES 


Unsung  till  now  but  definitely  tuneful  are  these  eight 
provocative  personalities  now  scoring  in   current  films 

BY  SARA  HAMILTON 


yy  CROSS  our  movie  screens,  in  endless  pa- 
/  \  rade,  march  our  film  friends.  Old 
/  \  friends  such  as  Alan  Hale  and  Jane 
Darwell  keep  step  with  the  bright  eager  new- 
comers— Ruth  Terry,  Ann  Morriss,  Brenda 
Joyce  and  others. 

It's  about  these  youngsters  we  want  to  speak 
first,  for  we  have  a  feeling  the  steadier,  whiter 
light  of  today's  children  will  burn  longer  than 
the  consuming  fires  of  the  young  stars  of  yes- 
terday. Their  voices,  eyes,  minds  all  speak  of 
durability.  Take,  for  example,  Brenda  Joyce, 
of  20th  Century-Fox's  "Little  Old  New  York." 

"The  name  Brenda  is  wrong  for  me,"  she 
says.  "My  own  name  is  Betty,  you  know,  which 
I  think  suits  me.  The  name  Brenda,  to  me,  has 
always  stood  for  dark,  dashing  sophistication. 
I  have  none  of  those  qualities." 

She  says  it  honestly  and  simply.  Behind  her 
horn-rimmed  glasses  (Brenda  is  nearsighted) 
her  light  brown  eyes  are  calm  and  undisturbed. 


They  smile  when  her  lips  do.  Her  mouth  is 
lovely;  her  hair,  parted  on  the  side,  a  natural 
gold;  her  face  squarish  and  photographically 
perfect.  It  should  be.  She's  smiled  at  you 
many  times  from  magazine  and  posters,  for 
Brenda  came  into  movies  from  commercial  pho- 
tography. When  her  money  ran  out  she  left  the 
University  of  California  at  Los  Angeles  in  her 
junior  year  to  become  a  photographer's  model. 
One  day  during  a  tennis  game,  a  woman 
agent,  who  was  also  playing,  spoke  to  her  about 
movies.  Brenda  confessed  she'd  always  yearned 
to  be  an  actress  and  mentioned  that  she  thought 
20th  Century-Fox  had  always  seemed  so  kind 
to  newcomers.  So  the  agent  took  her  to  Fox, 
and  to  Tom  Moore  (remember  the  famous 
brothers,  Tom,  Matt  and  the  late  Owen?),  who 
is  the  talent  coach  at  that  studio.  Tom  en- 
couraged the  quiet-spoken,  gently-bred  young 
beauty.  Two  weeks  later  Brenda  was  tested  for 
Fern  in  "The  Rains  Came,"  then  she  was  on  her 


way  in  "Here  I  Am  a  Stranger"  and  "Little  Old 
New  York."    It  was  just  that  simple. 

For  her  first  scene  with  George  Brent  and 
Myrna  Loy  she  had  to  row  a  skiff  with  one  oar. 

She  wears  her  heart  on  her  wrist.  It's  a  gold 
one  on  a  chain  bracelet,  but  inside  is  a  picture 
of  her  real  heart,  Owen  Ward,  who  went  all 
through  Junior  High  School,  Los  Angeles  High 
School  and  U.C.L.A.  with  Brenda.  Owen  is  an 
accountant,  and  when  he  makes  enough  to  sup- 
port them,  they'll  be  married. 

Measles,  whooping  cough,  scarlet  fever  kept 
up  such  a  constant  parade  in  little  five-year-old 
Brenda  back  in  Kansas  City  where  she  was 
born,  that  her  mother  (her  parents  have  been 
divorced  for  years)  brought  her  to  San  Ber- 
nardino, California,  hoping  the  change  in  cli- 
mate would  shake  off  the  germs.  It  did.  But 
the  change  wasn't  so  good  for  the  natives,  es- 
pecially those  who  awoke  one  morning  to  find 
the  sidewalks  of  that  town  covered  with  large 


24 


Cute  newcomer  Ruth  Terry  had  veteran  Pat 
O'Brien  on  the  run  in  "Slightly  Honorable" 


Brod    Crawford    of    "Slightly    Honorable" 
didn't  want  to  act,  but  changed  his  mind 


"Adventure  in  Diamonds"  isn't  the  only  ad- 
venture   Isa    Miranda    has   had    in    her   life 


Her  superb  characterization  in  "The  Grapes 
of  Wrath"  put  Jane  Darwell  in  the  spotlight 


arrows  all  pointing  in  one  direction.  It  was  the 
postman  who  followed  the  blocks  after  blocks 
of  arrows  to  discover  they  led  to  Brenda's  home 
whereon  was  hung  a  sign  "Dancing  Lessons 
Giving  Here."  Mrs.  Leabo  (her  mother)  hur- 
riedly removed  the  sign  and  ten-year-old 
Brenda  to  Los  Angeles. 

Her  imagination  was  so  vivid  that  "sometimes 
Mother  would  look  at  me  and  wonder,"  Brenda 
says.  We  know  what  she  means.  Ours  looked 
at  us  that  way  many's  the  time. 

She  reads  a  lot,  maintains  the  same  circle  of 
friends,  mostly  her  Delta  Gamma  sorority  sis- 
ters, who  aren't  the  least  impressed  with  her 
movie  career.  Even  the  one  who  lived  with 
Betty,  while  her  mother  was  housemother  for 
Beta  Theta  Pi  sorority  at  Westminster  College, 
wasn't  even  dented  by  the  fact  Brenda  was  a 
"movie  actress." 

She  adores  cats  and  has  brains.  She  won  a 
scholarship  to  the  University  of  Southern  Cali- 


fornia, then  transferred  to  U.C.L.A.  Oh  yes, 
she  has  one  small  mole  and  three  baby  satellites 
on  her  lower  left  cheek.  They  couldn't  find  a 
softer  more  beautiful  place  to  nest.  I'll  tell 
them  that  right  here  and  now. 

A  Very  Grim  Fairy  Tale 

The  day  Ann  Morriss,  whom  you'll  see  shortly 
in  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940,"  stormed  the 
gates  of  M-G-M,  talent  scout  Bill  Grady  stated 
that  while  she  was  distinctive  looking  (she  isn't 
beautiful,  thank  heavens),  as  well  as  talented, 
she  did  need  more  dramatic  experience.  "Come 
back  in  a  year,"  he  told  her. 

Less  than  a  year  later  Ann  was  back  knock- 
ing at  the  gates.  So  M-G-M  opened  the  gates 
and  in  walked  Ann  and  straight  into  the  lead  of 
"The  Chaser"  with  Dennis  O'Keefe.  She  went 
to  the  preview  and  no  one  paid  her  the  slightest 
attention.  But  afterwards — well,  everyone 
knew  they  had  an  actress  on  their  hands  and 
they'd  better  do  something  about  it.  They  did. 
They  put  her  into  "Honolulu,"  "Spring  Mad- 
ness," "Society  Lawyer"  and  "The  Women." 
They  built  up  her  small  part  in  the  new  "Broad- 
way Melody"  to  a  goodish  size,  so  you  know 
they  must  think  well  of  her. 

Ann  is  a  product  of  Hollywood  High  School. 
As  long  as  the  Morrisses  lived  down  in  Texas, 
where  they  moved  from  Tampa,  Florida  (Ann 
was  born,  there),  she  didn't  say  too  much  about 
being  an  actress,  for  her  dad  was  a  minister  and 
Ann  thought  he  wouldn't  like  the  idea  too  well. 
But  when  her  mother,  sister  and  brother  moved 
to  Hollywood  to  live,  Ann  quietly  set  about  her 
goal,  studying  at  Ben  Bard's  drama  school  and 
taking  notice  at  all  movies.  After  she  was  in, 
her  dad  wrote  he  was  delighted  and  shyly  con- 
fessed he,  too,  longed  to  be  an  actor.  Then 
mother  one  day  secretly  confided  she  wished 
she  could  be  an  actress,  and  Ann's  sister  boldly 
stated,  "Well  I'm  going  to  be."  She's  going 
through  the  storming-the-gate  stage  at  present. 

Ann's  nice  serious  face  with  its  grey  eyes  is 
framed  in  ash-blonde  hair.  She's  five  feet  seven 
in  height.  She  claims  it  doesn't  distress  her  at 
all  to  be  seen  with  a  shorter  man,  and  dismisses 
the  whole  "tall  girl"  problem  with  the  statement, 
"It's  nice  for  reaching  on  top  shelves." 

Much  as  I  distrust  the  word  "lady"  I  must  em- 
ploy it  to  describe  Ann,  with  her  soft  quiet  voice 
and  her  naturally  dignified  manner.  She  ignores 
double  meaning  wisecracks  because,  as  she  says, 
she  doesn't  know  what  they  mean  anyway,  and 


Incongruous     as     all     get-out — this     Alan 
Hale  of  "The  Fighting  69th"  and  "Irene" 


she'd  blush  too  red  if  she  did.  Certain  of  our 
little  colony  can't  make  her  out.  Fred  Astaire 
and  George  Murphy,  who  worked  with  her  in 
"Broadway  Melody"  admire  her  tremendously. 
There  was  a  day  she  suffered  untold  agonies 
of  embarrassment  on  that  set,  and  that  was  when 
she  forgot  and  ate  her  favorite  vegetable  for 
lunch — onions.  Next  to  onions  she  likes  pickles 
and  peanuts  (between  meals)  and  Mexican 
foods.  She  plays  crack  tennis,  Ping-pong  and 
golf  and  can  sail  a  boat  like  a  man.  She  has 
two  dimples  that  try  and  try  and  break  through 
when  she  smiles.  Just  because  everyone  thinks 
it's  sure  death  to  whistle  in  a  dressing  room, 
Ann  whistles  in  hers!  Yellow  is  her  lucky  color. 
She  washes  her  hair  and  does  her  nails,  herself. 
She's  always  promising  herself  that  now  that 
she  can  afford  it,  she'll  go  to  a  beauty  parlor. 
She  never  does.  She  likes  men  who  make  a  girl 
feel  at  ease  and  her  pet  aversion  is  men  who 
(Continued  on  page  88) 


25 


THE  dice  were  definitely  loaded  on  the  day 
that  Alan  Curtis  made  his  first  date  with 
Sonja  Henie  to  take  her  to  the  brilliant 
premiere  of  "Hollywood  Cavalcade."  To  laugh- 
ing Sonja,  she  of  the  miraculous  feet  and  the 
cool,  clear  head,  it  was  just  another  date,  a  very 
nice  one,  admittedly,  since  Mr.  Curtis  is  a  hand- 
some lad  with  more  than  his  share  of  that  thing 
called  "oomph!"  Yet  even  at  that  the  date  to 
Sonja  meant  nothing  to  get  terrifically  excited 
about. 


But  for  Alan  it  was  an  Occasion  in  more  ways 
than  one. 

However,  even  he  didn't  anticipate  that  a  few 
weeks  later  all  Hollywood  would  be  asking, 
"Can  Alan  Curtis  win  Sonja  Henie?"    Least  of 

1,  did  he  dream  that  he  would  be  asking  him- 
self the  same  thing. 

For  anyone  who  doesn't  live  in  the  movie  vil- 
lage to  appreciate  how  the  charm  dice  were 
loaded  on  that  first  evening,  it  is  necessary  to 
50  back  to  the  many  factors  involved  in  the  basic 
situation.  They  are  the  kind  of  hidden  factors 
that  aren't  usually  talked  about  in  the  film 
colony,  but  which  every  insider  knows  are 
there.  They  couldn't  exist  anywhere  else,  and 
experiencing  them  couldn't  hurt  a  person  so 
much  anywhere  else  either.  They  have  to  do 
with  hearts  and  the  aches  hearts  can  get  in 
them,  and  with  pride  and  ambition,  and  with 
that  difficult  thing  the  Chinese  call  "saving 
face." 


nd    Alan    can    testify! 


First  of  all  you  must  realize  that  Miss  Henie 
is  what  is  called  in  Hollywoodese  a  very,  very 
big  potato.  She  is  a  star  of  the  first-ten  mag- 
nitude. Her  film  wage  is  in  that  fabulous 
bracket  from  which  the  income  taxes  nick  some 
seventy-odd  per  cent,  which  means  millionaire 
stuff.  She  is  perfectly  capable  of  going  out  of 
an  evening  and  earning  herself  an  additional 
$15,000  to  $25,000  for  a  simple  skating  exhibition 
— and  often  does.  Hollywood  always  remem- 
bers those  facts  about  Sonja.  But  one  fact  it 
rather  constantly  loses  sight  of  behind  all  that 
glitter  of  gold.  It  forgets  that  Sonja  is  also  a 
vital,  warm,  beautiful  unmarried  girl  of  twenty- 
six. 

Alan  Curtis  is  the  current  example  of  what 
happens  all  the  time  to  talent  in  Hollywood, 
and  a  crying  shame  it  is,  too.  Alan  was  put 
under  contract  by  M-G-M  some  two  years  ago 
because  he  was  handsome,  young,  very  sex- 
(Continued  on  page  81) 


26 


PHOTOPLAY  PROUDLY  PRESENTS 


y\ 


That  stalwart  triumvirate 
— Lionel  Barrymore,  Lew 
Ayres  and  Laraine  Day — 
in  another  of  M-G-M's 
thrilling  Kildare  films.  On 
the  following  pages  is  a 
condensed  version  of  the 
original  novel  on  which 
the  latest  picture,  "Dr. 
Kildare's   Girl."    is    based 


tic  reading,  about  a 
young  interne  who 
defies  all  rules  in  his 
daring  fight  against 
disease  and  death 


^OR 


\ 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  the  crowded  waiting  room  of  Dr.  Gillespie  there 
were  people  of  ten  nations  of  more  than  ten  de- 
grees, from  the  old  pugilist  with  rheumatism  in 
his  broken  hands  to  the  Indian  mystic  whose  eyes 
already  were  forgetting  this  world;  but  little 
Florie  Adams  took  precedence  over  all  of  these. 
Her  mother  lagged  breathless,  a  step  behind,  as 
Florie  was  led  quickly  on  by  a  nurse  so  pretty  that 
the  little  girl  had  to  keep  looking  up  at  that  fresh- 
ness and  that  bloom;  and  so  her  stumbling  feet  for- 
got their  way. 

"Emergency!*'  said  the  nurse  to  the  Negro  who  was 
on  duty  as  though  to  guard  the  door.  "Emergency, 
Conover!" 

So  they  came  to  the  threshold  and  the  mother 
leaned  over  the  child,  saying:  "He's  a  great  man, 
Florie.  He's  a  great,  great  man;  and  you  just  look  at 
him  and  listen  at  him,  and  he'll  make  you  well!" 

Then  the  door  opened  and  little  Florie  entered, 
prepared  to  listen  with  all  her  soul,  and  to  see.  She 
saw  an  office  worn  and  old  and  littered,  with  the 
smell  of  a  drugstore  and  the  look  of  a  secondhand 
furniture  shop.  She  saw  a  young  man  in  white  with 
a  pale  face  and  eyes  darkly  stained  by  sleepless- 
ness; he  seemed  to  Florie  like  someone  who  has 
stared  too  long  and  too  hard  at  intangible,  fading 
things;  there  was  about  him  the  humility  and  the 
tension  of  a  foreigner  who  listens  to  speech  that  is 
only  partially  understood.  But  the  great  man  was 
not  he.  The  great  man  sat  yonder  in  a  wheelchair. 
To  Florie  he  was  as  old  as  her  private  conception 
of  the  deity,  and  like  her  God  he  wore  a  tangled 
radiance  of  white  hair,  thin  and  luminous.  He  had 
a  high  forehead  with  a  blue  vein  of  wrath  etched 
across  it;  he  had  the  smile  of  a  fighting  Irishman 
who  may  be  delighting  in  the  battle  or  suffering 
from  a  twist  of  exquisite  pain;  and  beyond  all  else 
he  had  eyes  of  fire  that  made  Florie  forget  the  rest. 
He  barked  at  the  pretty  nurse  in  a  harsh  voice: 
"Well,  Lamont,  what's  this?" 

"An  emergency,   Dr.  Gillespie,"  she  answered. 

Florie  expected  her  to  shrink,  but  there  seemed 
no  fear  in  her;  she  even  smiled  at  this  great  and 
terrible  doctor. 

"It's  scarlet  fever,  Doctor  Gillespie,"  said  the 
mother.  "Little  Joanie,  she  come  down  exactly  like 
this;  but  I  thought  maybe  there's  a  way  of  .  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  what  you  thought,"  snarled  the  great 
Gillespie.    "What  the  devil  is  this,  anyway?" 

The  last  words  were  for  another  nurse  who  had 
come  in  with  a  tray  that  she  placed  across  the  arms 
of  the  wheelchair. 

"It's  two  boiled  eggs  with  some  toast  and  crisp 
bacon  crumbled  into  them,"  said  the  nurse. 

"Take  the  stuff  away!"  shouted  Gillespie.  "Take 
it  away  and  bring  me  coffee!" 

THE  young  doctor,  in  the  meantime,  sat  on  his 
heels  and  took  the  hand  of  Florie  with  a  touch  so 
gentle,  so  firm,  so  assured,  that  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that  everything  would  be  all  right,  if  only 
the  terrible  old  man  would  stop  roaring.  She  smiled 
at  him  and  he  smiled  back  as  he  scanned  her  face 
deliberately,  reading  it  up,  reading  it  down. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  the  nurse  of  the  tray  was  saying. 
"It  was  orders  to  bring  this." 

"By  the  jumping  thunder — by  the  living  .  .  . 
whose  orders?"  boomed  Gillespie. 

"Dr.  Kildare,  sir." 

"Kildare!"  exploded  the  great  voice. 

"Yes,  sir?"  answered  the  young  man  who  sat  on 
his  heels. 

Florie  trembled,  but  this  Kildare  did  not  even 
turn  his  head  from  the  examination  as  he  spoke. 

"And  what  am  I  to  say  is  the  meaning  of  this?" 
said  the  terrible  voice.  "About  this  confounded  in- 
terference, what  am  I  to  do?" 

"If  I  were  you,  I  would  eat  the  eggs,  sir.  You've 
had  nothing  since  yesterday." 

He  rose  as  he  spoke  and  kept  on  smiling  down  at 
Florie.    The  wrath  of  the  great  Gillespie  dissolved. 

"Not  since  yesterday?  Haven't  I,  Jimmy?"  he 
said,  apologetically.  But  instantly  he  was  barking: 
"Where's  the  coffee.  Parker?" 

His  anger  drove  her  back  toward  the  wall. 

"It  wasn't  ordered  for  the  tray,  Doctor  Gillespie," 
she  said. 

"I'm  to  be  treated  like  a  babe  in  swaddling  clothes, 
am  I?"  demanded  Gillespie.  "You  think  I'm  going  to 
put  up  with  this  damned  outrage?  Well,  get  out 
of  my  sight!    What  are  you  waiting  for,  Nosy?" 

The  nurse  vanished. 

"Bring  the  child  to  me,"  commanded  Gillespie. 

"Certainly,  sir,  when  you've  finished  eating,"  said 
Kildare. 

And  still  the  lightning  did  not  fall! 

"It's  a  simple  case,"  went  on  Kildare.     And  he 

28 


CTOR  KILDARE 

(NOVEL 
MAX  BRAND 


said  with  that  wonderfully  gentle  and  quiet  voice 
that  opened  the  heart  of  Florie:  "She's  been  hav- 
ing aspirin,  hasn't  she?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  mother. 

"I  wouldn't  give  her  any  more  just  now,"  sug- 
gested young  Doctor  Kildare.  "Aspirin  is  a  very 
good  thing,  but  sometimes  it  will  bring  out  a  bit 
of  a  rash,  like  this." 

"Is  that  all  it  is?"  gasped  Mrs.  Adams.  "Oh,  Doc- 
tor Gillespie,  is  this  right?" 

"Right?"  boomed  Gillespie.  "Why,  the  young  fool 
doesn't  dare  to  be  wrong,  does  he?" 

So  Florie  was  drawn  out  of  the  room,  still  with 
her  head  turned  to  catch  her  last  close  view  of 
greatness. 

"Why  did  Mary  Lamont  bring  that  case  in  here?" 
Gillespie  growled.  "It  could  have  gone  through 
other  avenues.  .  .  ." 

"Perhaps  Mrs.  Adams  is  a  sister  of  Mike  Ryan, 
sir,"  suggested  Kildare. 

"Mike  Ryan?  The  ignorant  bartender  in  the  sa- 
loon over  there?" 

"Yes,  sir;  my  old  friend  Mike  Ryan." 

"Next  patient!"  called  Gillespie.  "You've  got  a 
taste  for  low  company,"  he  added  with  his  growl, 
"that  may  drag  you  down  to  the  gutter.  And  don't 
say:  'Yes,  sir,'  to  that!" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Kildare. 

1  HERE  was  a  commotion  in  the  outer  office,  a  hur- 
rying of  heavy  feet,  a  confusion  of  voices. 

The  door  was  broken  open  and  a  burly  ambulance 
driver  with  a  prize  fighter's  jaw  and  the  bright  little 
eyes  of  a  pig  came  in,  supporting  a  man  doubled-up 
with  pain.  At  the  door  appeared  Conover,  complain- 


"You  have  until  Friday  to  do  something 
about  it,"  Gillespie  told  Jimmy... "Why 
couldn't  some  other  young  jackass  have 
had  the  idea?  No,  it  had  to  be  my  boy!" 


ing:    "I  tried  to  keep  them  out,  Doctor  Gillespie!" 

"Never  mind  him,  Joe,"  said  the  big  man.  "Here's 
the  little  old  doc,  and  he'll  fix  you  up.  He  fixes 
everybody  up.  He  can  look  right  through  you  like 
an  X-ray." 

Joe,  slumped  in  a  chair,  managed  to  whisper,  with 
a  twisting  grin:  "Then  he'll  see  the  slug  that  Ma- 
Carthy  left  inside  of  me  five  years  ago." 

"What  d'you  mean  by  this,  Weyman?"  demanded 
Gillespie.  "Do  you  think  this  is  the  regular  emer- 
gency ward,  or  what?" 

Weyman,  his  cap  in  his  hand,  began  backing  up 
with  small  steps,  only  taking  note  that  Kildare,  on 
his  knees,  already  was  at  work  on  the  patient. 

"Yeah,  sure — emergency  room,"  said  Weyman, 
"only  it  was  farther  away — and  I  thought  about 
how  fast  the  Doc  is,  here — and  Joe  is  a  pal  of 
mine.  .  .  ." 

"Get  out!"  commanded  Gillespie,  and  Weyman 
disappeared,  saying  hastily  as  he  went  through  the 
door:  "Doc,  he's  even  got  the  same  name  as  me! 
We  was  raised  on  the  same  block!" 

"By  the  same  cops  with  the  same  nightsticks," 
commented  Gillespie,  suddenly  grinning.  "Let  me 
get  at  that  boy,  Jimmy!" 

"It's  all  right,  sir,  I've  got  it  .  .  .  Stomach  pains 
for  several  years,  Joe?" 

"Yeah,  Doc.  Off'n  on.  But  this  one — it's  differ- 
ent— it's  a  sock  in  the  eye.  .  .  ." 

Pain  cut  off  his  breath.  The  smile  he  was  trying 
to  give  turned  into  a  ghastly,  white  contortion. 

"How  long  has  this  pain  been  going  on?  .  .  . 
Nurse,  ring  Killefer  in  surgery.  I've  got  a  job  for 
him.  A  rush  job  .  .  .  And  get  an  orderly  here  to 
take  him  .  .  .  How  long  has  this  been  going  on, 
Joe?" 

"Since  about  five  this  morning  ...  I  thought  it'd 
pass.  .  .  ." 

"And  the  pain  went  down  lower?" 

"Yes.  And  then  I  remembered  about  you — be- 
cause I  was  scared." 

"Ten  hours?"  murmured  Kildare.  "I  wish  you'd 
remembered  me  sooner.  .  .  ." 

As  the  orderly  appeared  with  the  wheeled 
stretcher,  Kildare  picked  up  Joe  and  laid  him  on 
his  side  on  the  table. 

He  said,  briefly:  "Dr.  Killefer — ruptured  gastric 
ulcer — ten  hours  old.    Tell  Killefer." 

Kildare  gripped  Joe's  hand  and  followed  the 
stretcher  to  the  door. 

"I'll  see  you  through,  Joe,"  he  said. 

"Will  you?  That's  swell!"  murmured  Joe,  and  re- 
laxed, his  eyes  closing  over  their  story  of  pain. 

"More  of  your  low  company,  Kildare,"  said  Gil- 
lespie. "I  see  you're  the  'doc'  to  the  whole  dis- 
trict, now.  When  any  ragamuffin  pickpocket,  yegg, 
or  second-story  man  speaks  of  'the  doc,'  he  means 
young  Doctor  Kildare.  And  what  do  you  get  out  of 
it?  For  the  sake  of  a  fugitive  rat  with  a  bullet- 
hole  in  him,  you  slap  down  the  authorities,  kick  the 
hospital  in  the  face,  and  damn  near  ruin  yourself; 
and  what  would  they  do  for  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kildare,  thoughtfully,  "but 
I  think  some  of  them  would  die  for  us — and  they're 
the  only  ones  who  would." 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  call  of  "Next  Patient!"  brought  in  a  sal- 
low-faced youth  of  twenty-two  and  his  per- 
sonal physician,  a  Dr.  Arthur  Sloan,  who  kept 
the  sprightly  verve  of  an  athlete  at  fifty-five. 
"You  have  the  case  history  and  the  labo- 
ratory reports  already,  Dr.  Gillespie,"  said 
Sloan. 

"Good,"  said  Gillespie,  "and  now  I  have  the  man! 
Arthur  Sloan  is  a  known  and  experienced  physician, 
Kildare,  but  you  may  be  able  to  help  him." 

"I'll  try,  sir,"  said  Kildare. 

Dr.  Sloan  stiffened. 

"I  hoped  for  your  personal  attention  to  a  very 
baffling  case,  Dr.  Gillespie,"  he  said. 

"You'll  have  it  if  it's  needed,"  said  Gillespie.  "But 
Kildare  does  something  more  than  fill  time-gaps 
around  here.  He  won't  waste  many  minutes  if  he 
hasn't  an  idea." 

"Very  well,"  said  Sloan,  coldly,  "if  you'll  remove 
the  bathrobe,  Mr.  Loring.  .  .  ." 

Kildare  went  briskly  ahead  with  his  examination. 

"This  case  has  been  worked  up  thoroughly,"  said 
Dr.  Sloan,  who  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  seemed  to 
condemn  every  gesture  Kildare  was  making.  "It 
seems  a  characteristic  case  of  chronic  malaria  .  .  . 
you  know  that  we  come  from  a  malarial  district. 
Mr.  Loring  is  losing  strength  and  appetite,  together 
with  weight.  He  has  a  degree  or  two  of  fever  in 
the  afternoons.  Classical  symptoms,  you'll  agree. 
But  I  bring  him  here  because  I've  been  unable  to 
find  the  malarial  plasmodia  in  any  of  the  blood 
smears.    However,  it  must  be  malaria!" 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  can't  agree  with  you,  Dr.  Sloan," 
said  Kildare,  stepping  back  a  little. 

"Ah,  you  don't  agree?"  asked  Sloan,  smiling  a  lit- 
tle. "After  your  very  brief  examination,  what  do 
you  think  it  may  be?" 

"Bacterio  endocarditis,"  said  Kildare. 

"My  dear  young  man!"  said  Sloan,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  in  resignation. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Gillespie.  "Bacterio  endo- 
carditis?   You're  not  trying  to  be  original?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Quite  a  bit  out  of  the  way,  I  should  say,"  com- 
mented Sloan. 

"You've  taken  the  blood  smears  at  different  times 
of  the  day,  Sloan?"  asked  Gillespie. 

"Yes,  sir.  Repeated  smears,  and  always  at  vary- 
ing hours." 

"Is  that  what  you  base  it  on?"  Gillespie  demanded 
of  Kildare.  "Because  the  plasmodia  have  not  been 
found  you're  sure  that  it  couldn't  be  chronic  ma- 
laria?" 

"No,  sir,"  Kildare  answered,  "because  I  know  that 
frequently  the  malarial  organisms  may  be  located 
in  the  spleen  and  remain  there,  acting  as  a  reservoir 
for  infection." 

"The  spleen  palpable?"  demanded  Gillespie. 

"Quite,"  said  Sloan. 

"For  a  first  guess — I  haven't  had  my  hands  on 
Loring  yet — but  for  a  first  guess,  I  can't  help  feel- 
ing that  you're  right,  Sloan.  Kildare,  you're  bark- 
ing up  the  wrong  tree." 

"I  believe  not,  sir." 

"Damn  the  beliefs — I  want  the  proofs.  You're 
not  guessing,  are  you?" 

"No,  sir,  not  entirely." 

"You've  been  too  quick,  Kildare,"  said  Gillespie, 
shaking  his  head.    "What  about  the  heart?" 

"There's  a  systolic  murmur  of  the  apex,  trans- 
mitted to  the  axilla,"  reported  Kildare. 

"That  is  true,"  agreed  Sloan,  grudgingly. 

"But  at  the  same  time,  that  doesn't  make  it  bac- 
terio endocarditis,  Kildare!"  exclaimed  Gillespie. 

"If  young  Doctor  Kildare  were  to  come  down  into 
our  country,"  said  Sloan,  with  a  sour  smile,  "he 
would  learn  a  little  more  about  some  of  the  curious 
phases  of  malaria.  It's  not  always  something  that  a 
bit  of  quinine  will  rub  out." 

Kildare  set  his  teeth  hard  and  endured.  He  was 
sweating  and  his  anger  kept  his  eyes  fixed  straight 
ahead,  but  his  voice  remained  under  control. 

"Young  men,"  growled  Gillespie,  "should  learn 
not  to  jump  their  opinions  into  the  dark.  Kildare, 
I'd  be  glad  to  hear  you  admit  that  you're  wrong 
about  this." 

"I  can't  do  that,  sir,"  said  Kildare. 

Gillespie  stared  suddenly  at  his  assistant.  "Kil- 
dare, what  have  you  seen?" 

"Mr.  Loring,"  said  Kildare,  disregarding  Gillespie's 
question,  "are  there  fleas  in  your  part  of  the  coun- 
try?" 

"For  God's  sake,"  cried  Loring,  "what  has  that 
to  do  with  anything?" 

Kildare  pointed  to  four  or  five  small  spots  at  the 
base  of  Loring's  throat. 

"A  slight  rash  or   irritation  of   some  sort,"   said 


Sloan,  indifferently. 

"Are  there  fleas  in  your  country?"  insisted  Kil- 
dare. 

"Not  many.    Not  in  my  house,"  declared  Loring. 

"Petechiae,  then,"  said  Kildare,  and  stepped  back 
to  indicate  that  he  had  finished  speaking  his  mind. 

"I  suppose  we  can  go  on,  then,  with  the  question 
of  the  chronic  malaria?"  asked  Sloan. 

"Chronic  malaria?"  said  Gillespie,  wheeling  his 
chair  closer  and  staring  at  the  little  spots  on  the 
throat.  "Certainly  not.  They  are  petechiae — and 
absolutely  diagnostic.  It's  bacterio  endocarditis, 
man,  and  the  search  is  finished." 

"You  mean  that  he  is  right?"  demanded  Loring. 

"Unfortunately,  yes,"  said  Gillespie. 

"Extraordinary!"  growled  Sloan.  "Absolutely 
extraordinary!" 

KlLDARE,  when  they  had  left  the  room,  ran  a 
handkerchief  over  his  sweating  face. 

"I  was  hard  on  you,  eh?"  demanded  Gillespie. 

"Not  particularly,  sir." 

"Yes,  I  was  hard  on  you,  and  in  front  of  strangers. 
I  hoped  that  you'd  seen  something  but  I  couldn't 
be  sure.  And  so  I  made  you  sweat.  Because  if  you 
had  been  taking  a  shot  in  the  dark,  I  would  have 
wanted  to  crucify  you  in  front  of  the  whole  world. 
It's  a  damnable  temptation  for  doctors  to  make  a 
brilliant  guess — and  then  stick  to  it  like  stubborn 
mules.    Understand  that?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"But  there's  another  thing  that's  more  important 
still:  When  you  think  you're  right,  when  you're 
honestly  convinced,  then  it's  your  opinion  against 
the  whole  world.  That's  the  time  to  nail  your  flag 
to  the  mast  the  way  you  did  just  now.  You  weren't 
entirely  sure  that  those  petechiae  were  absolutely 
diagnostic?" 

"Not  entirely,  sir." 

"But  it  was  your  best  thought  on  the  subject,  and 
so  you  stuck  to  it.  Oh,  Jimmy,  there  are  times 
when  every  doctor  has  to  act  quickly.  There's  life 
or  death  hanging  on  whether  he  thinks  right,  but 
there's  no  time  to  ask  questions.  Those  are  the  mo- 
ments when  a  doctor  has  a  shudder  up  his  spinal 
column  and  his  knees  are  watery  and  his  heart  is 
sick,  but  all  the  while  he  has  to  talk  and  act  like 
God  Almighty.    Will  you  remember  that?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Kildare.  "Shall  I  call  the  next 
patient?" 

"Don't  change  the  subject  on  me.  Hide  your  own 
pride,  if  you  want  to,  but  don't  try  to  cover  up  the 
fact  that  old  Gillespie  was  wrong,  just  now.  I've 
made  mistakes  before;  I'll  make  'em  again;  and  old 
or  young,  all  a  doctor  can  do  is  his  best." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  closed  eyes. 

"Let  me  get  you  something,"  urged  Kildare. 

"For  what?  Can't  an  old  man  be  tired  and  close 
his  eyes?     Get  me  something  for  what?" 

"For  the  pain,"  said  Kildare. 

"There's  no  pain!" 

"Very  well,  sir.    There's  no  pain,  then." 

"How  do  you  know  there's  pain?" 

"You  have  two  ways  of  smiling.  One  way  is 
when  it  has  you  by  the  throat." 

"Tommyrot!    Nothing  has  me  by  the  throat." 

"The  melanoma.  .  .  ." 

"Be  still  about  that." 

"Why  can't  we  speak  about  it?" 

"Because  there's  no  cure  for  me,  and  what's  the 
use  of  a  dead  man  talking  about  death?" 

"We  can't  cure  you,"  said  Kildare,  steadily,  "but 
we  can  stretch  out  your  time.  There's  a  fire  burn- 
ing you  up,  and  you  give  it  nothing  but  your  body 
to  feed  on.  I  have  to  fight  you  to  make  you  eat  one 
small  meal  a  day.  Carson  could  help  you  with  his 
new  treatment." 

"You  mean  his  new  system  for  'drinking'  X-rays?" 

"You  won't  see  him.  You  won't  lift  a  hand  to  help 
yourself." 

"I've  had  my  three  score  and  ten,"  said  Gillespie. 
"Just  why  should  I  try  to  stay  here — in  a  slow  fire — 
dying  inch  by  inch?  Why  should  I  try  to  steal  time 
that  doesn't  belong  to  me?" 

Kildare  started  to  speak  but  the  words  would  not 
pass  his  lips. 

"Go  on!    Tell  me!"  roared  Gillespie  suddenly. 

"You've  got  to  stay  on  because  of  me,"  said  Kil- 
dare, at  last. 

"I  do,  do  I?"  cried  Gillespie,  apparently  in  a  rage. 

Kildare  walked  deliberately  to  the  lion  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"I'd  never  be  able  to  take  half  of  what  you  know, 
half  of  what  you  can  give  the  world,"  said  Kildare, 
"but  you  have  to  wait  until  you've  loaded  me  with 
all  I  can  stagger  under." 

The  old  man,  half-closing  his  eyes,  drew  a  long, 
shuddering,  groaning  breath.    He  dropped  his 
on  his  breast  and  laid  a  hand  on  that  of  Kildare 


"Jimmy,"  he  said,  and  fighting  hard  he  started 
again:     "Jimmy.  .  .  ." 

"Next  patient!"  called  Kildare. 

"Ay,"  muttered  Gillespie.  "The  next  patient 
You'll  have  your  own  damned  way  about  every- 
thing, I  suppose." 

"Next  patient  in  one  moment,  sir,"  said  Conover, 
opening  the  door  a  trifle. 

"You'll  let  me  have  Carson  in?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"And  you'll  follow  his  regime?" 

"Jimmy,"  said  Gillespie,  making  a  gesture  with 
both  hands,  "what  right  have  I  to  deny  that  so 
long  as  I  live  I  have  hope?  I  preach  miracles  every 
day;  why  shouldn't  I  pretend  that  one  might  be 
worked  on  me?  Go  as  far  as  you  like.  Does  that 
make  you  happy?" 

CHAPTER  III 

WHEN  the  sun  came  out,  the  mild 
weather  had  to  be  used.  From  two 
angles  of  the  second  story  windows 
of  the  Blair  General  Hospital  there 
is  a  good  view  of  the  tennis  courts 
where  the  internes  and  doctors  get  a 
bit  of  exercise  now  and  then.  A  good  many  of  those 
windows  were  filled,  this  afternoon,  for  there  was 
something  worth  watching  on  the  courts  where  Doc- 
tor Hendrix,  who  had  been  a  national  figure  in  ten- 
nis ten  years  before,  had  met  his  match.  A  tall, 
blond  young  athlete,  not  half  so  racket-wise  as 
Hendrix,  was  covering  the  court  like  a  tiger. 

Mary  Lamont  was  leaning  over  one  of  those  win- 
dow sills  when  Kildare  stopped  behind  her. 

"You  like  him  pretty  well,"  said  Kildare. 

She  looked  back  over  her  shoulder,  saying:  "How 
do  you  know?" 

"That's  easy.  You  never  turn  your  head.  You're 
looking  at  a  man,  not  a  tennis  game." 

"You  ought  to  be  a  detective;  they  pay  for  eyes, 
in  that  business." 

"It's  Gregory  Lane,"  he  announced. 

"Oh,  you  know  him?  What  do  you  think  he's 
like?" 

"He's  just  a  shade  under  six  feet;  weighs  a  hun- 
dred and  eighty;  has  stiff  hair  and  uses  a  little  slick 
'em  on  it;  a  good  forehead  and  a  pair  of  grey-green 
eyes;  speaks  a  shade  from  the  right  side  of  his 
mouth  but  laughs  all  over;  stands  straight,  has  a 
light  step,  and  a  heavy  pair  of  shoulders." 

"A  regular  police  description!" 

"Want  to  know  some  more  about  him?" 

"Yes.    Go  ahead  as  far  as  you  can." 

"He's  been  well-raised;  had  some  of  his  education 
in  England;  likes  the  Hemingway  sort  of  writing; 
has  a  fighting  disposition;  is  nervous  before  the  fight 
begins;  loves  a  good  joke;  and  sleeps  on  his  face." 

"Jimmy!  You've  never  even  shaken  hands  with 
him?" 

"What  of  it?" 

"Then  how  could  you  know  he  was  well-raised?" 

"Well,  manners  are  made  at  home.  He's  been 
handled  with  care.  The  England  appears  a  bit  in 
his  accent;  but  sometimes  he  talks  a  trifle  Heming- 


Dr.  lames  Kildare      .    .    .    .   lewAjres 
fclmartl 

Mary  Limo*t LaraiM  Day 

Dr.  Gregory  Lmi   .    .     Shepperd  Stredwica 
Br.  Walter  Cirew  .    .    .    Walter  KtagsfsreJ 

Molly  Byrd      AlMKnfM 

Or.  Stephen  Kildare    .    .    .  Samutl  S.  Hieefs 

Martha  Kildare EaauDaai 

Wayraai HatPeadletoa 

Heavy  Tboratea    ....    John  Eldredja 

A  Metrs-Goldwya  Mayer  Picturt      M 

Dinetei  ay  Harald  S.  Baca.net      W 


29 


THE    NEW    DOCTOR    KILDARE    NOVEL 


way;  he  looks  ready  to  punch  any  man  in  the  chin 
but  he's  easily  startled — so  is  a  wild  cat;  he  has  a 
lot  of  smiling  wrinkles  in  his  face  even  at  twenty- 
nine;  and  as  for  sleeping  on  his  face,  I've  seen  him 
very  early  in  the  morning." 

"You're  just  an  X-ray,  Jimmy,"  she  said,  rather 
petulantly. 

"I've  never  been  able  to  see  through  you,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"But  he's  not  nervous,  really,"  she  said. 

"No?  Look  down  there  now.  He's  going  to  lose 
that  point." 

Dr.  Gregory  Lane  and  Dr.  Hendrix  were  in  the 
midst  of  a  base-line  rally,  the  ball  sweeping  back 
and  forth  low  over  the  net. 

"He  won't  lose  it!"  declared  Mary  Lamont. 

"He  will,  though,"  said  Kildare.  "You  see,  he's 
trying  to  make  himself  go  to  the  net,  but  he's  a  lit- 
tle afraid  .  .  .  There  he  goes!" 

Gregory  Lane,  caught  completely  out  of  position, 
flubbed  a  half  volley  into  the  net. 

"You  had  no  right  to  know  that  he'd  do  that!" 
protested  Mary  Lamont,  turning  on  Kildare. 

"But  he's  a  good  fellow;  he's  a  good  sport,"  said 
Kildare.    "See  him  laugh — and  it's  set  point,  too." 

"He  is  a  good  fellow,"  argued  Mary  Lamont,  half  to 
herself.  "And  besides,  he'll  never  be  caught  that 
way  again." 

"Won't  he?  I  tell  you,  Hendrix,  the  old  fox,  has 
his  number,  now.  He'll  keep  trapping  him  to  the 
end  of  time  .  .  .  look  at  that!" 

Lane  was  serving,  and  again  Hendrix  worked  the 
forehand  slice  short;  again  a  half  volley  was  dubbed, 
this  time  out  of  court. 

"I  don't  want  to  watch  any  more,"  said  the  girl. 
"Not  with  you  standing  around.  I  don't  want  you 
to  see  Gregory  Lane  being  beaten." 

"But  he'll  do  better,  now." 

"He  won't!  Look  at  the  way  he  overdrove  that 
one!" 

"That's  all  right.  He'll  keep  on  overdriving  them 
until  he  gets  the  feel  of  the  ball  again  .  .  .  Oh, 
there's  a  lot  more  to  him  than  I  thought!" 

LANE  began  to  whip  the  ball  long  and  hard  into 
the  base-line  corners  and  Hendrix,  with  years  tell- 
ing a  bit  upon  him,  lost  some  of  his  control. 

"He'll  begin  to  get  the  net  now.  He's  feeling 
his  oats.  I  told  you  that  he  was  a  fighter,  but  he's 
nervous  until  he  sees  the  first  blood — his  own  or  the 
other  fellow's." 

As  though  inspired  by  this  remark,  Lane  sprinted 
to  the  net  and  cut  a  return  into  an  impossible  place 
for  Hendrix. 

"Don't  look  at  it  any  more,"  said  the  girl. 

"Why  not,  Mary?" 

"Because  you  know  too  much.  There's  only  one 
thing  you  don't  know." 

"Thousands  of  things,  of  course." 

"About  Gregory  Lane,  I  mean.  You  can't  guess 
what  makes  him  so  extra  attractive  to  the  girls." 

"Of  course,  I  can.  He's  a  magnificent  looking 
fellow." 

"It  isn't  what  you  see,  though." 

"What  is  it,  then?" 

"A  private  income." 

"Ah,  is  that  it?" 

"Jimmy,  will  you  please  be  a  little  bit  jealous?" 

"Partly  jealous,  but  chiefly  helpless  and  hope- 
less, you  know." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  that  way,  either." 

"All  right,  you  tell  me  what  to  be." 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head.  "But 
I  hate  the  whole  world — that's  all  I  know." 

"Suppose  I  had  as  much  as — well,  what  would  it 
have  to  be." 

"I've  got  all  the  minimums  worked  out,  rent, 
laundry,  food — are  you  always  hungry,  Jimmy?" 

"Yes.   Always." 

She  sighed. 

"I  could  fill  you  up  with  porridge  and  things. 
They  cost  a  lot  of  gas  to  cook,  but  they're  the 
cheapest.     Could  you  eat  them?" 

"I  could  eat  anything." 

"And  then  there's  light  and  gas,  and  installment 
payments  on  the  furniture.  .  .  ." 

"Suppose  we  rented  a  furnished  place?" 

"Jimmy,  you  simply  don't  know  anything.  Fur- 
nished places  are  just  ruin!" 

"Are  they?" 

"Of  course,  they  are!  .  .  .  And  then  there's  cloth- 
ing, and  that's  a  dreadful  item.  And  then  we'd 
leave  out  everything  like  gifts,  and  amusements, 
and  incidentals — except  that  you're  so  horribly 
absent-minded,  Jimmy." 

"I  wouldn't  be,  though.  I'd  tie  strings  around 
my  fingers  in  the  morning  and  hitch  labels  to  them." 

"Cutting  everything  to  the  minimum,  Jimmy, 
we'd    have    to   have    fifty    dollars    a    week — if    we 


wanted  to  be  decent  and  not  just  rats  in  a  hole." 
"Fifty — dollars — a     week!"     murmured     Kildare. 

"And  just  now  I'm  getting  twenty  a  month.  .  .  ." 
She  put  out  her  hands  to  him. 
"Haven't  I  reason  to  hate  the  world?"  she  asked. 

CHAPTER  IV 

WINTER,  which  had  retreated  the  day 
before,  seemed  to  have  disappeared 
the  next  morning  and  a  misplaced 
day  of  spring  warmed  up  the  dark 
streets  of  New  York  and  set  people 
smiling  unaware.  Gillespie  himself, 
as  he  answered  the  telephone,  was  looking  out  the 
window  at  that  blue,  summer  sky. 

"Yes,  Carew,"  he  said,  to  the  head  of  the  hos- 
pital, "yes,  but  why  does  Gray  want  Kildare?  .  .  . 
He  can't  have  him  for  that!  .  .  .  Kildare  is  carry- 
ing on  as  a  regular  interne,  but  he's  done  enough 
appendectomies  .  .  .  Besides,  we're  busy,  today  .  .  . 
We're  taking  a  day  off  in  the  country!" 

He  slammed  up  the  telephone  and  said:  "Did  you 
hear  that,  Jimmy?  We're  going  for  a  ride  in  the 
country.  The  next  thing  is  to  find  a  car  to  take 
us,  free,  and  a  place  to  go  .  .  .  Call  that  rich  pal 
of  yours  .  .  .Get  Messenger  on  the  phone  for  me." 

He  was  saying  a  moment  later:  "Messenger, 
you've  been  asking  me  to  come  out  with  Kildare 
and  see  that  medical  plant  you're  starting.  What 
about  today?  .  .  .  Good,  then  .  .  .  We  could  use  a 
car,  at  that.  Will  you  be  out  there?  I'll  look  at  your 
plant  as  far  as  a  wheelchair  can  take  me,  and  Kil- 
dare will  go  the  rest  of  the  way." 

Mary  Lamont  came  in,  dressed  for  the  street  in 
a  small  black  hat  and  a  green  coat  that  looked  too 
slim  and  trim  for  winter  weather. 

"The  report  you  wanted  on  the  Clonmel  case, 
Doctor,"  she  said,  giving  Kildare  a  long  envelope, 
and  she  started  in  haste  from  the  office. 

"Lamont!"  called  Gillespie.  "What  are  you  do- 
ing out  of  white?" 

"It's  my  day  off,  Doctor,"  she  said. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  he  commanded.  "You  believe 
in  telepathy,  Jimmy?" 

"Half  and  half,"  said  Kildare. 

"We  got  it  from  Lamont,  this  idea  of  a  day  off," 
insisted  Gillespie.    "Lamont,  got  a  date?" 

"Yes,  Doctor." 

"Of  course,  you  have.  It's  with  us.  We're  going 
for  a  cruise  into  the  country.  Jimmy,  get  into  your 
street  clothes  ...  Get  Nosy  Parker  to  lay  out  my 
own  things  and  lend  me  a  hand." 


While  they  were  watching  the  tennis 
game  below,  Mary  asked,  "Jimmy,  will 
you    please    be    a    little    bit    jealous?" 

The  winter  cold  and  wet  had  glazed  the  trees, 
the  shrubs.  The  whole  countryside  flamed  around 
them  off  to  the  verge  of  the  horizon  blue,  which 
seemed  to  dwell  in  a  permanent  twilight. 

"There's  something  wrong  with  Lamont,"  said 
Gillespie,  a  bit  later.   "Find  out  what  it  is,  Jimmy." 

"What  is  it,  Lamont?"  he  asked,  smiling  a  little. 

"It's  a  job  for  Dr.  Gillespie,"  she  said. 

"Won't  Kildare  do?"  asked  Gillespie. 

"Not  a  bit.  There's  a  great  surgeon  in  the  Blair 
General  that's  going  to  be  hounded  out  of  his  place 
by  bad  luck  and  unpleasant  people  in  the  front 
office." 

"What  great  surgeon?    And  how  great  is  he?" 


"He  has  a  beautiful  pair  of  hands,"  she  said,  "and 
—he's  wonderfully  fast!  Yet  the  hospital  is  going  to  do 
him  in  because  he's  had  bad  luck.  Unless  you'll  say 
the  good  word  for  him,  Dr.  Gillespie." 

"Young  and  beautiful,  ain't  he?"  asked  Gillespie. 

"Yes." 

"So,  of  course,  he's  a  great  surgeon." 

"He's  Gregory  Lane,"  she  said,  defiantly. 

"The  new  man  on  the  staff?  What  about  him,  Kil- 
dare?" 

"I've  heard  good  things,  sir.  I  don't  know  him 
very  well." 

"He's  lost  his  last  six  cases  in  a  row,"  said  Mary 
Lamont,  "but  everyone  of  them  was  a  frightful 
mess.  He's  a  neurosurgeon,  you  know.  Dr.  Gil- 
lespie, will  you  help  him?" 

"If  he's  worth  help,  I  may.  Six  in  a  row?  Well, 
that  may  happen  to  the  best — in  brain  surgery." 

"Will  you  help  him?" 

"What's  he  mean  to  you?" 

"I  love  him,"  she  said. 

"Bah!"  said  Gillespie. 

"I  do,"  she  declared.  "He's  wonderful — and  so 
quiet — and  he's  so  much  of  a  man!     I  love  him!" 

"All  right,"  said  Gillespie.  "If  she  loves  him 
right  out  loud  like  this,  in  public,  there's  nothing 
for  you  to  worry  about,  Jimmy." 

"You  don't  know  Mary,"  said  Kildare.  "She  can 
be  bitter." 

"You  will  help  him?"  insisted  the  girl,  overlook- 
ing Kildare. 

"I'll  try." 

"Thank  you,  doctor,"  she  said,  setting  back  with 
a  sigh  of  relief. 

Five  minutes  later  they  had  turned  off  the  road 
down  a  driveway  bordered  by  lofty  poplars  and  so 
they  came  to  what  seemed  not  a  rigid  institution 
with  prison-like  structures,  but  an  open-faced  New 
England  village. 

"Is  this  the  place?"  said  Gillespie.  "See  what 
Messenger  has  done!  He's  turned  a  village  into  a 
medical  apparatus.  A  man  like  Messenger  is  so 
rich  that  he  can  afford  to  use  his  brains,  eh?  Oh, 
lucky  devil!    Where's  Messenger  waiting  for  us?" 

"He's  in  the  cottage  of  the  assistant  professor  of 
Humane  Research,  sir,"  said  the  driver. 

"Humane  Research!"  said  Gillespie.  "Now,  what 
the  devil  might  that  be?  All  of  medicine  is  humane 
research,  I  hope." 

VV  HEN  they  drew  up  at  the  appointed  place  and 
had  helped  Gillespie  back  into  his  wheelchair, 
Messenger's  daughter  came  down  the  steps,  wav- 
ing, and  calling  out;  and  big  Messenger  himself 
hurried  after  her.  He  helped  get  the  wheelchair 
up  the  steps  and  into  the  house.  They  went  back 
into  a  library  where  a  fire  burned  on  a  five  foot 
hearth  and  a  Persian  rug  glowed  like  a  field  in 
May  with  green  and  red  and  gold. 

"The  chair  of  Humane  Research,"  said  Messen- 
ger, explaining  to  Gillespie,  "is  a  title,  as  you  can 
imagine,  that  covers  a  great  many  things  because 
it's  the  general  name  of  the  whole  institution;  and 
I'm  advised  that  if  I  get  the  right  man  for  it,  he 
could  have  an  interesting  life.  You  see — the  holder 
of  this  chair  is  to  have  carte  blanche.  I  hope  to 
get  a  man  who  has  a  peculiar  insight  into  diseases 
that  may  be  a  little  more  in  the  imagination  than 
in  fact — a  man  with  a  gift  for  stepping  into  the 
full  confidence  of  people,  you  know." 

"Ah?"  said  Gillespie.  "That's  an  unusual  idea. 
And  I  like  it.     Have  anybody  in  mind?" 

"Someone  I  wanted  to  talk  over  with  you.  I  have 
some  of  the  other  chairs  well  filled;  for  instance, 
there'll  be  Tillinghast  of  Chicago  in  neurology.  .  .  ." 

"A  great  man,"  said  Gillespie.  "A  very  great 
man." 

"There  will  be  an  orthopedist.  Grover  Jackson 
has  consented  to  come  for  that  chair." 

"You  couldn't  do  better  than  Jackson,"  said  Gil- 
lespie. "The  idiot  is  only  right  part  of  the  time; 
but  even  his  mistakes  are  inspired  ones." 

"The  pediatrician  is  to  be  Professor  Johann 
Herz." 

"Great  Scott,  how  did  you  manage  to  land  him?" 

"I  kept  bidding  and  waiting,  and  bidding  again." 

"I'm  glad  I  didn't  see  this  before,"  sighed  Gilles- 
pie. "I  would  have  been  tempted  to  try  to  find 
a  place  for  myself.  But  who  have  you  in  mind  for 
this  chair  of  Humane  Research,  this  cream  of  the 
whole  lot?" 

"A  younger  man,  Dr.  Gillespie." 

Messenger  paused  a  moment.  Then  he  said:  "It 
seemed  to  Nancy  and  me — she's  done  more  about 
this  scheme  than  I  have — that  there  couldn't  be  a 
better  man  than  the  fellow  who  first  interested  us 
in  medicine — I  mean  to  say,  we  felt  that  if  we  could 
give  a  new,  free  life  to  the  man  who  gave  back 
life  and  more  than  life  to  Nancy — in  a  word,  our 

30 


BY     MAX     BRAND 


choice  is  Doctor  Kildare,  if  you  approve." 

Suddenly  he  was  smiling,  and  standing  back  a 
little  with  a  genial  expectancy.  Nancy  looked  hap- 
pily toward  Kildare.  She  saw  him  go  straight  to 
Gillespie,  staring  sharply  down  into  his  face.  After 
that,  he  turned  and  glanced  toward  Mary  Lamont; 
and  what  Nancy  saw  in  the  face  of  the  nurse  was  as 
old  as  hunger,  and  as  bright  as  the  sun. 

Old  Gillespie  took  off  his  glasses  and  squinted 
his  eyes  at  the  thought  that  had  been  presented  to 
him.  He  polished  the  glasses  and  put  them  on  again. 
At  last  he  seemed  able  to  see  something. 

"The  trouble  with  filling  a  post  like  this,"  said 
Gillespie,  "is  that  you'd  need  a  man  who  would 
never  be  satisfied  with  what  he  had  done  but  would 
have  a  spur  in  his  ribs  urging  him  forward.  You'd 
want  a  man  whom  other  people  could  trust.  He'd 
have  to  be  a  man  without  fear  of  opinions  but  loyal 
to  his  friends,  while  he  was  loyal  to  the  truth.  He'd 
have  to  be  capable  of  growth  so  that  in  the  end 
he'd  be  worthy  of  heading  what  may  be  one  of  the 
most  important  medical  centers  in  the  world. 

"He'd  have  to  be  a  man  who  had  been  tested  to 
the  heart  and  to  the  marrow  of  the  bone.  That's 
why  I  can  freely  say  that  if  you  searched  the  world 
over,  I  don't  think  you  could  make  a  better  choice 
than  Doctor  Kildare!" 

He  dropped  his  head  and  stared  at  the  Moor,  as 
though  seriously  questioning  his  decision  before 
he  reaffirmed  it. 

"You  couldn't  find  a  better  choice  than  that,"  he 
concluded. 

Messenger  said:  "I  hoped  that  you'd  say  that, 
Doctor  Gillespie,  but  I  wasn't  entirely  sure.  I  knew 
that  you  had  your  own  great  plans  for  Jimmy." 

"My  own  plans  for  him?  What  plans  could  I 
have  that  would  be  half  so  good  as  this  chance  to 
give  his  gifts  to  the  world  and  to  have  the  money 
curse  removed  from  him  before  it  has  a  chance  to 
break  his  heart — or  his  back?" 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  great  Gillespie  did  not  often  allow  his 
imagination  free  scope,  but  on  the  return  trip 
he  seemed  in  the  highest  spirits  and  sketched 
for  Kildare  a  future  as  bright  and  rich  as  a 
golden  crown.     Mary  Lamont  watched  him 
with  a  growing  content  that  reached  a  happy 
climax  when  he  said:     "How  could  you  have  told 
them  that  you  wanted  a  day  to  think  it  over?    How 
could  you  keep  from  accepting  on  the  spot?" 

"I  remembered  what  a  fairly  intelligent  fellow  said 
to  me,  once,"  answered  Kildare. 
"What  was  it?" 

"He  said  that  the  obvious  choice  was  usually  the 
quick  regret." 

"Sounds  like  some  damned  coiner  of  aphorisms. 
There's  nothing  I  hate  more,"  said  Gillespie,  "than 
young  or  old  fools  who  try  to  say  things  so  neatly 
that  they'll  be  easily  remembered.  Who  was  this 
precious  dunderhead?" 
"His  name  is  Leonard  Gillespie,"  said  Kildare. 

At  seven  that  evening  Kildare  called  Mary 
Lamont.    "Have  you  a  date  this  evening?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    Is  it  something  important?" 

"Well,  to  me  it  is." 

"All  right.    I'll  call  off  the  date." 

"Will  you?  Then  meet  me  over  at  Mike's  in  a 
few  minutes?" 

"I'd  rather  not  Mike's,  Jimmy." 

"But  I  only  have  half  an  hour.  Then  I'm  back  on 
duty." 

"I'll  be  at  Mike's,"  she  said,  and  dropped  the  re- 
ceiver heavily  into  the  cradle. 

When  she  got  over,  she  found  him  in  the  family 
room  with  a  glass  of  beer. 

"We  oughtn't  to  meet  here,"  she  said.  "People 
will  see  us;  and  the  internes  are  not  supposed  to 
go  out  with  the  nurses." 

"Nobody  who  sees  us  in  here  will  talk,"  he  an- 
swered. 

"Anyway,  perhaps  it  doesn't  matter?"  she  sug- 
gested. 

He  seemed  to  hear  her  dimly;  a  mist  of  thought 
clouded  his  eyes. 

"You  look  a  bit  dressed  up,"  he  said.  "What  have 
you  got  under  that  cloak?" 

"It's  a  lace  thing." 

"Let  me  see  it." 

She  opened  the  cloak. 

"Leave  the  cloak  off  for  a  while,  will  you?" 

"This  isn't  the  dress  for  a  place  like  this." 

"It's  the  dress  for  me.  All  right.  Put  the  cloak 
back  on.    Did  you  have  to  break  the  date?" 

"I  stalled  it  a  little.    He'll  wait." 

"Who's  the  he?" 


"It's  none  of  your  business." 

"Who's  the  he?" 

"Gregory  Lane." 

"Who's  Gregory  Lane?" 

"Jimmy,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"Nothing;  I'm  all  right." 

"Oh,  but  there  is  something  wrong.  You  have  that 
look  as  though  you'd  been  driving  fast  all  day— 
and  were  going  to  drive  all  night.  What  is  it  you're 
going  to  do?" 

"Nothing." 

"Jimmy,  that  isn't  true.  Look!  I  thought  today 
that  I  was  going  to  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world; 
now  you're  about  to  tell  me  that  it's  all  no  good." 

He  said  nothing.  He  took  a  drink  of  beer  and 
seemed  to  find  it  bitter. 

"Jimmy!" 

"Yes?" 

"You're  not  taking  the  Messenger  offer!  You're 
staying  here!    You're  staying  with  Gillespie!" 

"Mary,  you  like  Gregory  Lane  a  lot,  don't  you?" 

"Will  you  answer  me?" 

"You  like  Lane  a  lot,  don't  you?" 

She  had  been  rising  from  her  chair.  Now  she 
sank  back  into  it  slowly,  staring  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  like  him  a  lot.  More  than  almost  anyone 
I  know." 

"How  much  does  he  like  you?" 

"Quite  a  lot,  it  seems." 

"Does  he  want  to  marry  you?" 

"Yes." 

"But  you  let  him  wait  and  came  over  here  to  me 
in  Mike's  saloon?" 

She  kept  staring  at  him,  frightened. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  she  said. 

"Giving  up  the  Messenger  job  doesn't  count,"  he 
said.    "It's  giving  up  you  that  hurts." 

"You  have  given  it  up!"  whispered  Mary.  She  put 
her  face  in  her  hands. 

"I'd  gone  as  far,"  she  said,  "as  the  color  of  the 
nursery  walls."  Then,  looking  up,  she  said,  in  an 
agony:     "Oh,  Jimmy,  why,  why  have  you  done  it?" 

"It's  no  sacrifice,"  he  told  her.  "Gillespie  is  worth 
everything." 

"Honor,"  she  said  bitterly,  "and  the  Right,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  capitals.  I  guessed  it!  But  I  wouldn't 
believe  that  you'd  be  such  a — No,  I  don't  mean  that." 

She  took  hard  hold  on  herself.  His  words  were 
calm  but  his  face  was  grey  with  suffering. 

"It  wasn't  a  question  of  right  or  wrong,"  he  per- 
sisted. "There  were  two  bids.  That  was  all.  And 
I  sold  out  to  the  higher  one.  Messenger  means  an 
easy  life  for  me,  and  all  that.  A  home — and  all  that. 
It  even  means  having  you.  Gillespie  means  a  hard 
grind  but  he's  stored  up  a  thousand  years  of  things 
I  must  know.    It's  no  sacrifice." 

"A  home,  and  children,  and  I — we  don't  count 
compared  with  Gillespie?"  she  said. 

Kildare  could  not  answer. 

AFTER  a  while  she  was  able  to  master  herself.  "I 
guess  there  isn't  much  left  to  us,"  she  said. 

"No,"  he  answered.     "Only  what  you  say  is  left." 

"I  make  the  rules  and  we  still  play  a  game?" 

"Can  we?" 

"Yes.  But  we're  back  at  something  we've  known 
about  before — twenty  dollars  a  month." 

"I  know,"  said  Kildare. 

"No.  You  don't  know.  You've  never  wanted 
what  a  woman  wants,  so  you  don't  know.  Oh,  I 
could  say  a  lot  of  things!" 

"Go  ahead,  I'll  listen." 

"I  know  you  will.  There's  nothing  wrong  with 
you,  except  the  bulldog.  The  big  things  you  go 
after,  you  lock  your  jaws  on  and  won't  let  go. 
There's  nothing  wrong  with  me,  either,  except  want- 
ing what  a  woman  has  a  right  to.  It's  queer,  isn't 
it?  To  be  heartsick,  I  mean,  and  yet  with  nothing 
to  feel  guilty  about." 

"Queer?  Yes,  it's  that.  You're  going  to  be  late 
for  Gregory  Lane." 

"Stop  it,  Jimmy.  You  care  more  than  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"You're  going  to  have  empty,  lonely  times;  and 
when  they  come,  you  call  for  me.  Will  you?" 

"Will  it  be  all  right?" 

"We'll  make  it  all  right.  If  there's  something- 
something — more  important — then  I  won't  come." 

They  looked  at  one  another. 

"You're  right.  Everything  you  say  is  right.  Go 
on,"  said  Kildare. 

"But  if  there's  nothing  more  important — then  I'll 
come  to  you  whenever  you  want,  and  wherever. 
I've  got  eighty-five  a  month;  you've  got  twenty;  and 
we'll  go  as  far  as  that  will  take  us  .  .  .  around  the 
corner  ...  up  the  street  .  .  .  and  back  again.  .  .  ." 

"It'll  be  the  wasting  of  you,  Mary." 

"No.     It's  good  for  a  woman  to  be  used.     As  far 


T\: 


as  God  will  let  her.  We'll  go  as  far  as  we  can — 
without  talking  of  certain  things.  We'll  go  as  far 
as  we  can  and  try  to  forget  that  we're  just  walking 
about  on  the  outside  of  things.  Itll  be  just  pre- 
tending." 

"It  won't  be  pretending.  Not  for  me,"  said  Kil- 
dare. 

"But  oh,  Jimmy,  if  you  won't  be  sick  of  it  with 
all  the  hope  left  out,  I'll  be  everything  to  you  that 
I  can  be;  all  the  things  that  begin  with  good  morn- 
ing and  finish  with  good  night." 

CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  next  morning  before  Gillespie  had  word. 
He  had  his  black  man,  Conover,  heaping  up  stuff 
in  the  inner  office,  which  served  as  a  semi 
laboratory  as  well;  and  the  piled  notebooks  of 
Kildare,  the  records  of  experiments  and  cases, 
were  being  packed  by  Conover  with  more  dis 
patch  than  neatness,  for  Gillespie  hurried  him  on. 

"Let's  be  done  with  it,  Conover,"  said  Gillespie. 
"Don't  hang  and  dawdle  like  that,  man!" 

"But  look  at  the  words  that  fill  up  the  books 
said  Conover.  "Think  of  him  drawing  them  out, 
late  at  night.  Think  of  him  remembering  what 
you've  said  and  done  all  of  every  day  and  crowding 
it  down  like  this!  There  ain't  even  a  crap  game 
that  could  keep  me  awake  so  long;  not  even  if  I  was 
carryin'  loaded  dice,  sir!" 

"You  confounded  black  idiot,"  said  Gillespie,  "I 
know  you  and  your  crooked  dice  too  well.  Get 
that  stuff  out  of  here  and  we'll  be  ready  to  go  back 
to  the  old  days,  and  a  clean  deck,  and  no  damned 
foreign   interference." 

The  voice  of  Kildare  said  behind  him:  "I  hope 
not,  sir.  I've  just  telephoned  to  Mr.  Messenger  to 
thank  him  for  his  offer  and  to  tell  him  that  I'm 
staying  on  under  you." 

The  head  of  Gillespie  jerked  back. 

"Ten   thousand   a   year — a   house — a   gentleman's 
establishment — a  chance  for  an  honorable  career- 
you're  throwing  that  away  for  the  sake  of — and  tell 
me  another  thing — come  around  here  and  face  me 

Instead,  Kildare  rested  a  hand  on  the  back  of  the 
chair.  Gillespie  took  one  hasty  glance  over  his 
shoulder  and  then  quickly  looked  front  again, 

His  voice  had  changed  from  a  bullying  uproar  to 
gentleness:     "Did  you  tell  this  to  Mary  Lamont?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  long  do  you  think  that  a  girl  will  wait 
around?  Do  you  think  she's  a  Biblical  character? 
Will  she  be  patient  for  seven  years?"  demanded 
Gillespie,  roaring  suddenly  again. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Kildare. 

Gillespie  winced  as  though  a  pain  had  touched 
him  inwardly.  After  a  moment,  his  fingers  began 
to  tap  softly  on  the  arm  of  the  wheelchair. 

"Give  me  the  telephone,"  he  said.  "We're  wast 
ing  time.    There's  a  day's  work  ahead  of  us." 

Kildare  silently  passed  him  the  telephone. 

"Get  me  Carew!"  commanded  Gillespie  of  the 
operator.  "That  you,  Carew?  I  have  to  congratu- 
late you.  I  hear  you've  got  a  pair  of  hands  at  last 
in  neurosurgery  that's  able  to  do  real  work  on  the 
brain  .  .  .  Young  fellow — Gregory  Lane  ...  I  don't 
care  what  you  think;  the  fellow's  probably  a  genius. 
I  want  Kildare  assigned  to  him  to  assist,  when  he's 
operating.  Only  then,  mind  you.  Operations  over, 
Kildare  comes  back  to  my  office  .  .  .  He'd  be  wast- 
ing an  opportunity  if  he  didn't  do  some  work  under 
Lane  and  I  don't  care  what  Lane's  record  is. 
Napoleon  had  a  bad  record  too,  at  Leipzig  and 
Waterloo.    Good-by!" 

THAT  was  how  Kildare  found  himself,  late  that 
afternoon,  working  beside  Gregory  Lane  in  the 
surgery  and  admiring  what  seemed  to  him  a  match- 
less technique.  The  brain  surgeon  handles  at  one 
moment  hard  bone;  the  next  he  is  tying  off  thin 
blood  vessels  and  dealing  with  the  most  delicate 
tissue  in  the  world.  He  works  in  a  region  where  the 
least  hemorrhage  or  pressure  or  lesion  may  cause 
death  or  a  ruined  brain  that  is  worse  than  death. 
He  needs  a  touch  as  sure  as  steel  and  as  light  as  a 
feather.  It  seemed  to  Kildare  that  Lane  had  all  of 
these  qualities.  He  was  young,  but  he  was  a  master. 
It  was  one  of  those  perfect  operations;  and  just  as  it 
neared  completion  the  patient  died. 

When  they  were  taking  off  the  masks  and  white 
gowns  big  Gregory  Lane  said:  "I  know  you  want  to 
be  an  internist,  but  you  have  a  touch  for  this  sort 
of  work,  also.     That  was  a  good  job  you  did." 

Kildare  thanked  him  and  looked  over  the  big  man 
carefully.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  find  fault 
with  this  fellow,  except  for  an  apparent  excess  of 
pride.    But  he  needed  that  pride  now. 

"I  suppose  Carew  will  ask  you  why  I  butcher 
so    many    in 


^        ~>4->».>*.>».>*.>»->*_\ 


THE    NEW    DOCTOR    KILDARE    NOVEL 


"There's  another — seven  in  a  row!" 

The  naming  of  the  disaster  seemed  to  take  all  the 
heart  out  of  him;  his  smile  wavered  and  failed. 

"I'm  not  here  to  spy.  Gillespie  sent  me,"  answered 
Kildare. 

"Gillespie?    Ah,  that's  different!" 

"He'd  heard  that  you  were  having  bad  luck  but 
that  you  were  a  good  workman.  If  he  asks  what 
I  think  I  can  tell  him  that  nothing  about  your  work 
is  wrong  except  the  luck."  Sometimes  there  was  a 
quick  flash  of  enthusiasm  in  Kildare.  It  burned  in 
his  eyes  now  for  a  moment  as  he  added:  "I 
thought  it  was  a  beautiful  job,  doctor." 

Lane  flushed  a  little. 

"I  needed  that,"  he  said.  "And  when  you  talk, 
Kildare,  there's  a  saying  in  this  hospital  that  it's 
almost  like  Gillespie  speaking.  I  need  a  drink,  too. 
What  about  it?" 

CHAPTER  VII 

SPRING,  which  had  for  two  days  pretended 
to  be  returning  to  New  York,  ended  in  a 
cold  rain  which  a  northeaster  turned  to 
(glass  on  the  streets.  The  wind  still  was 
whining  around  corners  when  Doctor  Carew 
called  Gillespie  the  next  morning  to  say: 
"Sometimes  I  feel  more  like  a  headsman  than  a 
doctor,  Leonard.  I  have  to  be  the  executioner,  you 
know,  and  I  hate  the  job,  but  today  I  suppose  my 
course  is  clear.  The  reason  I  called  you  is  because 
we  talked  about  the  man  yesterday.  It's  Gregory 
Lane;  seventh  fatality  in  seven  operations.  I  can't 
have  a  man  like  that  in  the  hospital!" 

"If  you  can't  have  him,  I  suppose  you'll  fire  him," 
said  Gillespie. 

"I  only  wanted  to  check  with  you,  Leonard." 

"Check  with  Kildare.    He  saw  Lane  at  work." 

"And  liked  it?" 

"Better  than  any  he'd  ever  seen." 

"Kildare  said  that?" 

"He  did." 

"But  seven  deaths  in  seven  operations.  .  .  ." 

"He  had  seven  lost  cases  handed  to  him  in  a 
row.    That's  all." 

"Then  you  think  that  I  ought  to  keep  him  on?" 

"I  can't  do  your  thinking  for  you.  I'd  keep  him. 
That's  all  I  know." 

That  was  why  Gregory  Lane  was  still  on  the 
staff  of  the  Blair  General  Hospital  when,  an  hour 
later,  there  was  a  call  from  the  accident  ward  for 
a  neurosurgeon.  Already  they  had  tucked  around 
the  patient  the  red  blanket  which  means  "Emer- 
gency," for  it  was  a  bad  head  injury.  Dr.  Gregory 
Lane  was  assigned,  and  a  moment  later  a  call  came 
through  for  Kildare. 

"Are  you  still  assigned  to  assist  Dr.  Lane?  .  .  . 
Report  to  him  in  the  emergency  ward  at  once!" 

1HE  emergency  ward  is  the  no-man's  land  across 
which  the  shock  troops  of  a  hospital  move  into 
action;  but  nothing  in  the  room  took  the  eye  of 
Kildare  except  the  tall  figure  of  Doctor  Gregory 
Lane  bent  over  a  patient  in  a  corner  bed.  It  was 
a  man  of  thirty-five  or  forty,  unconscious,  pale,  so 
that  his  face  looked  like  one  of  those  fine -line 
Holbein  drawings  that  express  the  character  but 
give  little  of  the  life. 

"That's  worth  something,"  said  Kildare. 

"And  we're  going  to  work  on  him,"  answered 
Lane.  "But  it  looks  tough.  I've  rushed  through 
an  X-ray  plate." 

He  passed  it  to  Kildare  and  went  on:  "He's  had 
the  usual  treatment  for  a  skull  fracture.  It's  an 
extradural  hemorrhage;  we'll  have  to  operate  if 
we  want  to  save  this  life.    Do  you  think?" 

"I  think  so,"  agreed  Kildare,  his,  forefinger  on  a 
wrist  to  follow  the  slowing  beat  of  the  pulse.  "Who 
is  he?" 

"We  haven't  any  history.  Traffic  accident  knocked 
him  over;  nothing  on  him  except  his  name.  Henry 
Thornton.    Does  that  mean  anything  to  you?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

The  eyes  of  Henry  Thornton  opened  wide.  He 
threw  up  a  hand  before  his  face  and  winced. 

When  he  lowered  his  arm  he  said:  "I  thought  it 
still  was  coming  at  me."  Then  he  started  to  sit  up. 
Kildare  pushed  him  back. 

"You're  doing  all  right,  Mr.  Thornton,"  he  said 

"You've  had  a  bad  knock,"  explained  Lane. 

"It  was  going  right  past  me  but  it  skidded,' 
breathed  Thornton.  "I  tried  to  jump — but  my  feet 
went  out  from  under  me." 

He  sat  up  in  spite  of  the  restraining  hand  of 
Kildare. 

"How  long  ago  was  it?"  he  demanded.  "What  day 
is  this?     What  DAY  is  this?" 

"It's  Tuesday,"  said  Kildare. 

Thornton  closed  his  eyes  and  gasped. 


'if-^f^f  "  f  +!+f  "+■  +  +■+■+'  *^f.\ 


"Good — good — "  he  breathed.  "Morning  or  after- 
noon?" 

"It's  morning.     It's  about  ten-thirty." 
"That's   all    right,   then,"   said   Thornton,   "But   I 
thought  for  a  moment — for  a  moment  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  was  stymied — on  a  treadmill,  so  that  I'd 
never  get  there — and  I'd  miss  Friday  noon!" 

EVEN  in  his  relief  his  excitement  kept  him  tense. 
He  shook  off  the  effects  of  the  sedative  in  an  in- 
stant. 

Gregory  Lane  commanded:  "You'll  have  to  lie 
down,  Mr.  Thornton." 

"Lie  down?  Good  God,  no!"  exclaimed  Thorn- 
ton.   "That's  the  last  thing  that  I  can  do!" 

"You  must,"  said  Kildare,  and  pressed  him  slow- 
ly, gently  back  into  the  bed. 

The  tension  of  Thornton  increased  to  a  violent 
shuddering. 

"That  won't  do — quiet  yourself,  Thornton!"  said 
Lane. 

Kildare,  still  controlling  the  patient,  found  him- 
self looking  into  desperate  eyes.  He  said,  quietly: 
"The  fact  is  that  you've  a  bad  head  injury;  and  it's 
necessary  for  you  to  lie  still." 

"Head  injury?  It  can't  be  bad.  There's  hardly 
an  ache — there's — " 

"It's  a  fracture,"  said  Kildare.  "We  must  operate, 
Mr.  Thornton." 

"Operate?"  said  Thornton.  "Did  you  say — frac- 
ture— and  operation?" 

"That's  better.  Relax,"  urged  Kildare.  "That's 
what  we  want.    No  tension.    It's  bad  for  you." 

"Operation — "  repeated  Thornton  slowly,  tasting 
the  bad  news  by  degrees,  deeply.  He  kept  looking 
straight  up  at  the  ceiling  as  he  said:  "Tell  me  how 
bad  it  is,  will  you?" 

"It  might  be  dangerous  without  treatment  at 
once." 

"Dangerous?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean — death?" 

Kildare  glanced  up  at  the  neurosurgeon. 

"Yes,"  said  Lane.  "Without  an  immediate  opera- 
tion it  might  mean  death." 

"Could  I  live  till  Friday  without  the  operation?" 

"That's  unlikely." 

"Is  it  impossible?" 

"We  can't  actually  say  that  you'd  die  before  Fri- 
day.   But  if  you  have  any  regard  for  your  life.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  talk  to  me  about  life?  I've  had  five 
years  of  dying.    I  refuse  the  operation!" 

He  started  to  get  up  and  there  was  a  little  high- 
pitched,  gasping  sound  from  a  nurse. 

"We  can't  control  you,  Thornton,"  said  Kildare, 
"but  let  me  suggest  something.  Whatever  it  is  you 
have  to  do  on  Friday,  couldn't  I  manage  it  for  you?" 

"You  do  it  for  me?  You  go  in  my  place?"  mur- 
mured Thornton,  the  idea  still  strange  to  him. 

"Tell  me  what  your  work  is — tell  me  what  is  to 
happen  Friday.    I'll  be  there!" 

"You  would,  I  think,"  said  Thornton,  reading 
deeply  the  mind  of  Kildare.  "I  think  you'll  go  for 
me  and  you  can  do  it!" 

"Tell  me  what  it  is,"  urged  Kildare. 

"You'll  leave  everything  and  go?" 

"I'll  leave  everything." 

Thornton  lay  back  with  his  eyes  closed,  smiling 
faintly.  "You  ought  to  have  been  a  priest,  not  a 
doctor,"  he  said.  "You  put  me  half  to  sleep.  You 
make  the  whole  thing  seem  finished  already — and 
five  years  of  hell  are  out  the  window  and  forgotten. 
Have  you  a  notebook?" 

"It's  ready  here." 

Thornton  began:   "You  have  to  start  for — " 

WlS  voice  stopped.  Calamity  entered  his  eyes 
and  he  started  up  on  one  elbow  with  a  desperate 
face  and  then  the  blow  which  had  been  coming 
struck  him  back  on  his  pillow,  senseless. 

Kildare  got  a  stethoscope  instantly  over  the  breast 
of  Thornton.  The  heart  was  still  working,  but  with 
a  horrible  pause  and  stagger  in  the  pulsation. 

Then  the  loud-speaker  in  the  next  room  began  to 
intone:  "Dr.  Kildare  wanted  in  Dr.  Gillespie's  of- 
fice.    Emergency!  .  .  .  Dr.  Kildare  wanted.  .  .  ." 

Gregory  Lane  looked  wildly  about  him,  from 
Thornton,  to  Kildare,  and  thence  into  unanswering 
space. 

Kildare  said,  "He's  still  got  a  bit  of  life  in  him." 

"But  I  can't  work  on  him.  I  can't  operate.  He 
distinctly  refused  the  operation,"  protested  Lane. 

"Did  he?"  said  Kildare.  "I  don't  remember  hearing 
that." 

Lane  started,  and  looked  at  Kildare  again. 

"Oh,  but  I  do,"  said  the  nurse.  "Oh,  I  distinctly 
remember  that  he  refused  the  operation!" 

Kildare  looked  on  her  with  a  sour  eye.  She 
flushed  but  she  lifted  her  head;  it  was  plain  that 


she  was  one  of  the  good  Christians  who  will  see 
right  triumph,  even  if  it  costs  a  thousand  lives. 

In  the  next  room  the  curse  of  the  loud-speaker 
began  chanting,  more  loudly  this  time:  "Emergency 
call  for  Dr.  Kildare  in  Dr.  Gillespie's  office!  Dr. 
Kildare,  report  at  once  to  Dr.  Gillespie's  office.  .  .  ." 

Lane  threw  out  both  hands  and  dropped  them 
helplessly  to  his  sides. 

"Shall  I  answer  that  call?"  asked  Kildare. 

"You've  got  to,"  said  Lane.  "I  suppose  Gillespie 
takes  precedence  over  the  rest  of  your  work.  But  I 
wish  I  could  have  you  here!" 

"You  don't  need  me,"  said  Kildare.  "You've  got 
the  finest  pair  of  hands  in  the  hospital.  They  don't 
know  how  to  make  mistakes!" 

Gregory  Lane  took  a  long  breath,  but  it  seemed 
to  do  him  no  good. 

"He's  dying  under  my  eyes,"  he  said,  a  stethoscope 
against  the  breast  of  Thornton.  "He's  on  his  last 
legs,  Kildare.   What  in  the  name  of  God  shall  I  do?" 

"There's  no  use  calling  on  God,"  said  Kildare. 
"The  way  I  understand  it,  when  the  big  pinch  comes, 
a  doctor  has  to  be  God!" 

He  got  out  of  the  emergency  ward  as  he  spoke. 

CHAPTER  VHI 

IT  was  a  bad  enough  case  that  Kildare  found 
waiting  for  him  when  he  reached  Gillespie's 
office,  but  an  adrenaline  injection  rallied  the 
patient  so  that  she  could  be  carried  off  to  bed. 
And  then  the  usual  line  for  diagnosis  began  to 

pour  in. 

Time  flew  away  on  wings  out  of  the  consciousness 
of  Kildare  while  various  things  were  happening  in 
the  emergency  ward.  Thornton  was  developing  the 
classical  pressure  symptoms:  hardening  of  the  arm 
and  leg  muscles  on  the  side  of  the  body  opposite  to 
the  fracture,  and  a  dilation  of  the  pupil  of  the  eye  on 
the  same  side  as  the  lesion.  Lane  took  a  spinal 
puncture.  There  was  increased  pressure  in  the 
spinal  fluid,  but  no  blood  stain  was  in  it.  That 
ought  to  mean  an  extradural  hemorrhage. 

Lane  looked  with  vague  eyes  at  the  nurse. 

"Yes,  doctor?"  she  said. 

"That  man  is  dying,"  he  announced.  "There's 
nothing  to  save  him  except  an  operation." 

"But  he's  refused  an  operation,  doctor." 

"  'In  a  pinch,  a  doctor  has  to  be  God,' "  quoted 
Lane. 

"What  was  that,  doctor?"  she  asked. 

Lane  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  kept  using  her 
as  a  focal  point  of  observation  while  his  idea  settled. 

"I  don't  suppose  that  Carew  would  give  me  au- 
thority to  operate?"  he  suggested. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so.  He's  a  stickler  for  every 
legal  right  of  the  patient." 

"Including  the  right  of  dying?" 

He  rang  Carew's  office.  The  doctor  was  out.  It 
was  not  even  known  where  he  would  be  for  an- 
other hour.    Another  hour  was  too  long  to  wait. 

He  went  back  to  the  patient  and  the  nurse. 

"You  know  this  hospital  better  than  I  do,"  he 
said  to  the  nurse.  "Is  there  anyone  other  than 
Carew  who  could  authorize  this  operation?" 

"No  one  would  dare — I  don't  think  anyone  would 
dare,"  she  said.  "Not  even  Doctor  Gillespie.  Oh, 
but  yes — Doctor  Gillespie  could  authorize  anything, 
I  suppose." 

He  rang  Gillespie's  office.  Nurse  Parker  answered 
that  he  was  out.  He  would  not  be  returning  soon. 
He  was  attending  an  important  conference. 

GREGORY  LANE,  as  he  rang  off,  sat  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  telephone  with  growing  cold  in  his 
heart.  He  kept  reasoning  about  the  case,  but  he 
already  knew  what  he  would  do.  Of  course  any 
case  was  worth  saving,  but  there  was  something 
extra  about  Thornton. 

He  went  back  to  the  dying  patient. 

He  lifted  the  eyelid  and  glanced  at  the  dilating 
pupil  of  the  eye.  He  felt  again  the  spastic  hardening 
of  the  arm  and  leg  muscles.  The  subconscious  mind 
was  controlling  those  muscles  now. 

He  had  killed  seven  in  a  row  and  if  anything 
went  wrong  now — he  would  be  thrown  out  of  the 
hospital.  No  decent  institution  ever  would  take 
him  on  again. 

"Order  an  operating  room  for  me,"  he  said  to  the 
nurse.     "Get  one  at  once!" 

"No,  please!  You  know  that  he  refused  the 
operation!" 

"As  though  a  man  always  knew  what  was  good 
for  him!"  said  Lane.    "Order  the  surgery  at  once!" 

There  was  not  a  trembling  nerve  in  his  body.  The 
pinch  had  come  and  he  was  ready  to  play  God. 

Outside  the  surgery,  Gregory  Lane  and  the  dying 
man  passed  a  whole  cluster  of  people  who  were 
there  to  look  and  make  sure  with  their  own  in- 


BY    MAX    BRAND 


credulous  eyes  that  any  man  dared  to  break  the 
vital  laws  of  medicine  as  this  fellow  was  doing. 
They  knew  his  record.  His  record  was  in  their 
eyes  as  they  stared  on  him. 

In  the  moment  when  he  was  washing  up,  putting 
on  the  white  gown  and  gloves,  he  kept  thinking  of 
Kildare,  from  whom  he  had  received  the  vital  im- 
pulse. There  were  tales  about  young  Kildare  which 
even  the  oldest  men  on  the  hospital  staff  told,  half 
smiling  and  shaking  their  heads  at  the  same  time. 
They  told,  with  a  shudder  of  pleasure,  how  the 
interne  had  dug  his  toes  in  and  resisted  all  au- 
thority time  and  again.  The  career  of  Kildare 
seemed  to  prove  that  a  doctor  can  break  every  rule 
as  long  as  he  wins  the  game. 

Now  the  operating  table.  He  was  looking  down 
at  the  dead  face  of  Thornton  in  profile  as  his  hands 
started  to  work. 

When  it  was  ended,  the  heart  of  Thornton  still 
beat,  and  without  that  frightful  drag  in  it.  He 
ought  to  live.  There  was  not  one  chance  in  a  thou- 
sand that  he  would  die.  Lane  had  him  assigned 
to  a  private  room  and  nurse — by  a  lucky  chance 
on  the  same  floor  on  which  Mary  Lamont  worked. 
The  bills  could  be  addressed  to  Lane  himself,  until 
Thornton's  will  and  ability  to  pay  were  discovered. 
To  the  doctor  that  case  meant  more  than  money.  It 
was  the  end  of  bad  luck.  It  was  the  end  of  boyhood 
and  the  commencing  of  maturity.  The  hospital  still 
might  destroy  him,  but  it  would  be  a  long  time 
before  this  work  was  forgotten. 

CHAPTER  IX 

THE  private  nurse  was  a  slightly  damaged 
blonde.  The  cloud  of  glory  she  trailed  behind 
her  was  a  thick  perfume  that  wrinkled  the 
nose. 
Mary  Lamont  was  not  three  doors  away 
when  she  heard  a  screech  of  fear  run  out 
into  the  corridor.    It  was  the  blonde  special,  squeal- 
ing with  terror. 

"Don't  go  in!"  cried  the  special  nurse.  "He's  batty. 
They've  knocked  him  nutty  with  the  operation; 
they've  whittled  the  brain  out  of  him!" 

Mary  Lamont  got  into  the  room  in  time  to  find 
Henry  Thornton  clambering  from  his  bed.  When 
she  put  her  hands  against  his  shoulders  it  was  like 
pressing  against  knotty  wood.  There  was  no  yield 
or  give  in  him.  He  had  looked  as  weak  as  a  woman. 
Now  he  took  both  her  wrists  inside  one  hand  and 
crushed  them  together.  There  was  pain  up  to  the 
screaming  point,  but  she  kept  on  smiling  at  him. 

"They've  put  me  in  the  wrong  day  of  the  week," 
he  said.  "I've  got  to  get  out  of  here.  They've 
walled  me  in,  you  see?" 

"I  see,"  said  Mary. 

"They're  building  the  walls  higher  all  the  time. 
They  build  them  out  of  sunlight  as  slippery  as  glass. 
You  can't  climb  them.  Not  even  an  eagle  could  fly 
over  them.  There's  only  one  thing  to  do.  That's 
to  break  through.    I've  got  to  break  through.  .  .  ." 

His  voice  grew  up  to  a  yell.  He  took  her  by  the 
hair  of  the  head  and  put  her  resistlessly  behind 
him.    She  held  his  arms. 

"It's  all  true,"  she  said.  "But  this  is  the  wrong 
time." 

"D'you  see  how  high  they  go?" 

"I  see  how  high.  It  makes  me  dizzy,  looking 
up.    We  can  plan  it  together,  how  to  get  out." 

"Are  we  together,  you  and  I?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we're  together." 

"If  that  were  a  lie,"  he  said,  "I'd  have  to  strangle 
it  in  your  throat  so  it  couldn't  get  out  again.  It 
would  be  my  duty  to  strangle  it,  in  your  throat." 

"It's  not  a  lie,"  she  said. 

"Don't  say  it  so  loud,"  said  Thornton.  "We've  got 
to  whisper  this.  Nobody's  to  hear.  Life  is  nothing; 
dying  is  nothing.  This  is  a  lot  more  than  life.  You 
understand?" 

"I  understand." 

"Answer  me,  then.  And  God  pity  you  if  the 
answers  are  wrong!" 

"I'll  answer,"  she  said. 

THE  wheelchair  of  Gillespie  came  bowling  through 
the  door  of  his  office,  propelled  by  Conover. 

"I've  brought  a  surprise  for  you,  young  Doctor 
Kildare.    A  father,  in  short." 

Old  Doctor  Stephen  Kildare  stood  smiling  in  the 
doorway,  his  head  down  a  bit. 

"Look  at  the  way  your  boy  sweats,  Kildare,"  said 
Gillespie.  "Other  people  perspire  when  they  work 
with  their  hands  but  he  sweats  when  he  uses  his 
brain.    That's  because  he  comes  from  the  country." 

Kildare  held  his  father's  hand  a  moment  before 
he  could  realize  that  the  old  doctor  was  there. 

"Yes,"  Kildare  admitted.  "I've  never  outgrown 
Dartford.    Are  you  all  right,  Father?" 

33 


"I  had  to  bring  down  Julia  Cray  to  let  some 
wiser  heads  consider  her  case,"  said  the  father. 

"He  brought  her  down  and  put  her  in  a  different 
hospital.  The  Blair  General  isn't  good  enough  for 
these  Kildares,"  said  Gillespie. 

"And  Mother?"  asked  Kildare. 

"She's  over  at  the  hotel.  She  had  some  shopping 
or  something  to  do.  Maybe  she  wanted  to  see  some- 
body, too.     I  can't  tell." 

"I'll  be  there  tonight.    Is  Mrs.  Cray  very  ill?" 

"I've  borrowed  Dr.  Gillespie's  brain,"  said  old 
Kildare.  Fragile,  white-haired,  slender,  his  manner 
was  as  quiet  as  that  of  his  son,  but  there  was  no 
suggestion  of  the  bulldog  about  him.  He  looked  as 
though  his  way  had  been  to  bow  to  the  storm,  not 
stubbornly  face  it,  as  young  James  Kildare  was 
wont  to  do.  "I  borrowed  the  time  of  Dr.  Gillespie, 
and  so  he  can  tell  you  about  her." 

"No,  no,  old  fellow,"  said  Gillespie.  "Tell  your 
son  something  about  the  case  .  .  .  There's  going  to 
be  trouble  here,  Jimmy.  By  God,  there's  going  to 
be  a  lot  of  trouble!  A  confounded  country  doctor 
comes  down  here  to  New  York  and  pretends  that 
he  wants  to  see  an  internist;  but  all  the  time  he  has 
his  mind  made  up  as  solid  as  rock!" 

He  grinned  at  Stephen  Kildare,  who  disclaimed 
this  attitude  with  eloquent  gestures.  "I  know  him," 
said  the  young  Kildare.  "Nobody  pays  any  atten- 
tion to  him,  here,  when  he  roars." 

"Nobody  pays  any  attention — that's  true,"  thun- 
dered Gillespie.  "I'm  worn  out;  I'm  a  has-been;  but 
go  on  with  the  case  history,  Stephen." 

"Julia  Cray  is  nearly  fifty,  now,"  said  the  elder 


"In  a  pinch  a  doctor  has  to  be  God," 
Gregory  Lane  Informed  the  nurse  just 
before    he    began    the    operation 

Kildare.  "And  recently  she's  developed  weakness; 
loss  of  appetite,  loss  of  weight  but  chiefly  the  weak- 
ness that  makes  her  want  to  stay  in  bed.  I've  gone 
through  the  usual  procedures  and  had  her  chest 
X-rayed.  It  was  negative  for  pathology.  A  gastric 
analysis  showed  her  markedly  deficient  in  hydro- 
chloric acid.  These  things,  to  me  point  toward 
pernicious  anemia.  The  slide  of  the  blood  doesn't 
give  the  usual  picture  for  that  disease;  so  I  assume 
her  case  to  be  in  a  state  of  remission.  I've  been 
treating  her  accordingly." 

"Remission!  Remission!"  boomed  Gillespie.  "He 
assumes  a  state  of  remission,  and  I  hate  to  assume 
any  state  at  all.  What's  the  character  of  this  Julia 
Cray?" 

"She's  a  good  woman,  brave,  and  gentle,  and 
faithful,  and  a  wise  mother  and  wife,"  said  Stephen 
Kildare.  "Perhaps  it  almost  follows  as  a  corollary 
that  she  is  just  a  little  foolish  in  certain  respects? 
She  is  devoted  to  a  nostrum,  a  silly  herb  tea  which 
she  considers  medicinal." 

"And  isn't  it?"  demanded  Gillespie. 

"She  thinks  it  is  keeping  her  alive;  but  you  and 
I  know  that  she's  dying,  Leonard." 

"Never  mind  what  we  know.  Did  you  look  at 
her  tea?" 

"Mere  casual  weeds,  most  of  the  things  in  it.  I 
have  had  them  identified,  one  by  one,"  said  the 
elder  Kildare. 

"Say  what  you  will,"  said  Gillespie,  "my  bet  is 
that  the  woman  is  suffering  from  hyperthyroidism. 
Too  much  thyroid.  That's  her  trouble,  I  take  it, 
though  God  knows  the  basal  metabolism  tomorrow 
may  prove  that  I'm  a  liar!" 


"Bet?"  said  young  Kildare.  "Did  you  say  you'd 
bet  on  it,  sir?" 

"Certainly!"  answered  Gillespie.  "I'll  bet  on  any- 
thing. What  about  it,  Stephen?  Will  you  back  up 
judgment  with  a  little  hard  cash?" 

"I  don't  pretend,"  said  the  older  Kildare,  "to  have 
anything  like  your  mass  of  experience  in  this  or  any 
other  phase  of  medicine." 

"Look  here,  Kildare,"  said  Gillespie,  "a  fellow 
that's  more  modest  than  he  needs  to  be  is  almost 
a  liar,  by  my  reckoning.  Don't  pretend  that  you're 
overawed  by  my  reputation,  you  Yankee  hypocrite!" 

"Ah,  but  reputation  is  a  worker  of  miracles,"  said 
the  country  doctor.  "Poor  Julia  Cray  was  a  nervous 
wreck;  she  was  already  planning  her  own  funeral 
but  I  bring  her  to  the  great  Gillespie  and  at  once 
she  grows  quiet  and  begins  to  hope." 

"Confound  you,  Stephen,  you  use  me  like  a  rattle 
or  a  nursery  rhyme  to  amuse  your  patients  and  get 
their  minds  off  themselves  .  .  .  But  I'm  betting 
a  dollar  that  it's  not  pernicious  anemia." 

He  took  the  bill  from  his  pocket  and  flourished 
it  violently.  Old  Stephen  Kildare  slowly  drew  a 
greenback  from  his  pocket  in  turn. 

"You're  sure  that  you  want  to  make  this  bet, 
Father?"  asked  the  young  Kildare,  biting  his  Up  to 
keep  back  the  smile. 

"Against  Leonard  Gillespie?"  echoed  the  father. 
"My  dear  lad.  I  know  who  Doctor  Gillespie  is,  but 
if  this  were  the  Judgment  Day  and  he  were  the 
Archangel  Gabriel,  and  blowing  his  horn  in  my  ear 
to  prove  it,  I'd  bet  an  honest  dollar  on  an  honest 
opinion.  And  my  opinion  is  that  it  isn't  hyperthy- 
roidism.   I'll  bet  on  pernicious  anemia  against  that." 

He  held  out  the  dollar  bill.  "Maybe  Jimmy  would 
be  the  stakeholder?"  he  suggested. 

"Ah,  you're  going  to  keep  the  money  in  the 
family  are  you?"  asked  Gillespie. 

The  loud-speaker  in  the  next  room  called  loudly: 
"Dr.  Kildare  wanted  instantly  in  Room  412.  Dr. 
Kildare  wanted  instantly  in  Room  412." 

XOUNG  Kildare  ran  from  the  office,  still  pushing 
the  two  dollar  bills  into  his  pocket.  He  was  still 
grinning  a  little  when  he  stepped  from  the  elevator 
on  the  fourth  floor.  It  was  not  the  first  time 
Kildare  had  ventured  to  oppose  the  ideas  of  the 
great  man. 

He  forgot  all  that  when  he  saw  a  cluster  of 
frightened  nurses  at  the  door  of  Room  412.  A 
slightly  battered  blonde  nurse  met  him,  saying: 
"She  called  out  to  send  for  you — we've  sent  for 
Doctor  Lane,  too." 

"Is  this  his  case?"  exclaimed  Kildare. 

"And  clean  batty!"  said  the  special. 

Kildare  opened  the  door  softly,  quickly.  Thorn- 
ton, his  head  swathed  in  bandages  so  that  he  looked 
something  like  a  devout  Mohammedan,  had  thrust 
Mary  Lamont  back  against  the  wall. 

He  was  saying:  "You  lied!  They've  closed  me 
into  the  wrong  day.  They've  closed  me  in  the  walls 
like  glass.    And  you've  helped  to  build  them  high.'" 

She  was  not  struggling.  Kildare  saw  that  before 
he  got  to  Thornton. 

"Good  stuff!  Good  work!"  he  said  to  Mary 
Lamont,  and  then  put  his  arm  around  the  sick  man. 
At  that  touch  the  strength  of  the  mania  melted  out 
of  Thornton  and  he  sagged  helplessly  as  Kildare 
lifted  him  back  into  bed. 

He  kept  saying:  "Who  is  it?  Who's  here?"  and 
straining  his  eyes  as  though  he  were  staring  into 
a  thick  fog. 

"I'm  Kildare,  and  I'm  here  to  talk  it  all  over 
quietly  .  .  .  Get  Lane!"  he  added  over  his  shoulder 
to  Mary  Lamont. 

The  door  was  open  and  a  dozen  entranced  faces 
were  looking  in  at  the  crisis.  Mary  Lamont  went 
out  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

Inside  the  room  Kildare  was  saying:  "Now  you're 
thinking  ahead,  Thornton.  You're  thinking  ahead 
to  Friday." 

The  word  opened  and  half-cleared  the  misted, 
weary  eyes  of  the  sick  man. 

The  insistent,  gentle  voice  of  Kildare  said,  with 
hypnotic  monotony:  "Friday — noon— noon— Friday 
—and  what's  happening,  Thornton?" 

"I'm  there,"  answered  Thornton,  smiling.  "I'm 
there,  and  it's  all  happiness,  forever." 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  happiness?"  asked 
Kildare. 

"Forever!     Happiness  forever!"  said  Thornton. 

His  voice  died  out.  He  fell  asleep,  still  smiling, 
and  his  hand  relaxed  in  the  reassuring  grasp  of 
Kildare,  who  now  stood  up.  Lane  and  Mary  Lamont 
were  standing  in  the  room,  watching,  silent. 

"How  do  you  manage  it,  Kildare?"  asked  Gregory 
Lane.     "Hypnotize  them,  some  way?" 

Kildare  smiled  faintly.    He  went  over  to  Mary. 

"That  was  a  good  job  vou  did,"  he  said.    He  took 


mmmm 


THE    NEW    DOCTOR    KILDARE     NOVEL 


her  hand.  "That  was  as  good  a  job  as  I  ever  saw 
.  .  .  Thornton  was  about  to  manhandle  her,"  he 
explained  to  Lane,  "and  she  kept  her  eyes  on  him 
and  didn't  struggle.  She  was  as  quiet  as  a  stone. 
Quiet,  and  still  smiling.    It  was  a  great  job!" 

'Tve  been  a  fool,"  said  Lane.  "I  should  have  had 
a  man,  an  attendant,  in  here.  Mary,  were  you 
hurt?" 

"Not  much,"  she  said,  rubbing  a  bruised  wrist. 

"Stay  out  of  this  room!"  commanded  Lane. 

"No,  she's  all  right,"  said  Kildare. 

"D'you  mean  to  say  that  you'd  let  her  risk  her- 
self in  here  again?"  asked  Lane. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Kildare.  "A  girl's  not  worth  a 
rap  if  you  encourage  her  to  show  the  white  feather. 
There're  plenty  of  yellow  rats.  This  one  is  different. 
Let's  keep  her  different." 

Thornton  suddenly  groaned  and  sat  up  in  the  bed. 

"I'm  coming  as  fast  .  .  ."  he  began,  "I'll  be 
there  .  .  .  wait  for  me.  .  .  ." 

He  started  to  get  out  of  bed.    Kildare  went  to  him. 

"Dr.  Lane!"  said  a  nurse  from  the  hall,  pushing 
open  the  door.    "Dr.  Carew  wants  you." 

"Good  luck! "whispered  Mary  Lamont. 

CHAPTER  X 

THE  justice  of  Doctor  Carew,  as  head  of  the 
Blair  General  Hospital,  was  as  quick  as  a 
knifestroke  and  often  as  sharp.  But  he  con- 
ducted his  trials  of  offenders  with  a  certain 
air  of  legal  procedure.  When  he  put  Gregory 
Lane  on  the  carpet,  he  said:  "Doctor  Lane, 
I  believe  that  I  have  the  facts  of  this  case  firmly 
in  hand.  I  had  a  definite  attitude  toward  you  yes- 
terday, and  I  should  have  acted  on  it.  But  I 
allowed  another  opinion  to  dissuade  me.  I  regret 
that  I  permitted  myself  to  listen  to  that  persuasion!" 

He  made  a  pause,  here.  He  considered  young 
Gregory  Lane  from  head  to  foot. 

"You  came  here  with  a  promising  background," 
said  Carew.  "Otherwise  I  never  would  have  con- 
sidered such  a  young  man  for  a  post  as  neuro- 
surgeon. After  your  recent  arrival,  you  have  had 
a  series  of  strokes  of — bad  luck?  Seven  men  have 
died  under  your  knife.  Medical  accidents?  It  is 
beyond  accident,  in  my  opinion.  It  has  reached 
such  a  point  that  I  feel  guilty  of  manslaughter— 
because  I've  permitted  you  to  work  in  this  hos- 
pital." 

He  made  another  pause. 

"If  you're  waiting  for  me  to  say  something,"  said 
Lane,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  now  what  I  think." 

"Ah,  you  think,  do  you?"  asked  Carew.  "A  dan- 
gerous thing  for  a  surgeon  to  think  too  much.  A 
dangerous  thing,  if  a  thought  gets  between  his 
knife  and  the  incision  he's  making.  But  I'm  in- 
terested— what  is  it  you  think?" 

"I  think  that  there  was  nothing  wrong  with  the 
operation." 

"Ah  ha!  Nothing  wrong  with  it?  A  patient  goes 
mad  under  your  knife,  but  you  think  that  there 
was  nothing  wrong  with  the  operation?" 

"I  definitely  know  that  if  the  same  case  came  to 
me  again,  I  would  follow  the  same  procedure.  I 
would  operate." 

Actually,  there  was  not  a  word  that  came  to 
the  mind  of  Carew.  He  was  silent  because  he  was 
stunned. 

Finally  the  pale  lips  of  Gregory  Lane  parted. 
He  said:  "You  can  come  to  the  point,  Doctor 
Carew.  I'm  dismissed  from  the  hospital  service,  I 
presume?" 

"You  may  presume  what  you  please;  but  I  would 
like,  in  the  first  place,  to  open  my  mind  to  you." 

"I  am  here  to  listen,  sir,"  said  Gregory  Lane. 

"I  have  the  full  details  of  your  procedure  before, 
and  during  the  operation.  You  dared  to  operate  on 
a  man  who  distinctly  had  refused  our  medical 
assistance!    That  is  true,  I  believe?" 

"That  is  obviously  true,"  said  Doctor  Lane. 

"There  was  only  one  authority  in  this  hospital 
that  could  have  ventured  to  give  you  that  authority. 
Perhaps  I  might  have  delegated  it  to  you.  Or  per- 
haps Leonard  Gillespie  might  have  taken  it  upon 
him  to  set  the  work  forward.  But,  so  far  as  I  know, 
you  worked  without  the  slightest  authorization." 

Rage,  even  before  the  expected  answer,  sweUed 
the  jowls  of  Carew. 

"Without  the  slightest  authorization,"  agreed 
Doctor  Lane. 

Carew  got  up  from  his  chair  to  deliver  a  violent 
denunciation  and  dismissal  speech.  But  there  was 
a  large  stratum  of  justice  in  his  being  and  he  knew 
that  a  good  judge  should  not  speak  in  passion.  That 
was  why  he  said:  "That  will  be  all  for  the  present." 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Lane,  and  turned  to  the 
door. 

"My  earnest  endeavor,"  said  Carew,  "shall  be  to 


think  this  through  without  passion.  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  look  into  the  affair.  I  shall  have  a  further 
message  to  communicate  to  you  within  the  hour, 
I  trust     Good-by,  Doctor  Lane." 

Lane  went  out. 

He  took  a  look  in  at  Room  412.  Mary  Lamont 
was  standing  close  to  the  door,  which  was  slightly 
ajar  to  give  a  better  current  of  air. 

"How  is  he  now?"  asked  Lane. 

"Dr.  Kildare  is  in  there  still,"  she  said,  "and  he 
has  Mr.  Thornton  quiet  again." 

"What  is  it  that  Kildare  does  to  them?" 

"No  one  knows.  But  sick  people  always  trust 
him.  They  feel  him  helping  them  up  the  hill.  But 
he  can't  get  what  he  wants  from  Mr.  Thornton." 

"He  wants  to  know  what  that  deadline  means? 
What  noon  Friday  means  to  Thornton?" 

"That's  it.  But  Thornton  hasn't  told.  Not  yet. 
Either  he  thinks  he's  locked  forever  in  the  wrong 
day  of  the  week,  or  else  he  imagines  that  Friday 
has  come,  and  there's  nothing  but  happiness." 

Kildare   came   out  of  the  room,   stepping  softly. 

"He's  sleeping,"  he  said,  "and  the  sleep  isn't  all 
barbital.    Be  quiet,  Mary,  when  you  go  to  him." 

"How  is  he?"  asked  Lane. 

"He's  the  same.  Noon,  on  Friday — noon,  on  Fri- 
day— and  he's  locked  into  the  wrong  day  of  the 
week,"  murmured  Kildare,  absently. 

He  went  off  down  the  hall,  walking  slowly,  almost 
stopped  by  his  thoughts  from  time  to  time. 

Gregory  Lane,  looking  after  him,  said:  "It's  hard 
to  guess  how  a  fellow  like  that  could  mean  much  to 
a  girl;  but  if  he  did  come  to  mean  anything,  I  don't 
see  how  she  ever  could  give  a  rap  about  any  other 
man." 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  asked  Mary  Lamont, 
her  voice  sharp  with  interest. 

"Because  women  are  practical  creatures  with  an 
eye  to  the  main  chance,"  said  Lane,  "and  there's 
nothing  small  about  Kildare.  No  wooden  chairs  for 
him.  He  wants  the  golden  throne.  The  little  things 
don't  matter  to  him.  He  doesn't  even  see  them.  He 
doesn't  know  whether  his  shoes  are  shined  or  not; 
he  doesn't  know  whether  his  feet  are  dry  or  wet; 
he  doesn't  know  what  street  he's  walking;  he  only 
knows  whether  or  not  he's  headed  in  the  right 
direction.    Isn't  that  the  secret  of  him?" 

"Is  it?"  she  asked.     "I  don't  know." 

"The  little  things — damn  them!  They  wreck  most 
of  us.  They  make  the  difference  between  fame  and, 
say,  just  hard  cash.  And  the  little  things  don't 
exist,  for  Kildare." 

"You  say  nice  things  about  Dr.  Kildare,  but  you 
don't  like  him." 

"What  makes  you  think   that?" 

"Because  your  voice  is  hard  when  you  speak 
about  him." 

"I'll  tell  you  this:  He's  the  stuff  I'd  like  to  have 
for  a  friend.  But  there's  something  about  me  that 
offends  him." 

"Really?" 

"You  know  the  straight  way  he  has  of  looking 
at  people?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know!" 

"Well,  he  won't  look  at  me,  if  he  can  avoid  it." 

"But  I've  heard  him  say  that  he  admires  you." 

"He  admires  a  pair  of  surgeon's  hands,  not  me. 
And  you  can't  be  very  fond  of  a  fellow  who's 
averse  to  you." 

A  voice  sounded  vaguely  from  412.  Lane  stepped 
close  to  the  door. 

"The  wrong  day — "  said  the  sleepy  utterance. 
"They've    locked   me    inside    the    wrong   day.  .  .  ." 

The  words  drawled  away  into  sleep  again. 

CHAPTER  XI 

NOW  that  the  interview  with  Gregory  Lane 
was  over,  Carew  took  up  the  witnesses  in 
rapid  succession.  He  already  knew  the 
burden  of  the  testimony  which  most  of 
them  had  to  give,  but  he  wanted  to  have 
it  freshly  in  mind  before  he  delivered  a 
judgment  that  already  was  hardening  in  his  mind. 
The  frightened  little  nurse  from  the  emergency 
ward  stood  before  him,  saying:  "I  knew  it  was 
wrong;  I  begged  him  not  to  do  it;  I  knew  it  was 
wrong.   .   .   ." 

There  was  the  ambulance  driver  and  the  interne 
who  had  picked  up  the  accident  call.  They  described 
the  scene  of  the  crime,  the  apparent  state  of  the 
injury.  There  was  the  X-ray  man  with  his  picture. 
There  was  even  the  orderly  who  had  pushed  the 
stretcher  up  to  the  operating  room. 

Finally,  there  was  Kildare.     No  matter  how  grim 
the   mind  of  Carew  might  be,  he  relaxed  a  little 
when  Gillespie's  assistant  came  into  the  office. 
"You've  been  here  before,  and  on  a  slightly  dif- 


ferent  basis,  Doctor,"  said  Carew,  smiling.  "There 
even  have  been  times  when  this  floor  was  a  hard 
place  for  you  to  stand.     Eh?" 

"Very  hard,"  said  Kildare,  and  smiled  a  bit,  also. 

"That  was  before  your  value  to  the  hospital  be- 
came so  apparent,"  went  on  Carew.  "And  any  man 
who  has  value  to  the  hospital,  has  intimate  personal 
value  to  me!" 

All  of  Carew's  strokes  were  apt  to  be  like  this. 
Whether  he  gave  a  criticism  or  a  compliment,  he 
leaned  his  whole  weight  behind  his  words. 

Kildare  murmured  something.  What  he  said 
hardly  mattered,  for  Carew  was  sweeping  forward 
on  his  genial  way. 

"Today,  doctor,"  he  said,  "I  simply  want  a  word 
from  you  about  the  unfortunate  case  of  Henry 
Thornton — the  case  which  the  new  neurosurgeon 
handled — I  refer  to  Doctor  Gregory  Lane.  And  I 
believe  you  saw  the  patient  who  was  forced  into 
an  unbalanced  state  of  mind  by  the — shall  I  call 
it  unlucky? — work  of  Doctor  Lane." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Kildare.  "I  believe 
the  patient  was  already  showing  signs  of  schizo- 
phrenia before  the  operation." 

"Already?"  exclaimed  Carew,  shocked  out  of  his 
good-natured  flow  of  verbiage.    "Before  what?" 

"Before  the  operation,  sir." 

"Extraordinary,"  said  Carew,  "I  had  thought  cer- 
tainly— in  fact  it  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  any 
other  cause — " 

"Did  you  ask  Doctor  Lane  about  it?"  asked 
Kildare  gently. 

"Perhaps  not.  The — ah — the  general  report  indi- 
cated nothing  unbalanced  previous  to  the  operation 
.  .  .  Kildare,  what  was  the  exact  nature  of  the 
expression  of  this  schizophrenia?" 

"Can  you  imagine  a  man  who  would  consider 
that  any  date  line  is  more  important  than  life  or 
death,  sir?" 

"Hardly.    But  it's  barely  conceivable." 

"His  entire  expression  was  that  of  a  man  who 
has  been  under  a  great  tension  for  a  long  time.  For 
five  years  I  believe  that  the  strain  was  being  put 
upon  him.  Finally,  he  began  to  crumble.  He  was 
already  crumbling,  I  think,  before  he  reached  the 
hospital." 

"This  is  all  assumption,  mere  assumption,"  said 
Carew,  darkly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  Kildare,  "it's  chiefly  that." 

"The  status  of  Doctor  Lane  undoubtedly  would 
be  much  better  if  the  condition  of  Thornton  were 
not  referable  to  the  operation  which  he  performed. 
Of  course  that  leaves  out  a  still  more  important 
consideration:  That  he  operated  without  the  per- 
mission  of  the  patient." 

"That  was  the  refusal  of  a  patient  mentally  un- 
sound." 

"Ha?"  cried  Carew.  "Unsound?  Well,  in  that 
case  it  was  absolutely  essential  that  the  permission 
of  a  near  relative  should  be  obtained." 

"We  still  haven't  even  a  home  address  for  Thorn- 
ton," said  Kildare.  "How  could  relatives  be 
reached?" 

"Which  makes  it  all  the  more  absolutely  decisive 
that  Lane  should  not  have  touched  Thornton  with- 
out advice  from  me — or  from  Gillespie,  at  least." 

"But  of  course,  in  a  certain  way,  Doctor  Lane 
was  under  the  impression  that  he  had  authorization 
from  Doctor  Gillespie." 

"What's  this,  Kildare?"  demanded  Carew.  "What 
the  devil  is  this  that  you're  saying  to  me?" 

"There  wasn't  time  to  go  into  the  details,"  said 
Kildare.  "Dr.  Lane  understood  from  what  I  said 
that  Doctor  Gillespie  actually  had  recommended  an 
immediate  operation." 

"That  Gillespie  had  .  .  .  but  I've  had  Lane  in 
here  saying  he  had  no  authorization  from  anyone 
whatever!     What  am  I  to  make  of  this?" 

"A  man  like  Doctor  Lane  is  built  along  rather 
large  lines,"  said  Kildare  thoughtfully.  "I  suppose 
he  didn't  want  to  dump  the  blame  on  my  shoulders." 

"You  actually  advised  the  operation  and  let  him 
feel  that  Gillespie  was  speaking  through  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  that  was  about  it." 

"Your  shoulders,  I  dare  say,"  said  Carew,  "are 
broad  enough  to  bear  much  greater  burdens  than 
blame  like  this?" 

Kildare  was  silent.  The  anger  of  Carew  grew 
until  a  vein  swelled  visibly  in  his  forehead. 

"I've  told  Gillespie  that  he  was  wrong,  damned 
wrong,  to  let  a  boy,  a  mere  youngster,  act  as  his 
mouthpiece  so  often.  And  now  we  have  a  fine 
result  from  it!"  cried  Carew. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  walked  the  floor, 
hastily,  taking  quick  turns  back  and  forth. 

"I'm  not  going  to  let  myself  get  out  of  hand 
about  this,"  he  said.  "In  the  past  you've  had  values, 
young  Doctor  Kildare.  But  perhaps  they  were  based 
too  largely  on  certain  traits  of  stubborn  independ- 


34 


BY    MAX    BRAND 


ence.     I  want  to  point  out  that  we  cannot.  .  .  ." 

He  choked  himself. 

"I  have  to  see  Gillespie,"  he  finished.  "Will  you  ask 
him  to  come  up  here?" 

Kildare  left  the  office  and  returned  to  Gillespie 
with  the  message. 

"I'm  going  to  ask  the  board  of  directors  for  a 
gag  that  will  fit  the  mouth  of  that  catfish,  that 
Carew,"  roared  Gillespie,  and  let  Conover  wheel 
him  out  toward  the  elevators. 

1HE  interrupted  line  commenced  to  flow  in  on 
Kildare,  as  it  did  sometimes  with  hardly  an  inter- 
ruption for  days  at  a  time,  in  obedience  to  that 
famous  brass  plate  above  the  door  on  which  was 
engraved  the  words:  "Dr.  Leonard  Gillespie,  hours 
12  a.  m.  to  12  a.  m."  It  would  have  been  a  dry 
jest,  from  another  man.  It  was  cold  fact,  coming 
from  Gillespie. 

Then  Gillespie  himself  came  back  and  cleared 
the  office  with  one  of  his  roars. 

"Did  you  really  do  it,  Jimmy?"  he  asked,  when 
they  were  alone. 

"What,  sir?" 

"Set  up  this  fellow  Thornton  for  operation  by — 
er — by  using  my  name?" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"You  actually  made  Lane  think  that  I  was  behind 
the  idea?" 

Kildare  said  nothing. 

"It's  queer,"  said  Gillespie.  "I'm  not  fool  enough 
to  think  that  I  know  any  man,  really;  but  this 
time  you've  surprised  me.  You  surprised  Carew, 
too,  but  not  very  much." 

Kildare  began  to  say  that  he  was  sorry.  Gillespie 
cut  him  short  by  remarking:  "A  fellow  like  Carew 
is  a  blessing  to  the  institution  he  heads  and  a  curse 
to  a  good  many  other  things.  He's  an  executive 
first,  a  damned  good  doctor  second.  But  he  always 
thinks  that  he's  a  general." 

"He's  going  to  give  me  the  limit?"  asked  Kildare. 

"He  was  torn  in  two  directions,"  said  Gillespie. 
"You've  done  so  much  for  the  hospital  that  he's 
grateful,  he's  almost  affectionate.  On  the  other 
hand  you've  done  so  much  for  the  hospital  that 
you're  an  outstanding  figure  even  as  an  interne. 
It's  like  this:  If  a  private  disobeys  orders,  he  can 
be  sent  to  the  guardhouse.  But  if  a  general  officer 
disobeys  the  high  command,  he's  cashiered." 

"I  understand,"  said  Kildare. 

"You  have  from  here  to  Friday  for  something 
more  than  understanding,"  answered  Gillespie. 
"You  have  that  time  to  do  something  about  it!" 

"You  managed  to  get  that  much  delay?" 

"Never  mind  what  I  did.  The  question  is:  What 
are  we  going  to  do,  Jimmy?" 

He  gathered  his  shaggy,  white  brows  over  his 
eyes  and  folded  his  hands  together,  backs  up. 

"There's  another  question  first,"  said  Kildare.  "Is 
there  anything  that  I  possibly  could  do  to  straighten 
it  out?" 

"It's  not  simply  'you;'  it's  'we,'  you  fool!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why  couldn't  some  other  young  jackass  in  the 
place  have  had  the  idea?  But  no,  it  had  to  be  my 
boy." 

Kildare,  staring  at  him,  bit  his  lip.  He  did  not 
speak  for  the  moment  because  there  was  no  room 
in  his  throat  for  words. 

"V 

*  RID  AY  the  board  of  directors  is  meeting.     And 

the  case  of  young  Doctor  Kildare  comes  up,  as  it 
came  up  once  before.  Only  then  you  were  just  a 
young  fool  who  broke  the  rules  and  now  you're  a 
reprobate,  dyed-in-the-wool,  who  has  formed  the 
rotten  habit  of  doing  as  he  pleases,  regardless  of 
the  higher-ups.  Friday  is  the  day  when  your  head 
goes  off,  then.  And  now,  Jimmy,  we  put  our  heads 
together.    State  the  case  to  me,  first  of  all." 

Kildare  said:  "Doctor  Lane  performs  an  author- 
ized operation  that  produces  insanity  in  the  patient; 
it's  discovered  that  the  fault  is  mine,  after  all.  So 
I  get  the  gallows." 

"Let's  ask  the  right  questions  first,  and  then  maybe 
we'll  get  the  answers.  What  could  be  done  to 
take  the  curse  off?" 

"If  I  could  prove  that  the  insanity  existed  before 
the  operation,  that  would  take  the  curse  off." 

"It's  hard  to  prove  things  like  that — to  a  Carew? 
But  if  the  insanity  could  be  removed,  or  seem  to 
be  removed?  What  are  your  cards,  Kildare?  What 
have  you  got  in  the  pack  or  up  your  sleeve?  If 
there's  a  fine,  clean,  straightforward  way,  we'll  use 
it.    If  not,  we'll  deal  off  the  bottom  of  the  deck." 

"Well,  a  shock  was  what  started  him  raving.  It 
brought  the  disease  on  him  with  a  rush." 

"And  if  we  can  give  him  another  shock — a  happy 
shock — if  we  prove  to  him  that  the  strain  he  was 
under  before  the  operation  is  gone — if  we  clear  the 


whole  emotional  air  of  his  life — you  think  that  it 
might  bring  him  back  to  normalcy?" 

"There's  a  ghost  of  a  chance,  perhaps?" 

"That's  better  than  nothing.  We  can't  ask  for  the 
world  with  a  fence  around  it.  We  want  a  chance  to 
fight.  That's  all.  A  ghost  of  a  chance  is  a  damned 
sight  better  than  no  chance  at  all.  Hamlet's  father 
was  only  a  ghost,  Jimmy.  But  he's  still  a  force  in 
our  minds.     So  now  we  do  what?" 

"We  find  out  what  it  is  that  he  had  to  meet  on 
Friday  at  noon." 

"And  then  meet  it  for  him?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  bring  him  back  the  results?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  with  Thornton  restored  to  his  wits,  even 
Carew  will  have  to  admit  that  the  operation  was  a 
fine  thing?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"So  that  Carew  can  damn  you  black  and  blue  for 
encouraging  the  operation  but  he  can't  quite  take 
off  your  head?" 

"I  hope  that  it  may  turn  out  that  way,"  said 
Kildare. 

"What  do  you  do  first?" 

"I  try  to  be  a  detective,  and  of  course  I'm  not 
one." 

"Not  a  detective?  Confound  you,  make  yourself 
into  one,  then!  A  doctor  has  to  be  a  nurse,  a 
cook,  a  family  lawyer,  a  mother,  a  father,  a  rat- 
killer,  and  why  in  the  name  of  God  can't  he  go  a 
step  backward,  or  forward,  and  be  a  detective?" 

"I'm  going  to  tackle  it,"  said  Kildare. 

"Then  get  out  of  my  sight  and  start  now.  Wait 
a  minute.  There's  another  thing  involved  here.  Do 
you  have  no  pangs  of  conscience  about  using  my 
name  to  Lane,  as  you  did?" 

"No,  sir." 

"You  mean  that  you'd  do  it  again,  without  any 
permission?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Damned  impudence,  I  call  it,"  said  Gillespie, 
and,  "Well,  get  on  with  you!  I'd  disown  you  if  you 
hadn't  done  exactly  that." 

CHAPTER  XII 

rJ  the  clothes  of  Henry  Thornton  there  had  been 
a  pair  of  soft-lead  draughting  pencils,  twenty  odd 
dollars,  a  good,  big  pocketknife,  cigarettes,  a 
lighter,  two  handkerchiefs,  an  addressed  en- 
velope without  the  sender's  name  and  without 
contents.  That  was  all.  Even  the  address  was 
not  in  handwriting.  It  had  been  typed.  There  was 
not  a  trace  of  a  laundry  mark  even.  The  under- 
wear and  shirts  apparently  had  been  new-bought. 
The  clothes  were  the  product  of  a  wholesale  tailor- 
ing firm  whose  suits  were  sold  in  fifty  metropolitan 
stores.  There  was  only  a  bit  of  reddish  mud  high 
inside  the  angle  of  heel  and  sole  on  one  of  the 
shoes.  Kildare  gloomily  scraped  it  off,  put  it  into 
a  twist  of  paper.  He  did  not  feel  like  a  detective, 
but  like  a  fool. 

The  Museum  of  Natural  History  in  Manhattan  is 
one  of  those  places  where  people  take  their  children 
to  admire  prehistoric  skeletons.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
there  is  hardly  a  physical  phase  of  life  that  is  not 
touched  on  and  illustrated  in  the  museum.  The 
whole  process  in  the  Museum  is  so  pictorial  that 
when  Kildare  took  his  paper  twist  of  dry  mud  to 
Professor  McGregor,  that  bright  little  old  man  at 
once  pulled  out  a  chart  which,  like  a  crazy  quilt  of 
a  thousand  colors,  showed  the  soils  around  New 
York,  and  the  rock  strata  underlying  them,  or  out- 
cropping through  them.  Professor  McGregor,  after 
crumbling  the  mud  to  a  fine  dust,  segregated  some 
tiny  particles  of  stone  which  he  placed  under  a 
microscope. 

He  kept  whistling  as  he  worked  and  finally  he 
looked  up  to  the  earnest  face  of  Kildare  with  eyes 
that  shone  like  polished  lenses. 

"Unless  the  stone  is  imported  stuff,  I  think  I  have 
the  place,"  said  Professor  McGregor.  "Ever  driven 
out  from  the  East  Side  toward  Westchester?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  over  to  the  right,  as  you  drive  north,  you 
see  some  land,  somewhat  broken,  so  that  it  looks 
like  a  low  range  of  hills,  almost.  Two  chances  out 
of  three,  that's  your  district.  Look,  here's  the  map. 
You  see  this  pink  patch?  Somewhere  inside  that 
district.     It's  not  very  large." 

Kildare  went  back  to  the  hospital  and  looked  up 
his  friend,  the  ambulance  driver  with  the  numb, 
unconscious  face. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Kildare,  "where  I  can  get  the 
cheapest  drive-yourself  car  in  town.  Do  you  know, 
Joe?" 

"There's  none  of  them  cheap  enough.  Not  for 
you,  Doc,"  said  Joe  Weyman.    "But  me  brother-in- 


law  has  a  little  bus  that  needs  borrowing." 

"You  mean  I  could  rent  it  from  him?"  asked 
Kildare. 

"You  mean,  could  he  rent  a  sock  in  the  chin?" 
demanded  Weyman.  "How  could  he  take  money 
from  you?     When  d'you  want  it?" 

"Now." 

"Right  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes." 

"And  me  with  my  time  off  starting  in  half  an 
hour!"  said  Weyman.  "That's  luck,  ain't  it?  You 
can  close  your  eyes  and  catch  up  on  some  sleep; 
I'll  do  the  driving." 

So  they  started  within  the  hour,  with  Weyman 
tooling  the  car  with  a  sort  of  reckless  precision 
through  the  traffic. 

The  rain  came  down  in  a  steady,  misting  fall. 
But  at  last  they  came  toward  the  low-lying  hills. 

"Pull  up  to  that  lunch  wagon,"  said  Kildare. 

He  went  in  alone  and  got  a  cup  of  coffee.  When 
he  was  half  through  with  it,  he  asked  the  waiter: 
"You  know  a  man  named  Henry  Thornton  who  lives 
out  here?" 

"Sure  I  know  Thornbury,"  said  the  waiter.  "He's 
the  guy  with  the  big  green  house  on  the  hill  over 
by.  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up,  rummy,"  said  a  big  young  man  who 
was  trying  to  get  half  his  ham  and  eggs  into  his 
mouth  at  a  bite. 

"Not  Thornbury,  you  poor  mug.  Thornton  is  the 
guy  he  asked  about." 

He  was  still  looking  his  reproof  as  he  went  on: 
"This  here  Thornton  you  wanta  know  about,  is  he 
thirty  something  and  lives  alone  and  looks  it?" 

"You  might  describe  him  that  way,"  said  Kildare, 
delighted.     "Does  he  live  alone?" 

"Yeah.    He  ain't  married." 

"How  do  I  find  Thornton's  house?"  asked  Kil- 
dare. 

"That's  easy.  You  go  up  here  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  turn  left,  and  it's  three  houses  down." 

Kildare  went  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  turned 
left,  and  asked  Weyman  to  wait  at  the  corner. 

"Do  you  mind,  Joe?"  he  asked. 

"Whatta  ya  mean  mind?"  asked  Weyman.  "But 
you  know  where  you're  going?" 

"I  think  I  know,  all  right." 

"You  kin  da  make  me  nervous  when  you  start 
strange  places  all  by  yourself." 

"I  can  take  care  of  myself  pretty  well,  Joe." 

"Yeah,  sure,  sure.  But  if  you  had  a  good  right 
cross  up  your  sleeve  it  would  take  care  of  you  a  lot 
better.  I'm  gunna  teach  you,  some  of  these  fine 
days." 

CHAPTER  XIH 

DARKNESS  had  descended  and  many  of  the 
houses  had  lights  turned  on.  Kildare,  on 
the  front  porch,  rang  the  bell,  listened  to 
the  echo  of  it  inside  the  place,  and  studied 
the  jagged  crack  that  streaked  across  the 
face  of  the  adjoining  window.  He  tried  the 
window  and  when  he  found  it  locked  he  broke  the 
glass  and  opened  it  Then  he  stepped  inside.  He 
closed  the  window.  With  a  burning  match  he  found 
the  electric  switch  and  turned  on  the  lights.  He 
stood  in  a  hall. 

There  was  a  living  room  at  the  right,  so  bright 
and  cheerful  that  he  thought  for  a  moment  the  sky 
must  have  cleared  but  this  was  merely  the  effect  of 
the  gay  covers  on  the  furniture.  The  gaiety  was  a 
first  impression  that  did  not  last.  There  was  dust 
on  the  table.  Cigarette  butts  littered  the  hearth, 
and  a  book  fallen  open,  face  down  beside  the  couch, 
had  crunched  its  pages  into  a  tangle  of  confusion. 

Back  of  the  living  room,  which  was  unusually 
large  for  such  a  small  house,  he  stepped  into  the 
kitchen.  The  sink  was  filled  with  unwashed  pans. 
The  water  in  them  had  begun  to  rust  the  iron  in 
places;  the  queer,  sick  odor  of  rust  was  all  through 
the  room. 

In  a  dining  alcove  he  saw  the  remains  of  a  break- 
fast, a  cup  half-filled  with  coffee,  with  a  scum  of 
soured  milk  on  top  of  it,  and  a  piece  of  toast  as  hard 
as  wood. 

Forward  from  the  kitchen  a  small  study  with  a 
tall  north  light  opened  from  the  living  room.  A 
smell  of  old,  crusted  pipes  was  in  it.  Some  shelves 
on  one  side  held  books  on  art  and  a  number  of 
sketchbooks,  as  well.  On  the  drawing  board  which 
faced  the  high  window  was  a  bit  of  purely  com- 
mercial stuff  such  as  magazines  or  even  newspapers 
use  to  illustrate  new  fashions. 

He  looked  over  the  room  again,  standing  in  the 
center  of  it.  For  him,  the  ghost  of  Henry  Thornton 
was  emerging  in  the  house. 

A  sighing  sound  came  to  him  from  the  front 
of  the  house.  A  fallen  bit  of  paper  rattled  on  the 
floor  of  the  studio,  and  then  was  still.     It  was  as 


35 


"BS 


THE    NEW    DOCTOR     KILE  ARE     NOVEL 


though  a  door  had  been  opened  and  shut  again, 
somewhere.  Kildare  blinked  and  took  a  quick 
breath;  then  he  made  his  feet  carry  him  through 
the  living  room.  In  the  hall  a  tall  figure  of  a  man 
waited  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  It  moved,  and  turned 
into  the  frowning  face  of  Joe  Weyman. 

"Well,  Joe?"  he  asked. 

"I  broke  orders,  Doc,"  said  Weyman.  "I  had  to. 
I  heard  the  tinkle  of  that  glass  breaking  and  I 
just  had  to  come  in  an'  join  you.  If  you  take  a 
trip  up  the  river  for  burglary,  I  might  as  well  go 
along." 

"I  didn't  hear  the  window  raised.  How  did  you 
come  in?" 

"Through  the  door.  I  got  a  little  lock-persuader, 
here."  He  showed  a  small  bit  of  steel,  like  a  sec- 
tion of  hard  spring.  "Doc,  d'you  need  all  of  these 
here  lights  to  show  the  world  where  we're  having 
our  fun?" 

"We  need  light,"  said  Kildare.  He  sat  down  and 
started  smoking  a  cigarette.  "Go  look  through  the 
lower  part  of  the  house  and  tell  me  what  you  see, 
when  you  come  back." 

"Lookat — I  found  this  near  the  door,"  said  Wey- 
man. He  held  out  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  was 
written  in  a  swift,  strong  hand: 

"Darling: 

I  lost  my  key  and  couldn't  get  in;  but  now  I'll 
find  it  and  come. 

Nelly." 

"Him  and  Nelly,  I  bet  they  have  high  times,"  said 
Weyman. 

"It  doesn't  fit,"  answered  Kildare,  and  crumbling 
the  paper  impatiently,  he  dropped  it  into  his  pocket. 
"Go  look  around  and  tell  me  what  you  find." 

In  two  minutes  Weyman  was  back. 

"Kind  of  sloppy  guy.    No?"  he  asked. 

"See  anything  worthwhile?" 

"This  guy  don't  know  nothing  about  women,"  said 
Weyman.    "See  the  mugs  he  was  drawing,  in  there? 

"Let's  go  upstairs,"  said  Kildare. 

There  were  two  bedrooms,  one  obviously  for 
guests,  and  one  bathroom.  They  went  through  the 
bathroom  into  the  guest  room,  first.  The  door  of  it 
was  so  jammed  that  Weyman  had  to  give  it  his 
shoulder.    They  turned  en  the  lights. 

"What's  the  funny  smell  in  the  air,  Doc?" 

"Dust,"  said  Kildare.  "This  fellow  Thornton  has 
no  friends.  There's  been  no  one  in  this  guest  room 
for  a  long,  long  time.  That's  why  the  door  stuck, 
Joe.  It  simply  hadn't  been  opened  and  the  heat  of 
a  couple  of  summers  gummed  the  paint  together." 

He  pointed  it  out  at  the  edges  of  the  door.  Wey- 
man said  nothing  as  they  went  back  into  the  master 
bedroom.  There  was  a  good  thick  rug  on  the  floor 
and  a  bed  that  sat  low  on  the  floor  with  a  stool  for 
a  bedside  table  with  a  short  lamp  on  it.  On  the 
walls  were  varnished  Medici  prints  of  the  Duchess 
of  Modena  and  Rembrandt's  Knight  with  a  Spear. 
There  was  also  an  oil  portrait  of  a  redheaded  girl  in 
a  green  dress.  She  was  no  beauty,  but  she  had  a 
good  smile  and  a  fine,  straight  pair  of  eyes.  The 
telephone,  oddly  enough,  stood  on  the  chest  of  draw- 
ers. A  single  number  was  written  down  on  the  pad 
beside  it.  There  was  a  lall  mirror  against  one  wall, 
and  opposite  it  was  a  closet  containing  a  few  suits  of 
clothes. 

1HERE  was  a  small  desk  beside  the  closet  door, 
with  a  clean  blotter  on  top  of  it.  Kildare  pulled 
the  blotter  out  from  its  frame  and  turned  it  over. 
It  was  spotted  with  ink  blottings  and  with  absent- 
minded  designs  in  pencil. 

"What's  on  there  that  you  wanta  know,  Doc?" 
asked  Weyman. 

"A  lot  of  unhappiness,"  said  Kildare. 

"How  come?" 

"Wasted  time,"  he  said. 

He  went  over  to  the  picture  of  the  girl  and  pulled 
it  out  from  the  wall.  The  paper  behind  it  was  only 
slightly  less  faded  than  the  rest  of  the  paper  in  the 
room.  That  behind  the  other  pictures  was  far 
darker  and  richer. 

"How  is  this,  Weyman?"  he  asked.  "He  painted 
this  picture  six  or  seven  years  ago — or  maybe  only 
five.    And  yet  he  hung  it  only  a  short  time  ago." 

"How  can  you  tell,  Doc?  .  .  .  Ah,  you  mean  the 
paper's  faded  a  lot  where  it  hangs." 

"It  was  hanging  there  for  a  while,"  interpreted 
Kildare,  "then  it  was  taken  down,  remained  down 
for  years,  and  finally  was  put  up  again." 

"Kind  of  cuckoo,  ain't  he?"  said  Weyman. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kildare.  "Go  and  stand  in 
front  of  that  mirror." 

"How's  this?    I  look  damn  fine  to  me,  Doc." 

"Stand  closer." 

"Here  I  am,  touching  the  glass." 

"Somebody  stood  still  closer,  however,"  remarked 
Kildare,  staring  at  the  rug. 


"Nobody  could  stand  closer." 

"The  rug's  worn,"  said  Kildare.  "Feet  seem  to 
have  walked  right  through  that  mirror.  Can  we 
move  it?" 

That  was  easily  done,  and  behind  the  mirror  ap- 
peared a  door.  Weyman's  bit  of  steel  spring  was 
used  on  the  lock  which  gave  at  last  with  a  small 
squeak,  like  the  shrill  of  a  mouse.  Inside,  they 
found  a  closet  with  a  few  women's  clothes  in  it. 

Kildare  reached  into  the  closet  and  brought  out 
a  wisp  of  spiderweb. 

"She  doesn't  come  very  often,  Joe,"  he  said.  He 
took  out  a  green  dress  and  shook  dust  out  of  it. 
"Not  for  about  five  years." 

"Five  years?    Where's  the  date?" 

"This  was  the  fashion,  five  and  six  years  ago. 
This  is  the  dress  he  painted  her  in." 

"Come  on,  Doc!    You  mean  that?" 

"See  the  bit  of  red  peasant  embroidery?  It's  the 
same  dress,  all  right." 

"Then  what's  it  mean?  Why's  he  hang  the  pic- 
ture on  the  wall  and  cover  up  the  closet  where  her 
duds  hang?" 


Young  Dr.  Kildare  and  Joe  Weyman 
searched  the  dusty  house  which  was 
the    home    of    the    mysterious    patient 

Kildare  went  to  the  telephone  and  rang  the  num- 
ber that  was  written  on  the  pad. 

"Mahoney  speakin'!"  said  a  great  voice. 

"This  is  Henry  Thornton,"  said  Kildare. 

"Thornton?  Thornton?  You  mean  that  you're 
Mister  Thornton?  .  .  .  Hey,  Nelly!" 

Kildare  sighed. 

Presently  a  rich  Irish  brogue  was  saying:  "Is  it 
you,  Mr.  Thornton?  Is  it  you,  darling?  I  was  there, 
the  more  fool  me,  without  me  key.  But  I'll  be  back 
tomorrow  and  long  before  Saturday  I'll  have  the 
house  shining.  And  the  new  slip-covers  will  be 
ready.  If  only  I  can  get  the  other  bed  out  of  the 
attic;  there's  hardly  that  much  room  for  me  and 
it  to  come  down  the  stairs  together!  But  don't  have 
a  worry  in  your  darling  head,  will  you?" 

After  Kildare  rang  off,  he  said,  "Now,  let's  try 
to  find  letters,  Joe.  Letters  of  any  kind.  I'll  go 
through  this  desk.   You  go  through  the  downstairs." 

But  there  was  hardly  a  letter,  and  not  a  one  that 
gave  even  a  hint  to  Kildare. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

KILDARE  said  to  Gillespie,  an  hour  or  more 
later:   "Thornton  was  married  to  a  woman 
he  loved.    Something  went  wrong;  I  don't 
know  what.    She  left  him.    After  a  while, 
he  took  it  so  hard  that  he  couldn't  stand 
the  pain  of  seeing  her  picture  on  the  wall." 
"Bah!"    said    Gillespie.      "What    sort    of    a    thin- 
skinned  rummy  is  this  Thornton?" 
"A  painter,"  said  Kildare. 

"I've  no  use  for  them,"  said  Gillespie.  "Poets  and 
painters  and  the  v/hole  lot,  I've  no  use  for  them!" 

Kildare  said:  "He  couldn't  stand  the  pain  of  see- 
ing her  picture  on  the  wall.  So  he  took  it  down. 
But  not  long  ago,  not  very  long  ago,  he  heard  from 
her.  He  had  been  living  like  a  hermit,  brooding,  I 
suppose,  without  friends,  seeing  practically  no  one, 
doing  work  that  he  despised.  But  now  he  hears 
from  his  wife.  Suddenly  his  life  opens.  He  has  a 
great  shock  of  hope.  He  is  going  to  meet  her,  some 
place.  I  don't  know  the  place — I  only  know  that  the 
time  was  to  be  Friday,  at  noon  .  .  .  He  was  going  to 


meet  her  and  bring  her  home;  there  was  to  be  a  new 
start  for  them,  probably  ...  At  least,  he'd  arranged 
to  have  the  house  in  good  shape  for  Saturday." 

"You  met  somebody  who  knows  Thornton?" 

"I  got  into  his  house;  it  had  a  lot  to  say.  But 
it  couldn't  tell  me  where  he  intended  to  meet  that 
wife  of  his.  That's  what  I've  got  to  find.  They 
have  a  right  to  belong  to  one  another.  I  have  to 
bring  her  to  him  .  .  .  They  have  the  right.  .  .  ." 

"What's  your  next  step,  young  Doctor  Kildare?" 

"I  don't  know.     Sit  down  and  think,  I  suppose." 

"Have  you  got  time  to  sit  down?" 

"I've  got  to  make  time." 

"How  d'you  make  time,  young  man?" 

"The  way  you  do  ...  by  trying  to  be  sure  before 
I  go  ahead." 

"That's  right.  If  you're  going  to  swing  an  axe, 
be  sure  you  hit  the  line.    What's  your  line  here?" 

"To  make  Thornton  tell  me  where  to  find  her." 

"How  can  you  make  a  madman  talk  sense?" 

"I  don't  know.    Only  have  a  vague  idea." 

"Your  idea  isn't  vague  at  all.  And  it's  scaring 
hell  out  of  you,"  said  Gillespie. 

Kildare  lifted  both  hands  and  pushed  them  up 
across  his  face,  pressing  hard,  as  though  the  flesh 
were  numb. 

"Jimmy!"  roared  Gillespie. 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"You've  been  a  damned  fool  before.  I  forbid  you 
to  be  a  damned  fool  again!" 

Kildare  said  nothing.  He  kept  seeing  his  new 
idea  and  shrinking  from  it. 

"You're  as  stubborn  as  your  father,"  said  Gil- 
lespie. "Confound  him,  he  insists  that  it's  pernici- 
ous anemia  that's  killing  Julia  Cray.  .  .  ." 

KlLDARE  went  out.  Gillespie,  his  mind  returning 
to  the  first  part  of  their  conversation,  shouted  sud- 
denly after  him,  but  he  pretended  not  to  hear.  In 
the  corridor  beyond,  he  ran  into  old  Molly  Byrd. 
With  young  internes  her  manner  was  hardly  less 
autocratic  than  that  of  Gillespie. 

"Young  man,  you've  finally  been  able  to  do  some- 
thing worth  while,"  she  said. 

"Has  Doctor  Gillespie  seen  Carson?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    Didn't  you  know?" 

"I  forgot  to  ask." 

"Forgot?  Is  there  something  bigger  than  Gil- 
lespie in  your  life,  just  now?" 

"Molly,  what  did  Carson  say  about  Gillespie?" 

"He  says  more  than  a  person  could  hope — more 
even  than  you  and  I  could  hope.  If  Leonard  will 
give  himself  even  normal  rest,  normal  food,  and  let 
the  X-rays  work  to  stop  the  gallop  of  the  disease, 
we  might  have  him  .  .  .  much  longer.  .  .  ." 

"Years?"  begged  Kildare,  suddenly  big  with  ex- 
citement. 

"No.    Months,"  said  Molly  Byrd,  sadly. 

"And  who  knows  what  might  happen,  if  there 
are  months  and  months?"  said  Kildare. 

"You  mean  that  new  things  are  being  discovered?" 

"Of  course  they  are.  Any  day  there  may  be  the 
great  discovery  that  will  wipe  cancer  out  of  the 
world!" 

"Oh,  Jimmy,  there  may  be;  may  there  not?" 

"There  will  be,  Molly,  because  there  has  to  be." 

"You're  only  a  liar,  and  a  young  liar,  at  that," 
said  Molly  Byrd,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Molly,  there's  a  Doctor  Borodin.  .  .  ." 

"Of  course  there  is.  He's  one  of  my  boys.  And  a 
damned  bad  boy,  in  the  beginning." 

"I  want  to  talk  with  him." 

"You're  the  funny  one,  digging  and  prying  into 
all  the  dark  corners  where  the  dirt  is,"  said  the 
Byrd,  "but  you'll  get  nothing  out  of  Dick  Borodin 
now." 

"Why  not?" 

"The  poor  man  has  no  mind  for  any  but  one  thing: 
Insulin  shock  for  schizophrenics." 

"I  want  to  see  him." 

"You  can't  see  him.  He's  closed  up  like  a  monk 
in  a  monastery." 

"Would  he  talk  on  the  telephone?" 

"If  I  told  him  to,  maybe." 

"You're  going  to  tell  him  to." 

"He  wouldn't  talk  except  to  some  great  man — or 
maybe  to  me,  Jimmy." 

"You're  going  to  introduce  me  on  the  telephone 
as  a  distinguished  doctor,  Molly." 

"I  am  not!" 

"Molly,"  said  Kildare,  putting  his  arm  around 
her,  "it's  for  a  good  cause." 

"There's  no  cause  good  enough  to  lie  for." 

"There  is,  though,"  said  Kildare. 

"Well,"  said  Molly,  "maybe  you  are  distinguished. 
If  there's  such  a  thing  as  borrowing  light,  you've 
taken  enough  from  Leonard  Gillespie  to  begin  to 
shine  a  bit,  a  small  bit,  in  a  very  dark  night.  Come 
along  with  me!" 

36 


BY    MAX    BRAND 


When  Kildare  had  finished  that  telephone  call, 
there  seemed  no  breath  left  in  him.  He  got  out  on 
the  street  but  there  wasn't  enough  air  for  him  even 
there.  He  went  to  the  hotel  where  his  mother  and 
father  were  staying.  They  gave  him  the  calmness  of 
perfect  faith  and  affection.  They  were  the  only 
human  beings  for  whom  he  never  could  be  wrong. 
Bland,  unseeing  eyes  they  seemed  to  him.  His  father 
talked  about  Julia  Cray. 

"Gillespie's  a  great  man,"  said  old  Kildare,  "but 
there  are  a  few  troubles  with  these  hospital  diagnos- 
ticians. They  never  get  to  know  their  patients  well 
enough.  We've  put  poor  Julia  Cray  on  a  low  salt  diet, 
now.  But  mark  my  word,  there  will  be  a  blasted 
crisis  before  long,  and  then  we'll  all  see  by  the 
low  blood  count  that  pernicious  anemia  is  what  she 
has.  Hang  onto  those  two  dollars,  Jimmy,  because 
I  intend  to  have  the  great  Gillespie's  money  on  this 
deal.  I'm  going  to  frame  that  dollar  bill  and  hang 
it  in  my  office.   It'll  be  more  than  a  diploma  to  me!" 

They  had  dinner  in  the  hotel  room.  Then  Kildare 
restlessly  started  to  leave.  His  mother  came  with 
him  down  the  hall  toward  the  elevator. 

"What  is  it  now?"  she  asked. 

"I've  got  to  get  out  in  the  air,"  said  Kildare.  "I 
can't  breathe — I  can't  get  a  full  breath." 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "That  happens  when  the 
heart  is  stopping." 

"The  heart?"  he  asked. 

"With  grief,  Jimmy,  or  anxiety." 

He  nodded.  The  elevator  opened  clanging  doors. 
He  waved  it  on  and  walked  back  with  her  down 
the  hall.  She  was  a  dumpy  woman  with  too  much 
chin  and  fat  in  the  eyelids  that  made  her  eyes  seem 
small.  Sometimes  it  seemed  that  her  husband  had 
married  a  scrub  woman.  But  there  was  a  beauty 
about  her,  sometimes,  when  she  spoke. 

"Suppose  that  there  were  two  men  and  a  woman 
you  had  to  think  about.  The  happiness  of  all  three 
of  them,  and  the  sanity  of  one  of  them — and  the 
only  way  to  work  is  to  take  a  chance  with  life  and 
death?" 

"How  could  a  woman  tell,"  she  answered,  "unless 
she  loved  all  three  of  them?" 

"That's  true,"  he  said.    "A  woman  couldn't  tell." 

"I've  seen  your  father  facing  problems  like  that," 
she  said  softly,  "and  it's  the  only  time  in  our  lives 
when  I've  been  able  to  do  nothing.  He  has  to  go 
off  by  himself  like  a  prophet  into  a  wilderness;  he 
has  to  retire  and  eat  the  pain  like  bread.  But  when 
he  comes  out,  he  seems  to  know,  just  as  surely  as 
though  God  had  told  him." 

When  he  left  her,  he  kept  thinking  of  that  phrase: 
Eating  pain;  except  that  it  seemed  that  it  was  he 
who  was  being  devoured. 

When  he  was  down  on  the  street  again  there  still 
was  no  air  for  his  breathing. 

CHAPTER  XV 

GILLESPIE'S  line,  that  night,  did  not  stop 
until  nearly  four  in  the  morning.  Kildare 
went  into  his  own  inner  office,  put  some 
material  into  a  medical  kit,  and  passed 
back  through  the  main  office  where  Gil- 
lespie had  stretched  himself  on  the  couch 
and  seemed  sound  asleep.  His  face,  his  whole  body, 
sagged  with  exhaustion. 

Kildare  went  out  of  the  office.  On  the  fourth 
floor,  he  met  Mary  Lamont.  She  was  on  night  duty 
but  she  kept  the  freshness  and  the  verve  of  the  day. 

"Something  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"I  want  you  right  now.    I'm  going  into  412." 

"To  Thornton?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  has  Gregory  Lane  ordered  some  special 
treatment  for  Thornton?" 

He  considered  her  for  a  moment  but  left  that  re- 
mark unanswered. 

"Come  to  412  in  a  half  hour,"  he  said.  "I  may  be 
needing  a  nurse  with  a  good  pair  of  hands  and  no 
tongue  at  all." 

She  looked  hard  at  him;  he  turned  and  went  off 
down  the  hall.  She  kept  watch  from  a  vantage 
point  after  he  disappeared  into  412.  A  moment  later 
the  special  nurse  came  out  looking  decidedly  odd. 

"That  young  interne — what's  his  name?"  she 
asked.  It  was  no  longer  the  dizzy  blonde  who  took 
care  of  Thornton  but  a  formidable  old  warhorse. 

"Doctor  Kildare,"  explained  Mary. 

"He's  a  nut!"  said  the  special.  "He  told  me  to  go 
and  have  myself  a  sleep — he'll  watch  Thornton." 

"He'll  do  what  he  says.  Why  don't  you  have  the 
sleep?"  asked  Mary. 

"Me?  It  ain't  professional,"  said  the  special.  "I'm 
going  to  be  looking  into  this  funny  business.  I  don't 
like  it." 

"Don't  bother  Doctor  Kildare,"  Mary  warned  her 


"He's  Doctor  Gillespie's  assistant." 

"That  young  mug?"  cried  the  special. 

"That  young  mug,"  Mary  assured  her. 

"Things  are  going  to  the  devil  around  here,"  said 
the  special  and  went  off  down  the  hall. 

Mary  Lamont,  half  an  hour  later,  paused  at  the 
door  of  412  and  heard  strange  noises.  She  looked 
in  and  saw  Henry  Thornton  babbling  with  an  idiot's 
loose  face.    Kildare  looked  up  and  waved  her  away. 

"Come  back  in  half  an  hour,"  he  directed. 

"I'll  be  back." 

He  stared  an  instant  at  his  immobile  patient  be- 
fore he  turned  to  her  again. 

"You  look  rather  chipper,  Mary." 

"I  suppose  I've  had  good  news,"  she  said. 

"About  what?" 

"About  a  marriage." 

"Yours?     Lane?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Jimmy,  pretend  that  it  upsets  you  a  little. 


"Of  course  it  upsets  me,"  he  said,  but  again  his 
glance  left  her  and  studied  the  face  of  Thornton. 

"You  don't  care  a  rap,"  she  told  him. 

He  looked  up  at  her  in  a  silence  which,  somehow, 
dissolved  her  anger  utterly. 

"I'll  be  seeing  you  here  in  about  half  an  hour, 
Mary?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  in  a  half  hour,"  she  said. 

"Has  that  special  been  hanging  around?"  he  asked 

"No.     What  did  you  do  to  her?" 

"Sent  her  away.  I  don't  want  her.  She's  suspicious, 
Mary;  and  she  may  come  prying  back  here  again." 

"Well,  what  could  she  find  out?" 

"Enough  to  break  me  up  into  little  pieces." 

"Jimmy!    What  are  you  doing  to  Thornton?" 

"I  want  a  nurse  with  a  head  and  two  hands  and 
no  damned  tongue  at  all,"  said  Kildare. 

She  backed  out  of  the  room,  fighting  herself  to 
keep  from  exclamations. 

HALF  an  hour  later  still,  she  found  Henry  Thorn- 
ton stretched  in  coma,  his  hands  thrown  up  above 


As  Dr.  Kildare  bent  over  the  patient,  Nurse 
Lamont  feared  she  was  shut  into  a 
room   with   two   madmen    instead    of   one 


his  head.  Beside  the  bed  Kildare  crouched  on  a 
chair  like  a  poisoner  at  the  place  of  crime.  He 
turned  to  Mary  a  white  face,  greasy  with  sweat. 

"What  is  it,  Jimmy?"  she  asked.  "Please,  please 
tell  me!" 

He  said  nothing.  She  went  to  the  foot  of  the  bed 
and  looked  at  the  chart.  There  was  no  indication 
that  special  medication  had  been  given.  Whatever 
Kildare  had  done,  he  had  left  no  indication  of  it. 
That  could  mean  any  sort  of  trouble,  if  the  head  of 
the  institution  chose  to  be  particular.  But  she  was 
afraid  to  ask  questions. 

Kildare  kept  looking  up  at  her  without  speaking. 
He  had  given  one  hand  to  the  grip  of  Thornton 
and  the  clutch  of  the  sick  man  was  fixed  rigidly 
on  it.    His  other  hand  took  the  pulse. 

"Is  he  in  a  fit?"  said  Mary  Lamont. 

"He's  minus  the  brain  of  Homo  sapiens,"  said  Kil- 
dare. 

She  waited  for  words  that  would  make  sense. 

"You've  dreamed  yourself  back  to  childhood  in 
your  sleep,  haven't  you?"  asked  Kildare.  "Thorn- 
ton is  doing  more  than  that.  He's  dreamed  himself 
back  to  the  infancy  of  the  race.     The  muscles  he's 


using  now  are  the  ones  that  an  ape  needs  when  it's 
climbing  trees." 

She  stared  at  the  clutching  hands  of  Thornton. 

"Jimmy,"  she  whispered,  "do  you  know  what 
you're  doing  do  him?" 

Kildare  said:  "Don't  ask  questions.  Keep  look- 
ing in.    I  may  need  you." 

That  was  about  five  o'clock.  Obediently  she- 
forced  her  feet  out  of  the  room.  Every  half  hour 
she  returned. 

It  was  like  taking  a  silent  part  in  a  murder.  Each 
time  she  looked  at  Thornton,  she  knew  that  the  sick 
man  was  a  long  step  nearer  death,  and  still  Kildare 
crouched  there  with  his  stethoscope  and  a  flashlight, 
watching,  lifting  an  eyelid  of  Thornton  now  and 
then  and  flashing  the  light  upon  it.  She  could  not 
recognize  the  thing  Kildare  had  become.  More  than 
once  she  heard,  from  412,  noises  that  seemed  to 
come  from  the  throat  of  a  beast.  A  horrible  memory 
came  back  out  of  her  childhood  of  ghostly  tales,  of 
werewolves,  of  men  turned  by  night  into  monstrous 
creatures.    The  memory  became  an  obsession. 

She  had  other  work  to  do,  of  course.  The  Blair 
General  Hospital  knew  how  to  get  plenty  from  its 
nurses.  But  still  she  felt  that  at  any  moment  one 
of  those  subdued,  gurgling  moans  from  412  would 
turn  into  a  screech  of  animal  rage  or  fear.  Yet  no 
one  else  seemed  to  guess.  There  was  the  same 
simpering,  the  same  babbling  among  the  other 
nurses.  Then  the  thing  came,  all  the  more  fright- 
ful because  she  had  been  half  expecting  it,  like  a 
blow  falling  on  a  tensed  body.  If  the  door  of  the 
sick  room  was  closed,  the  scream  knifed  through 
it  with  a  daggerpoint.  Nurses  are  as  tough-minded 
as  any  people  in  the  world,  but  the  five  in  the  floor- 
office  turned  white  and  stared  at  one  another  with 
a  dreadful  surmise.  It  was  not  one  scream  but  a 
series  of  them.  She  did  not  need  to  hunt  for  the 
source  of  the  outcry.  She  went  straight  to  412  and 
found  the  door  ajar  and  the  yell  coming  out  of  it. 
She  shut  the  door  hastily  behind  her  as  she  went  in. 
The  mouth  of  Thornton  was  open,  awry,  and  he 
screamed  on  every  outgoing  breath.  Kildare  was 
giving  an  injection.  As  he  pulled  the  hypodermic 
away,  he  gave  the  nurse  a  quick  look  over  his 
shoulder  that  made  her  flesh  creep.  She  had  never 
known  what  it  meant  to  be  afraid  of  a  man  but  she 
was  afraid  now. 

There  was  a  firm  rap  at  the  door. 

"Keep  them  out!"  commanded  Kildare. 

Mary  Lamont  went  to  the  door  and  found  Miss 
Simmons,  the  head  nurse  of  the  floor. 

"I  must  go  in  there,"  said  Miss  Simmons,  firmly. 

"The  doctor  wants  to  be  left  alone,  Miss  Sim- 
mons," she  said. 

"Wants  to  be  left  alone?    What  doctor,  please?" 

"Doctor  Kildare." 

"The  interne?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Simmons." 

"Has  he  authority  from  Doctor  Lane  to  take 
charge  of  this  patient?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Simmons." 

"Ah,  he  has?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Simmons." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  head  nurse,  but  she  turnec' 
slowly  away,  her  eyes  lingering  on  the  guilty  fact 
of  Mary  Lamont. 

XHE  screaming  had  died  away,  but  still  the  girl 
wanted  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  away  from  that 
room.  She  had  to  fight  hard  to  make  herself  turn 
and  look  at  the  bed.  The  one  lamp  threw  the 
shadow  of  Kildare  in  caricature,  like  a  stain  of 
soot,  across  the  white  of  the  bedspread  and  over 
the  hands  of  Thornton,  but  the  face  of  the  patient 
was  visible.    It  was  fallen  in  complete  relaxation. 

"Take  his  temperature,"  said  Kildare. 

He  put  a  tongue  depressor  between  the  teeth  o'. 
Thornton  as  though  he  feared  the  thermometer 
might  be  bitten  in  two.  The  nurse  slipped  the 
thermometer  under  the  tongue. 

"Hold  his  lips  together,"  said  Kildare,  and  shone 
his  light  again  into  one  of  Thornton's  eyes. 

She  pressed  the  lips  shut.  Foam  kept  breaking 
out  in  small  bubbles.  The  mouth  was  cold;  the 
lips  were  bluish.    It  was  like  handling  wet  clay. 

She  waited  two  minutes  and  drew  out  the 
thermometer. 

"I'll  get  another  thermometer,"  she  said.  "This 
one  is  no  good." 

'The  thermometer  is  all  right,"  he  answered. 
"What  does  it  say?" 

"It  can't  be  right — and  the  man  still  alive,"  she 
said.     "It  only  says  eighty-five,  Doctor!" 

That  was  all  he  was  to  her,  now.  He  wasn't  Kil- 
dare. He  was  a  sort  of  predatory  beast  drawing 
the  life  out  of  this  helpless  man. 

"Eighty-five?"  repeated  Kildare, 


toyyyyrrraaaag 


37 


THE     NEW    DOCTOR    KILDARE    NOVEL 


"Yes,  eighty-five.  He  isn't  really  living.  He's 
dead— he's  dying  now!' 

"Maybe,"  said  Kildare,  and  put  that  light  to  the 
inhuman  eye  of  Thornton  once  more. 

She  found  herself  backing  up  toward  the  door. 
He  took  the  stethoscope  from  his  ears  and  said: 
"Have  you  seen  the  special?" 

"Not  for  hours,"  she  answered. 

"That's  queer,"   said  Kildare. 

He  talked  as  though  he  were  drunk,  with  loose 
lips  and  a  thick  tongue.  She  got  farther  back,  to- 
ward the  door. 

"Are  you  afraid?"  asked  Kildare. 

She  said  nothing. 

"Come  here,"  said  Kildare. 

She  got  her  feet  somehow  across  the  floor  to  him. 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her. 
"Go  on  about  your  work.    I  don't  want  you  here." 

He  looked  back  to  Thornton  and  wiped  the  foam 
from  the  mouth  of  the  sick  man. 

"I'm  not  afraid  any  more,"  said  Mary  Lamont. 
"I'll  do  anything  you  want,  Doctor." 

"What  did  the  Simmons  have  to  say  to  you?" 

"She  wanted  to  know  if  you  had  authority  from 
Doctor  Lane  to  handle  this  case.  Of  course  I  told 
her  you  did." 

"Go  back  to  her  and  say  you  lied.  I  haven't  any 
authority." 

She  felt  a  dreadful  certainty  that  she  was  closed 
into  the  room  with  two  madmen,  not  one.  The  thing 
to  do  is  to  humor  the  mad. 

"I  won't  go  to  her.    I  won't  tell  her,"  she  said. 

"Take  his  temperature  again,"  he  commanded. 

She  went  about  the  work  once  more. 

Kildare  took  the  utterly  loose  arm  of  Thornton 
and  bent  it  up  and  down  several  times.  Mary  La- 
mont drew  the  thermometer  from  the  clammy  mouth 
and  shuddered  as  she  read  it. 

"Still  eighty-five,  doctor,"  she  said. 

"Eighty-five,"  murmured  Kildare.  "My  God, 
eighty -five." 

IT  was  plain  that  he  had  spoken  to  himself,  not  to 
her  and  the  fear  that  had  been  growing  in  her 
sprang  out  like  an  electric  current,  tingling  in  her 
forehead  and  down  through  the  tips  of  her  fingers. 

Then,  not  like  a  living  creature  but  as  though  to 
make  a  mockery  of  sentient  motion,  the  arm  of 
Thornton  which  Kildare  had  flexed  began  to  lift 
and  fall  in  the  same  gesture,  and  presently  he  tried 
to  sit  up,  still  with  his  eyes  closed;  and  again  it  was 
like  movement  in  the  dead.  Thornton  swayed  his 
head;  he  was  like  a  man  trying  to  catch  his  balance 
on  a  running  horse. 

Kildare  pressed  him  back  into  the  bed. 

A  new  knock  came  at  the  door. 

"Keep  them  out,"  said  the  emotionless  voice  of 
Kildare. 

But  when  the  girl  opened  the  door  she  saw  Doc- 
tor Carew  himself  in  the  hall. 

"You  are  Nurse  Lamont,  aren't  you?"  he  asked. 
And  he  went  on:  "I  understand  Kildare  is  in  here?" 

"Yes,  sir.  He  wished  to  work  without  interrup- 
tion, sir." 

"Does  he?"  said  Carew,  and  walked  straight  in, 
past  her,  almost  as  though  he  would  have  walked 
over  her. 

He  was  not  a  big  man  but  anger  enlarged  him. 

"Kildare,"  he  said,  "were  you  authorized  to  take 
care  of  this  case  tonight?"  Then  he  took  full  note 
of  Thornton's  face  and  exclaimed:  "By  God,  I  think 
you've  killed  that  man!   Kildare!" 

Kildare  lifted  his  head  a  little  but  failed  to  turn  it. 

"This  is  Doctor  Carew  speaking,"  said  the  head 
of  the  hospital. 

"Very  well,"  said  Kildare,  never  moving  his  eyes 
from  the  face  of  Thornton. 

"Very  well?  But  it's  distinctly  not  very  well!" 
said  Carew,  his  voice  kept  down,  his  rage  only  a 
tremor  of  tension,  in  the  dying  presence  of  Thorn- 
ton. "What  authority  have  you  to  take  charge  of 
this  case,  I  repeat?" 

"None,"  said  Kildare.  "This  is  entirely  on  my 
own." 

Carew  rose  to  his  tiptoes.  He  settled  back  on  his 
heels  more  slowly. 

"Leave  this  room  and  get  back  to  your  own  place 
in  the  hospital,"  he  said.  "I  had  something  to  tell 
the  board  about  you  tomorrow,  now  I  shall  have 
enough  more.    Leave  this  patient  instantly!" 

"Who'll  take  him  in  charge  if  I  go?"  asked  Kil- 
dare. "Does  anybody  else  want  the  responsibility, 
now?"  He  turned  at  last  and  gave  to  Carew  a 
ghastly  smile. 

"What  have  you  done  to  him,  man?"  demanded 
Carew. 

A  groan  from  Thornton  seemed  to  give  the 
answer.  Carew,  hesitating  an  instant,  turned  and 
walked  rapidly  from  the  room.     He  slammed  the 


door  heavily  after  him,  regardless  of  dead  or  dying 
patients. 

MARY  LAMONT  went  out  after  him.  She  could 
not  stand  it  a  moment  longer  in  the  room.  Daylight 
was  coming.  She  leaned  at  an  open  window  and 
told  herself  that  the  coming  day  gave  more  life  and 
more  hope  to  the  very  air  she  was  breathing.  After 
a  few  minutes  she  was  able  to  go  back. 

The  daylight  made  things  worse  instead  of  better. 
It  showed  the  senseless  face  of  Thornton  and  the 
white  torment  in  that  of  Kildare  far  better  than 
the  lamps  had  done. 

"Tell  me  how  to  help,"  she  pleaded. 

"Nobody  can  help  me,"  he  said.  "Not  now.  No- 
body in  the  hospital.  But  keep  looking  back  in  on 
me  when  you  can,  will  you?" 

She  glanced  at  his  preparations.  There  was  a  flat 
dish,  a  rubber  tube,  a  hypodermic,  and  a  reddish 
solution  in  a  stoppered  flask.  She  could  make  no 
sense  out  of  them,  and  she  went  away  again.  There 
were  things  for  her  to  do.  She  got  through  them 
mechanically  and  then  hurried  back,  carrying  a  tray 
of  coffee  and  thin  sandwiches. 

Kildare,  bunch-backed  like  an  old  man,  leaned 
over  the  bed  at  watch,  as  he  had  been  all  those 
hours.  There  seemed  little  left  of  him.  It  was  fan- 
tastically as  though  he  were  giving  up  part  of  his 
own  life  in  order  to  take  that  of  Thornton.  There 
was  something  between  Thornton's  teeth  on  which 
he  bit  with  locked  jaws.  His  whole  body  seemed 
as  stiff  as  stone,  with  the  fists  clenched,  the  hands 
turning  slowly  in,  the  arms  extending  themselves. 
In  that  spastic  rigidity  she  recognized  the  last  stage 
of  life.  Men  died,  a  little  after  they  reached  that 
point.  Kildare  seemed  to  be  dying  with  his  patient. 
When  she  offered  him  the  coffee  he  was  unaware  of 
it,  though  the  steam  rose  into  his  face. 

"Take  this,"  she  ordered. 

He  discovered  the  coffee  with  vague  surprise  and 
took  the  cup  in  his  hand.  Once  more  he  forgot 
everything  except  the  dying  man  on  the  bed. 

"Drink  it,"  she  commanded. 

He  discovered  the  coffee  again,  tasted  it,  drank  it. 
She  pulled  the  empty  cup  from  his  fingers.  She 
stepped  back  and  looked  at  him.  A  fist  fight  hardly 
could  have  battered  and  discolored  his  eyes  more. 
"Where   is  he — now?"   she   asked. 

The  weary  eyes  did  not  shift  for  an  instant  from 
Thornton,  as  though  the  grip  they  kept  upon  him 
were  what  tied  him  to  life. 

"He's  back  at  the  beginning  of  things,"  said  Kil- 
dare. "He's  gone  through  all  the  stages  of  evolu- 
tion in  reverse.  His  brain  has  been  scaled  away  in 
layers,  and  now  he's  back  in  the  stage  of  the  reptile. 
Nothing  in  his  brain  is  alive  except  the  medulla,  the 
very  base  of  it;  and  the  only  thing  that  brain  can 
tell  his  muscles  to  do  is  to  twist  and  writhe,  with 
movements  like  those  of  a  snake." 

He  spoke  slowly,  a  phrase  at  a  time,  pauses  be- 
tween.   As  he  finished  speaking,  he  forgot  her. 

"Will  he — will  he  live?"  she  managed  to  ask. 

"Get  some  blood  out  of  an  artery  for  me,"  said 
Kildare. 

She  prepared  a  syringe,  and  tried  for  the  big 
artery  at  the  inside  of  the  elbow.  She  knew  the 
hypodermic  needle  found  that  artery,  but  the  blood 
that  came  out  was  thick,  viscous,  dead,  like  the 
blood  from  a  vein. 

"Look!"  she  said,  whispering.  "It's  from  an  artery, 
but  there's  no  life  in  it.  It's  the  same  as  blood  from 
a  vein.  .  .  ." 

"Very  well.     Stop  screaming  at  me!" 

The  loud-speaker  in  his  own  brain  had  turned 
her  voice  to  thunder,  no  doubt. 

"Yes,  Doctor,"  she  said.     "What  else  can  I  do?" 

He  did  not  hear. 

She  crouched  by  his  chair  and  looked  up  in  his 
face.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  away  from  her 
for  years,  he  was  so  twisted  and  hardened  by  the 
endurance  of  those  long  hours.  Yet  her  heart 
opened  suddenly  to  him. 

She  said:  "Jimmy,  tell  me  how  to  share  it  with 
you,  and  help!" 

He  was  silent. 

She  repeated:  "Are  you  sure  what  will  happen  to 
him?" 

"No,"  said  Kildare.  "All  I  know  is  that  I  have  to 
nearly  kill  his  brain  before  I  can  hope  that  he'll 
wake  up  into  a  few  minutes  of  sanity." 

"But  suppose  he  doesn't  wake  up?" 

"Then  I've  murdered  him,"  said  Kildare. 

She  got  a  good  grip  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
steadied  herself. 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked,  never  dropping  his 
eyes  from  the  face  of  Thornton. 

"It's  after  seven,"  she  said. 

"Thank  God!"  he  said.  "Leave  me  alone  with 
him  .  .  .  and  then  come  back." 


S>HE  went  out.  There  was  still  no  sign  of  Carew 
returning.  Before  he  came  back,  no  doubt  he  would 
have  the  career  of  Kildare  already  nailed  on  a  cross. 
A  rumor  had  gone  through  the  hospital.  There  were 
plenty  of  people  in  the  corridor,  now,  from  nurses 
and  attendants  to  staff  physicians. 

Molly  Byrd,  grim  as  a  Roman  soldier,  bore  down 
on  the  girl  and  cornered  her. 

"What's  going  on  in  412?"  she  asked.  "Carew's 
half  mad!" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mary  Lamont. 

"Don't  be  a  fool!"  said  the  Byrd.  "Don't  be  a  nitwit 
— you!  What's  the  matter  widi  you,  Lamont?  Have 
you  seen  a  ghost?  Come  here  and  let  me  get  some 
hot  coffee  into  you!" 

She  dragged  Mary  Lamont  into  the  floor  office  and 
poured  some  steaming  coffee.  The  girl  sat  shud- 
dering in  a  chair  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  face. 

"Talk  to  me  now,"  commanded  the  Byrd,  when 
Mary  had  swallowed  some  coffee. 

"I  can't,"  said  the  girl.  "I  can't  say  anything  .  .  . 
it's  too  horrible  ...  I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"If  I  can't  get  anything  out  of  you,  I'll  use  my 
own  eyes  and  ears,"  said  the  head  nurse. 

"Don't  go  into  that  room!"  cried  Mary. 

Something  about  her  voice  was  enough  to  stop 
Molly  Byrd  at  the  door. 

"Why  not?"  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know — except  that  it  will  haunt  you 
every  day  of  your  life." 

Even  the  Byrd  was  impressed.  Mary  went  past 
her  into  the  hall. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  demanded  the  head 
nurse. 

"I've  got  to  get  back  there,"  said  Mary. 

When  she  was  inside  the  room,  she  saw  that  the 
whole  thing  had  changed.  It  was  much  more  fright- 
ful to  a  casual  eye  but  not  to  the  eye  of  a  nurse. 
Thornton  foamed  at  the  mouth  and  slobbered,  turn- 
ing his  head  from  side  to  side  with  sudden  move- 
ments. But  life  was  coming  back.  The  attitude  of 
Kildare  was  altered,  also.  He  was  no  longer  like 
a  murderer  but  what  she  knew  of  old — all  eager 
brain  and  tenacious  will.  The  period  of  mute  wait- 
ing had  ended. 

He  wiped  the  foam  from  the  mouth  of  Thornton. 
He  kept  saying:  "Thornton,  how  are  you?  How  is 
it  now,  Thornton?" 

Kildare  turned  and  nodded  his  head  toward  the 
door.  The  girl,  as  she  went  out,  kept  remembering 
that  last  look,  for  there  was  an  uncanny  brightness 
of  triumph  in  it. 

"Noon,  Friday  .  .  .  where  is  it  you  have  to  be? 
What  is  it  you  have  to  do,  Thornton  .  .  .  Noon, 
Friday — Thornton,  what  is  it  you  have  to  do  at 
noon,  Friday?" 

The  head  of  Thornton  at  last  stopped  rolling. 
Light  entered  the  blank  mist  of  his  open  eyes. 

"I  meet  Marian— in  the  lobby  of  the  Clerfayt 
Hotel — at  noon,  Friday,"  he  said.  He  roused  sud- 
denly and  completely,  crying  out:  "Will  you  get 
me  there?" 

He  caught  at  the  hands  of  Kildare  and  repeated 
in  an  agony:     "Will  you  get  me  there?" 

CHAPTER  XVI 

TEN  or  fifteen  minutes  later  a  sort  of  quiet 
maelstrom  in  the  form  of  Doctor  Carew  had 
picked  up  Mary  Lamont.  He  had  Gregory 
Lane  with  him.  He  was  saying  to  Lane:  "I 
simply  want  a  direct  understanding  on  one 
point  which  already  has  been  put  to  you: 
Did  you  or  did  you  not  order  definite  work  to  be 
done  on  Thornton  tonight,  or  did  you  give  indefinite 
authority  to  any  other  doctor  in  the  hospital  to 
interfere  with  that  patient?" 

"No,"  said  Lane,  "I  did  not." 

He  looked  curiously  at  Carew  and  then  at  Mary. 

Carew  had  turned  on  her,  as  they  walked  briskly 
down  the  corridor,  saying:  "Now,  Nurse  Lamont, 
I  want  from  you  a  detailed  report  on  what  has  been 
going  on  in  Room  412  last  night  and  this  morning." 

"Mr.  Thornton  seemed  very  ill,"  she  said. 
"Doctor  Kildare  was  with  him.  .  .  ." 

"Doing  what?" 

"I  can't  tell,  Doctor.  I  was  not  given  the  full 
details  of  the  treatment.  .  .  ." 

"It  was  written  on  the  chart,  was  it  not?" 

"I  believe  not,  sir." 

Carew  came  to  an  abrupt  halt.  He  was  purple 
with  his  emotion. 

"An  uncharted  treatment — given  without  permis- 
sion— by  an  interne!  .  .  .  It's  on  Gillespie's  head, 
eventually!     Eventually  on  his  head.  .  .  ." 

He  started  forward  again,  walking  with  violent 
speed. 

He  exclaimed:  "To  encourage  the  ignorant  bull- 
headedness  of  a  boy — a  mere  child!    To  place  in  his 

38 


BY    MAX    BRAND 


hands  the  authority  of  an  experienced  physician! 
God  forgive  them  both,  but  the  Blair  Hospital 
never!  .  .  .  You  are  well  out  of  this,  young  Doctor 
Lane!  It  is  very  well  for  you  that  you  performed 
your  operation  with  the  apparent  authorization  of 
Gillespie  through  his  baby-faced  assistant,  other- 
wise we  should.   .  .  ." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Doctor  Carew,"  said  Lane. 
"I  was  my  own  single  authority  for  that  operation. 
Authorization,  did  you  say?  From  Doctor  Gillespie 
through  Kildare?  There  was  not  a  word  from 
either  of  them!" 

Carew  stopped  again  and  passed  a  handkerchief 
across  his  forehead.  "I  hope  I'm  not  going  quite 
mad,"  he  said.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when 
correction  was  about  to  fall  on  you — like  a  sword, 
in  fact — another  man  dared  to  stand  between  you 
and — Doctor  Lane,  how  in  God's  name  does  this 
make  the  slightest  sense?" 

"Did  Kildare  tell  you  that  he  had  authorized  the 
operation  in  the  name  of  Doctor  Gillespie?"  de- 
manded Lane. 

"He  did.  In  my  office.  In  almost  exactly  those 
words." 

Lane  shook  his  head  slowly,  bewildered. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  he  said.  "God  knows  it 
was  not  from  any  friendship.  We're  strangers, 
practically.  .  .  ." 

"Let's  get  on  to  Kildare.  In  the  old  days,"  said 
Carew,  as  he  hurried  forward  again,  "all  roads  led 
to  Rome,  and  when  there  is  trouble  in  the  Blair 
Hospital,  apparently  all  roads  lead  to  young  Doctor 
Kildare — a  state  of  affairs  which  presently  may  be 
remedied — very  presently!" 

XHEY  came  to  Room  412.  There  were  twenty 
people  curiously  looking  on  at  various  distances  in 
the  corridor. 

"Shall  I  go  in  first,  Doctor  Carew?"  asked  Maiy 
Lamont. 

"We'll  have  no  forerunners,"  said  Carew.  "Let 
him  take  the  full  brunt,  as  he  deserves  to  take  it! 
You  shall  enter  first,  Doctor  Lane!" 

That  was  the  order  of  entrance,  Lane  first,  with 
Carew  behind  him,  and  Mary  Lamont  closing  the 
door  hastily  behind  them  to  shut  out  as  much  of 
the  expected  scene  as  possible  from  the  eyes  and 
the  ears  of  the  people  in  the  hall. 

But  Kildare  was  not  there.  They  had  before 
them  only  Henry  Thornton  with  an  extra  pillow 
cushioning  his  head.  The  dimness  and  the  wander- 
ing was  utterly  gone  from  his  eye. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "I  hope  you're  bring- 
ing those  jelly  sandwiches  that  Doctor  Kildare 
promised  me?    And  the  milk?" 

The  rage  of  Doctor  Carew,  quite  ready  to  be 
poured  forth  even  in  the  presence  of  an  insane 
patient,  was  checked  at  its  source  by  this  revela- 
tion. He  went  slowly  toward  the  bed,  holding  out 
his  hand  a  little,  in  an  attitude  humorously  like  that 
of  a  man  approaching  a  flighty  horse. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Thornton,"  he  said,  "do  you  feel 
quite  well?" 

"Extraordinarily  well,"  said  Thornton,  too  full  of 
smiles  to  attempt  to  control  them.  "I  seem  to  have 
been  quite  ill — or  else  I've  been  having  very  bad 
dreams." 

"Chiefly  dreams,  Mr.  Thornton— chiefly  dreams, 
my  dear  fellow,"  said  Carew. 

He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything  else  in  a 
good  doctor's  delight  in  an  unexpected  cure. 
"Chiefly  dreams,"  repeated  Carew,  "and  rather  a 
bad  knock  in  the  head." 

"Silly  of  me  to  be  bowled  over  like  that,  wasn't 
it?"  said  Thornton,  almost  laughing.  "But  do  you 
mind  me  bringing  up  the  subject  of  those  jelly  sand- 
wiches, if  you  please?     I'm  half  starved." 

"You  shall  have  a  mountain  of  them,"  said  Carew. 
"You  shall  have  a  whole  mountain  of  them  .  .  . 
And  did  Doctor  Kildare  leave  you  very  long  ago?" 

"Hardly  five  minutes,  I  believe,"  said  Thornton, 
still  with  that  cheerful  smile. 

Here  a  special  nurse  came  in  with  a  whole  tray 
of  sandwiches  and  a  bottle  of  milk  with  melted 
frost  running  down  its  sides. 

"Ah,  here  it  comes!"  said  Thornton,  reaching  out 
a  welcoming  hand.  "This  is  a  very  pleasant  sight, 
nurse!" 

The  special,  seeing  the  change  in  him,  almost 
dropped  the  tray.  She  threw  a  wild  glance  toward 
Carew,  who  said  instantly:  "We  seem  to  be  quite 
out  of  the  woods,  this  morning.  Quite  out  of  the 
woods,   indeed!" 

The  head  of  the  hospital  withdrew  from  the  room 
with  Lane  and  Mary  Lamont.  He  stood  bewildered, 
but  still  smiling,  in  the  corridor. 

"I  saw  him  yesterday,"  said  Carew,  "and  the  poor 
fellow's  condition  wrung  my  heart!  To  see  a  change 
like  this — it's  a  reward  that  makes  a  life  of  work 


seem  a  small  thing,  doesn't  it,  Lane?" 

"It  does,  sir,"  said  Gregory  Lane. 

They  smiled  on  one  another. 

"It's  an  act  of  God!"  said  Carew.  "Nothing  else 
could  have  made  the  change  in  him  so  quickly.  It's 
an  act  of  God!" 

"Or  of  Doctor  Kildare?"  suggested  Mary  Lamont 
softly. 

"Ha?  Kildare?"  echoed  Carew.  "Extraordinary, 
damned,  difficult  young  scoundrel  .  .  .  Nurse, 
what  did  he  do  to  Thornton  last  night?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  brokenly.  "But  it 
seemed  to  be  his  own  life  that  he  was  taking  in  his 
hands!" 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  said  Carew,  patting  her 
shoulder.  "I  don't  blame  tears.  It's  the  rarest 
thing  in  the  world  when  a  man  ventures  his  reputa- 
tion, his  career,  his  whole  future,  his  whole  honor, 
and  in  spite  of  the  confounded  rule-makers  like 


"You've  run  Kildare  out  of  this  hospital, 
out  of  medicine,  out  of  his  chance  to 
serve  the  world,"  Gillespie  told  Carew 

Walter  Carew,  dares  to  be  right  ...  a  damned 
touching  thing!" 

He  went  off  down  the  corridor  in  a  happy  dream, 
still  shaking  his  head. 

"You're  knocked  to  pieces;  you've  been  through 
a  pretty  thick  slice  of  hell,  I  think,"  said  Gregory 
Lane.  "Let  me  take  you  somewhere  so  that  people 
won't  stare  at  you,  dear." 

"I'm  all  right,"  she  said.  But  she  was  trembling 
as  she  added:  "He's  done  it  before,  and  he's  only 
saved  himself  by  being  right  .  .  .  but  someday  he'll 
put  his  neck  in  the  noose  for  other  people,  and  it 
won't  turn  out  this  way.  Some  day  it'll  go  wrong; 
and  then  all  his  work,  and  all  his  life,  will  be 
ruined!     Don't  you  see,  Gregory?" 

"It's  Kildare  you  mean,"  said  Lane,  looking  in- 
tently at  her. 

"He's  always  committing  himself  to  the  lost 
causes,"  she  said.  "And  someday  the  ship  will  sink 
under  him,  and  take  him  down  with  it!" 

"I've  got  to  find  him,"  said  Lane. 

"I'll  go  along,"  she  agreed. 

CHAPTER  XVII 

BUT  Mary  Lamont  and  Doctor  Lane  found  no 
trace  of  Kildare  in  the  hospital.    Noon  came 
and  there  was  no  Kildare  in  Gillespie's  office. 
Stephen  Kildare  came  in  at  that  time  to  say 
he  had  been  a  trifle  worried  about  his  son 
when  he  last  saw  him  that  morning. 
"When  did  you  see  him?"  asked  Gillespie. 
"About  eight-thirty  this  morning,"  said  old  Kil- 
dare.   "Isn't  he  back  at  the  hospital?" 

"There's  no  sign  of  him,"  said  Gillespie.     "What 
was  he  talking  about  when  you  saw  him?" 
"He  asked  for  fifty  dollars." 
"For  what?" 
"I  don't  know." 

"You  mean,  you  didn't  give  it  to  him?" 
"Oh,  yes.     I  happened  to  have  that  much,  so  of 
course  I  gave  it  to  him." 

"Ha!"  growled  Gillespie.    "You  had  the  money  so 
of  course  you  gave  it  to  him  .  .  .  And  then  what?" 
"He  took  a  hot  bath,  a  pony  of  brandy,  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  left  at  once." 

"Without  saying  a  word  of  where  he  was  going?" 
"No,  doctor." 


39 


At  seven  that  night  there  still  was  no  Kildare. 
Gillespie  telephoned  to  Carew. 

"Will  you  come  down  to  see  me,  or  shall  I  come  up 
to  see  you?"  he  asked. 

"Is  it  important?" 

"It's  as  important  as  the  devil,  to  me." 

"I'll  come  down,"  said  Carew. 

When  he  reached  the  office  of  Gillespie,  the 
diagnostician  was  in  a  strange  smiling  humor  but  it 
was  one  that  was  familiar  to  Carew  and  he  looked 
instantly  askance  at  the  great  man. 

"I  hear  that  Henry  Thornton  is  much  better,  Wal- 
ter," he  said,  genially. 

"Much,  much  better,"  said  Carew. 

"Then  Lane's  to  be  congratulated  for  his  fine 
work,  eh?" 

"Not  altogether  Lane.  Your  man  Kildare  seems 
to  have  turned  the  trick  last  night." 

"Not  the  young  interne!  Not  the  stupid  young  fool 
you  were  going  to  run  out  of  the  hospital,  Walter!" 

Carew  said  nothing.  He  seemed  to  see  what  was 
coming. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,"  said  Gillespie,  "I'm  really 
astonished  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say.  The  truth 
is  that  I  thought  you'd  lived  up  to  your  word— I 
thought  that  you  had  run  Kildare  out  of  the  hos- 
pital!" 

"Nonsense,  Leonard,"  said  the  head  of  the  hospital. 
"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  never  would  have 
taken  final  action  without  first  warning  you." 

"Then  why  isn't  he  here?"  roared  Gillespie. 

"Here?    In  this  office?" 

"Yes,  or  in  the  entire  hospital.  There's  no  sign 
of  him!    What  did  you  do  with  him,  Carew?" 

"Nothing,  Leonard.  Not  a  thing.  I  did  not  dis- 
miss him." 

"What  did  you  last  say  to  him?" 

"I  don't  remember  the  exact  words." 

"Damn  the  exact  words.  What  was  the  intent? 
Did  you  leave  him  feeling  that  he  was  on  a  good 
basis  with  you  and  the  hospital?" 

"I'm  afraid  net.  Leonard,  I  want  you  to  consider 
the  case  of  a  mere  interne  who  pretends  to  have 
used  your  name  to  authorize  a  dangerous  operation; 
and  who  then  without  permission  from  the  doctor 
in  charge  invades  the  room  of  a  patient  and  seems 
on  the  verge  of  killing  him  with  a  treatment  which 
is  not  even  written  down  on  the  chart!" 

"Do  you  think  that  every  man  in  the  world  is  a 
fool  or  a  criminal  unless  he  stands  your  height,  has 
your  weight,  and  fits  your  shoes?  Are  we  going  to 
have  nothing  in  the  world  but  Prussian  disciplina- 
rians like  Walter  Carew?  Are  you  going  to  deny  to 
young  physicians  the  chance  to  use  the  brain  and 
imagination  that  God  gave  them,  so  that  you  can 
lead  them  around  by  apron  strings?  Is  that  what 
you  want?"  thundered  Gillespie. 

"Every  word  you  say  is  unfair,"  complained 
Carew. 

"You've  frightened  Kildare  out  of  this  hospital, 
out  of  medicine,  out  of  his  chance  to  serve  the 
world,"  declared  Gillespie.  "Go  back  and  sit  down 
with  the  thought.  It  will  be  a  warm  comfort  for 
you.  And  remember  all  the  time  that  you've  re- 
mained inside  your  rights.  By  God,  Carew,  I  call 
what  you've  done,  intellectual  murder!" 

Carew  did  not  stay  to  argue;  he  walked  sound- 
lessly from  the  office,  a  small  and  shrinking  figure. 

At  fifteen  minutes  before  noon,  on  this  Friday,  a 
telephone  call  was  put  through  to  Gregory  Lane. 
The  voice  of  Kildare  came  none  too  clearly  to  him. 

"Hai,  Jimmy!"  called  Lane.  "Where  are  you,  fel- 
low? There's  been  a  regular  manhunt  and  hell  to 
pay,  trying  to  find  you.    Where  are  you?" 

"Authorize  them  to  connect  me  with  Thornton," 
said  Kildare. 

"The  trouble  is  that  Thornton  is  none  too  well," 
said  Lane.  "He  was  bright  and  fine  for  a  number 
of  hours  after  you  treated  him  but  then.  .  .  ." 

"This  is  long  distance  and  I  haven't  much  money. 
I  don't  care  what  his  condition  is.  Put  me  through 
to  him!" 

They  put  Kildare  through  to  Thornton.  Lane, 
sweating  with  anxiety,  hovered  at  the  door  of  the 
room.  Mary  Lamont  was  inside  it,  listening.  She 
held  to  the  ear  of  Thornton  the  telephone  receiver 
which  his  hands  did  not  seem  able  to  hold.  Thin  as 
a  spider  thread  she  heard  the  voice  of  Kildare  com- 
ing over,  saying:  "Thornton,  I'm  here  in  Clerfayt 
and  she's  with  me.  Marian  is  with  me  and  every- 
thing is  all  right." 

"Marian?  Where  is  she?"  cried  Thornton.  His 
hand  suddenly  grasped  the  receiver  and  he  sat  up 
in  the  bed. 

"She's  here,  in  Clerfayt,  but  we're  leaving  right 
away.  She's  coming  back  to  you,  Thornton.  We're 
coming  back  as  fast  as  an  airplane  can  take  us. 
And  she's  going  to  stay  with  you  forever.    Do  you  _ 


hear  me?    Can  you  understand  me?"  Jimmy  asked. 

"I  hear  you!    I  hear  you!"  exclaimed  Thornton. 

"Good-by,  then — and  be  patient — she's  a  happy 
girl!"  said  the  far  away  voice  of  Kildare,  and  his  re- 
ceiver clicked. 

Thornton  still  held  the  instrument  to  his  ear  as 
though  he  were  draining  further  happiness  from  it. 

"He's  made  it  for  me,"  said  Thornton,  whispering, 
half  to  himself  and  half  to  Mary  Lamont.  "He's 
there  with  her,  in  time.  And  she'll  be  with  me  all 
the  days  of  my  life!" 

CHAPTER  XVIII 

BUT  Kildare  was  not  with  Marian  Thornton 
in  the  town  of  Clerfayt.  It  doesn't  take  a 
crow  long  to  fly  from  Denver  to  Clerfayt, 
but  the  automobile  road  is  a  winding 
nightmare  that  loops  among  the  mountains 
like  a  tangled  lariat  and  the  bus  in  which 
Kildare  was  a  passenger  had  broken  down  while 
it  was  still  ten  miles  from  the  destination. 

"I've  got  an  hour  to  reach  Clerfayt,"  he  said  to 
the  saloonkeeper,  "and  I've  got  a  dollar  and  fifteen 
cents  to  rent  a  horse.    I  know  it's  not  enough." 

"Sure  it  ain't,"  said  the  saloonkeeper.  "Besides, 
I  ain't  got  a  horse.  But  there's  a  mule  out  there 
that's  better  than  any  horse  in  the  mountains,  and 
I  might  loan  him  to  you,  stranger." 

That  was  how  Kildare  happened  to  ride  a  long- 
legged  grey  mule  down  the  last  ragged  slope  and 
into  the  town  of  Clerfayt.  He  was  already  a  half 
hour  late  when  he  jumped  down  in  front  of  the 
Clerfayt  Hotel  and  hurried  into  the  lobby.  There 
were  only  three  people  in  it,  the  clerk  in  shirt- 
sleeves behind  the  desk,  a  big,  brown-faced  man 
and  a  pretty  woman  who  sat  beside  him.  They 
got  up  and  started  for  the  door  as  Kildare  came  in. 

"You're  Marian  Thornton?"  said  Kildare. 

She  stopped  and  looked  quickly  up  at  the  big 
fellow. 

"You  see,  Jerry?"  she  said. 

"Why  didn't  he  come  himself?"  asked  Jerry. 
"Why  did  he  have  to  send  a  messenger?" 

"Because  he's  in  a  hospital,"  said  Kildare.  "I 
got  here  by  plane  and  bus  and  mule-back;  and  I 
see  that  I'm  barely  in  time  .  .  .  Will  you  talk  to 
me  alone  for  a  few  moments?" 

"I'll  wait  outside,"  said  Jerry. 

Kildare  sat  in  a  corner  with  the  girl.  She  was 
less  pretty  at  close  range  than  from  a  distance, 
but  there  was  a  wealth  of  cheerful  color  in  her 
face.  She  asked  no  questions  at  all,  but  waited 
for  information.  Kildare  liked  that,  and  the  way 
she  sat  straight  up. 

He  said:  "I'm  a  doctor.  My  name  is  Kildare. 
Thornton  is  an  accident  case  who  was  brought 
into  the  emergency  room.  We  had  to  operate  for 
fracture.  He  wouldn't  accept  the  operation.  He 
said  he  had  a  date  line  to  meet.  Friday — noon. 
He  wanted  to  walk  out.  But  he  fainted  before  he 
could  leave." 

She  put  up  a  hand  to  her  face.  He  pitied  the 
pain  in  it. 

"We  operated  anyway.  A  very  brilliant  surgeon 
— Gregory  Lane — and  the  operation  was  a  success, 
but  when  Thornton  found  out  that  he  was  under 
restraint,  and  couldn't  get  out  here  to  meet  that 
date  line — it  was  too  much  for  his  nerves." 

He  paused  there. 

"You  mean — his  mind?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Kildare. 

She  closed  her  eyes.    He  said  nothing. 

"He  did  want  me,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"For  five  years,"  said  Kildare. 

"If  I  go  to  him,  do  you  think  I  can  be  the  least 
help?"  she  asked. 

"I  think  you  can,"  said  Kildare. 

"But  you're  not  sure?" 

"No." 

She  turned  and  looked  out  the  window.  A  pine 
tree  grew  across  the  road  from  the  hotel,  but  the 
immense  bulk  of  it  almost  filled  the  window.  Every 
bough  was  big  enough  to  make  a  respectable  tree 
in  Connecticut. 

After  a  time  she  said:  "I'll  get  my  things  to- 
gether. Do  you  know  the  quickest  way  to  reach 
him?" 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Kildare.  "Do  you  know 
what  may  lie  ahead  of  you?" 

"No.    But  I  can  guess,"  she  answered. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  anything  of  the  sort?" 

"Yes,  I've  seen  it.  But  it's  better  to  fill  your  life 
with  pain  than  with  emptiness." 

"You've  got  more  than  emptiness.  That  big 
Jerry,  yonder,  wants  to  marry  you." 

She  looked  at  Kildare,  a  little  surprised.  There 
was  a  great  stillness  about  her  and  a  suggestion 
of  strength  as  ample  as  a  Western  horizon. 


"I  suppose,"  said  Kildare,  "that  that  was  the  rea- 
son for  the  date  line.  You'd  give  Thornton  his 
chance  to  reach  for  you,  if  he  cared  to.  If  not, 
there'd  be  Jerry." 

"He  seemed  to  think  that  I'd  be  worth  some- 
thing to  him.  So  I  didn't  have  a  right  to  deny  him, 
you  see,  because  I'm  worth  nothing  to  myself.  But 
then  I  wondered  if  Henry  might  remember  me  and 
want  me,  after  all.  So  I  wrote.  I  hoped,  in  a  vague 
sort  of  way,  that  he  might  forgive  me." 

"He  thinks  that  he's  the  one  who  needs  forgive- 
ness." 

"Because  he  was  a  bit  of  a  sinner?" 

She  closed  her  eyes  suddenly  and  bit  her  lip. 

"Steady,"  said  Kildare. 

"I  won't  cry,"  she  said.  "But  when  I  think  of 
the  five  years  I  threw  away  ..." 

"I  know,"  said  Kildare. 

"Is  there  any  ghost  of  a  chance  that  he  might  be 
himself  again — just  dimly — just  now  and  then?"  she 
asked. 

Kildare  took  her  hand. 

"I've  been  a  swine,"  he  said,  "but  I  wanted  to 
find  out  what  you  are.  Now  I  know.  The  fact  is 
that  there  are  nineteen  chances  out  of  twenty  that 
he'll  be  perfect,  after  a  little  treatment  and  a  good 
deal  of  you." 

She  held  hard  to  his  hand. 

"Whether  you  want  me  to  or  not,"  she  said,  "I'm 
going  to  believe  every  word." 

CHAPTER  XIX 

IT  was  late  on  Saturday  when  Nurse  Parker  broke 
sharply  in  on  Dr.  Gillespie. 
He  said  angrily:    "What  are  you  at  me  about 
now,  Parker?     I'm  seeing  no  patients  this  morn- 
ing." 

"Doctor  Kildare  has  just  come  back — he's  here 
— he's  right  in  the  hospital!"  exclaimed  Nurse 
Parker. 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  said  Gillespie. 
"Kildare?  Who  said  he  was  back?" 
"I  saw  him!  I  saw  him  with  my  own  eyes!" 
"You  did?"  Gillespie  pushed  himself  up  in  his 
chair.  "What  excuse  does  the  young  fool  give  for 
playing  hooky?  What  does  he — I'm  going  to  give 
him  the  dressing  down  of  his  life!  Discipline? 
Carew?  Before  I'm  through  with  him,  I'll  make 
him  think  he  never  heard  of  discipline  before!  Next 
patient!" 

GREGORY  LANE,  coming  out  of  Room  412,  met 
Kildare  coming  down  the  corridor  with  a  hand- 
some, open-faced  girl  of  twenty-six  or  seven,  a 
sun-browned  young  woman  who  carried  her  head 
high  and  looked  the  world  straight  in  the  eye. 

Kildare  said:  "This  is  the  doctor  I  told  you  about 
.  .  .  This  is  Mrs.  Thornton,  Dr.  Lane." 

She  gave  Lane's  hand  a  strong,  lingering  pressure. 
She  said,  gravely:  "Doctor  Kildare  has  told  me 
what  you  did.  I  don't  try  to  thank  you,  Doctor. 
I'll  never  try!  .  .  .  But — may  I  see  Henry  now?" 

"You  understand  his  condition?"  asked  Lane, 
anxiously. 

"She  knows,"  said  Kildare,  "but  he's  much  better 
than  he  was,  isn't  he?" 

Lane  stared  at  him.  "Much,  much  better,"  he 
said. 

There  was  a  quick  whispering  of  skirts  down  the 
hall.    Mary  Lamont  was  hurrying  toward  them. 

"If  you'll  be  very  quiet,  Mrs.  Thornton,"  said 
Lane,  "I'll  take  you  in  to  him." 

"May  I  make  a  suggestion?"  asked  Kildare. 
"May  she  go  in  to  him  alone?" 

Lane,  studying  him,  suddenly  smiled.  "I've  an 
idea  that  you  know  this  case  better  than  I  do,"  he 
said.  "If  you  think  it's  right — certainly,  Mrs. 
Thornton!    You  may  go  in  alone." 

She  touched  the  arm  of  Kildare.  "Thank  you, 
Jimmy,"  she  said,  and  went  softly  into  the  room. 

The  two  doctors  stood  with  Mary  Lamont  at  the 
door,  which  was  slightly  ajar. 

"Jimmy — Jimmy — Jimmy!"  whispered  the  girl 
and  held  out  her  hand  as  though  she  wanted  to 
touch  him  and  make  sure  he  was  there. 

Lane  looked  at  her  curiously,  steadily. 

iHE  voice  of  the  sick  man  in  Room  412  was  say- 
ing: "Closed  in  the  wrong  day — and  I've  got  to 
get  out — out  of  the  wrong  day — " 

It  was  like  someone  talking  in  a  dream. 

They  heard  the  voice  of  Marian  Thornton,  not 
the  words  but  the  music  of  it;  and  then  Thornton 
himself  speaking  more  loudly  her  name  in  a  clear 
voice  with  all  the  sleepy,  obscure  drawl  gone  from  it. 

Kildare  soundlessly  shut  the  door. 

"I'm  guessing  at  it,"  said  Lane.  "It  was  insulin! 
You  sneaked  up  here  and  used  insulin  shock!    How 


did  you  dare  to  do  it,  man?  How  did  you  dare 
to  bring  him  that  close  to  dying?" 

"But  he's  going  to  be  cured,"  said  Kildare.  "And 
half  the  treatment  is  in  there  with  him  now.  He 
waited  five  years  for  her  but  she's  worth  all  the 
pain." 

Lane  looked  at  Mary  Lamont  gravely,  but  still 
strangely  without  pain.  "I  think  there  ought  to 
be  a  little  celebration  for  this.  Here  are  the  tickets 
to  that  show  we  were  taking  in  tonight,  Mary. 
You'll  enjoy  it  more  with  Kildare." 

"I  can't  do  that,"  said  Kildare. 

Mary  Lamont,  watching  Lane,  said  nothing  at  all, 
and  out  of  her  silence  a  quiet  grew  that  embraced 
them  all. 

"I  saw  you,  just  now,  when  you  met  Kildare," 
said  Lane.  "You'd  never  have  an  eye  like  that  for 
me  in  a  thousand  years.  And  I'm  the  sort  of  a  fool 
that  has  to  be  head  man,  not  second  best  .  .  .  You 
two  will  find  a  way  to  be  happy.  Let  me  know 
when  I  can  congratulate  you." 

He  turned  his  back  and  then  walked  off. 

"Call  him  back!"  urged  Kildare. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You're  being  a  fool!"  he  said.  "You'll  never 
find  better  as  long  as  you  live!" 

"I  know,"  she  agreed.  "You  and  I  are  both  fools. 
Maybe  that's  why  we  need  one  another." 

IN  the  office  of  Gillespie,  Kildare  found  his  father 
in  excited  conversation  with  the  great  man. 

"I  thought  she  was  going  to  die,"  said  Stephen 
Kildare.  "It  was  almost  a  complete  collapse.  What 
had  caused  it?  I  couldn't  guess.  There  was  noth- 
ing at  all  dangerous.  Only  a  diet  low  in  salt.  She 
begged  to  have  some  of  her  infernal  brew  of  herbs. 
I  had  some  stewed  up  to  quiet  her.  I  even  tasted 
the  stuff  .  .  .  and  suddenly  I  understood  what  it 
was  that  had  been  helping  her  in  that  witches' 
brew.  The  herbs  had  been  packed  in  thick  layers 
of  salt  to  preserve  them.  It  was  a  highly  saline 
solution  that  she  was  drinking — and  the  salt.  .  .  ." 

"Was  what  she  needed!"  exclaimed  Gillespie. 

"Of  course,  it  was.  You  and  I  have  missed  it 
completely.  All  our  years  of  experience  and  our 
laboratories  hadn't  helped  her  as  much  as  her 
homemade  tea,  because  what  troubled  her  is.  .  .  ." 

"Addison's  Disease!"  the  two  old  men  cried  in 
one  voice. 

"A  pair  of  old  fools,"  said  Gillespie.  "And  yet 
there  was  no  pigmentation  of  the  exposed  areas 
of  the  skin.  .  .  ." 

"A  borderline  case,  in  fact." 

"Now  we  can  make  her  live  twenty  years,  I 
hope." 

"I  hope  so — I  think  so.  Jimmy,  that  two  dollars 
you're  holding — give  it  to  charity.  We've  just 
proved  that  instinct  and  a  bit  of  luck  sometimes 
can  beat  all  the  doctors  there  are." 

"Young  Doctor  Kildare,"  said  Gillespie,  "I  hear 
that  you've  brought  home  the  bacon  again.  Other- 
wise I'd  have  given  you  the  devil  .  .  .  What  did 
you  use  on  him?     Insulin?" 

"Insulin — and  a  sort  of  prayer,"  said  Kildare. 
"And  luckily  there  wasn't  even  a  special  in  the 
room  all  night  to  bother  me." 

"Oh,  the  special  nurse  disappeared,  did  she?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"She  couldn't  have  been  called  away,  could  she?" 
asked  Gillespie. 

"Ah,  did  you  do  that?"  demanded  Kildare. 

"I  can  tell  a  crime  when  it  first  begins  to  swim 
into  the  eye  of  the  criminal,  like  a  fish  up  to  the 
surface  of  a  pond.    I  knew  you'd  need  to  be  alone." 

I  It 

IT'S  as  though  a  tidal  wave  had  gone  over  me, 
and  now  I'm  back  in  the  air,  breathing  and  blink- 
ing again,"  said  Kildare  to  Mary  Lamont  that  night. 
"And  are  you  sure  that  you're  right,  being  here 
with  me?" 

"Five  years — "  said  the  girl.  "Poor  Henry  Thorn- 
ton waited  five  years — so  why  should  I  complain 
if  I  have  to  wait  a  while  for  Jimmy  Kildare?  I've 
turned  into  an  old-fashioned  girl." 

"You  won't  feel  that  way  about  it  tomorrow. 
There  doesn't  seem  to  be  the  least  glimmer  of  a 
prospect  ahead  of  us." 

"There  is,  though,"  said  the  girl.  "There's  hope, 
you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  Kildare.  "There's  a  bit  of  that,  of 
course." 

"And  there's  the  sense  of  coming  back  to  you, 
and  it's  like  coming  home." 

"That's  it.  And  that's  something,"  said  Kildare. 
"We  don't  have  to  add  up  what  we  have  and  see 
what  it  amounts  to." 

"Of  course,  we  don't,  and  we  always  have  every- 
thing that  lies  between  good  morning  and  good 
night." 


40 


THE 


I         £vndM*^/ 


SPEAKS 


Sincerest  form  of  flattery, 
as  practiced  by  Sandra  Shaw 
Cooper  —  accompanying  hus- 
band Gary  to  Arizona  for  loca- 
tion scenes  of  Samuel  Gold- 
wyn's  "The  Westerner" — is  to 
copy  the  suede  jacket  Gary 
lself  wears  in  the  title  role 


ON      THIS      AND      THE      FOLLOWING      PAGES      PHOTOPLAY 
BRINGS      YOU      HOLLYWOOD      AT      ITS      Pll 


Jl 


s 


FEMMES 
EXQUISES 

Four  synonyms  for  femi- 
nine beauty — accenting  four 
subtle  shades  of  meaning 


ELEGANTE— Madeleine  Car- 
roll (far  left)  .  .  .  whose  clas- 
sic fairness  typifies  her  native 
England  .  .  .  whose  chic  re- 
veals her  French  heritage  .  .  . 
whose  varied  talents  fit  both 
Paramount's  "Safari"  —  and 
Small's   "My   Son,    My   Son" 


GAMINE  —  Patricia  Morison 
(left)  .  .  .  whose  youthful 
sparkle  won  Broadway  in  one 
operetta  .  .  .  whose  honesty 
bespeaks  her  Scotch-lrish-and- 
American  background  .  .  . 
whose  roie  in  "Untamed" 
marks  only  her  fourth  picture 

CHARMEUSE— Marilyn  Mer- 
rick (at  r  i  g  h  t)  .  .  .  whose 
charm's  All-American- — Texas- 
born,  schooled  in  New  Jersey, 
discovered  in  a  Los  Angeles 
dramatic  class  .  .  .  whose  first 
featured  role  for  Warners  is 
in  "We  Shall  Meet  Again" 


EXOTIQUE— Dolores  Del  Rio 
.  .  .  whose  dark  loveliness  is 
one  of  the  legends  of  Holly- 
wood .  .  .  whose  patrician 
perfection  shows  her  Spanish 
lineage  (via  Mexico)  .  .  . 
whose  first  film  in  too  long  is 
M-G-M's  "Man  from  Dakota" 


43 


Most  girls  would  think  it  quite  enough  to  make  their  entrance 
with  Tyrone  Power  (let  alone  wearing  his  wedding  ring!),  but  | 
Annabella  seeks  still  further  honors  with  her  basque-waisted, 
full-skirted  frock  of  brocaded  satin  damask  under  a  white  foxi 
jacket  whose  extended  shoulders  are  practically  guaranteed  to 
make  the  tiniest,  most  feminine  star  look  even  more  fragile 


vt 


O^ 


/pd(Ct< 


Double  play  at  the  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  opening!  Ginger  Rogers  not  only  enters 
the  theater  on  the  arm  of  Walter  Plunkett  who  created  "Scarlett  O'Hara's"  own 
premiere  ensemble,  as  well  as  the  costumes  for  the  picture — but  she  also  wears 
a  very  smart  tunic  gown  of  palest  blue  and  silver  lame,  exactly  matched  by  the 
turban  which  serves  to  conceal  her  currently  dark  hair.     Her  wrap  is  silver  fox 


There's  nothing  so  potent  as 
a  big  social  event  in  Holly- 
wood to  bring  out  the  style 
queens,  vying  with  each  other 
for   that    ''best   dressed"  title 

PHOTOGRAPHS       BY       HYMAN       FINK 


-4L1 


4 


i 


*$F 


irlett"  in  fuchsia  and  white:  Vivien 
n  wears  an  ermine  coat  over  sequin- 
kled  souffle  with  its  matching  veil 
sequin  bag;  note  that  on  the  latter 
carries  Laurence  Olivier's  orchids 
corsage  effect  fated  for  popularity 


Fine  feathers  make  a  fine  showing  among  the  many 
opulent  furs  and  gorgeous  fabrics  at  the  Carthay 
Circle,  as  Mrs.  Gary  Cooper  proves  with  a  brief, 
shaggy  ostrich  jacket.  Her  blazing  diamond  ear- 
rings strike  an  elegant  note,  too— though  Gary's 
face  hardly  looks  TOO  formal  from  this  angle! 


Margaret  Sullavan,  arriving  with  her  husband, 
Leland  Hayward,  might  have  stepped  right  out 
of  the  family  album  in  her  broadcloth  coat, 
with  its  quaint  elbow  capelet  and  baby  pillow 
muff — all  banded  with  sealskin,  that  fur  so 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  our  grandmothers'  day 


Gallantly,  Cesar  Romero  helps  Joan 
Crawford  adjust  the  hood  of  her 
ermine  wrap  over  her  snood.  The  dress 
beneath  is  of  flowing  white  crepe, 
tightly  belted  with  heavy  embroidery 
of  gold  beads  to  match  the  neckline 


Surprise?  Another  sweeping  ermine  wrap, 
this  one  —  not  unlike  Vivien's  —  belonging 
to  Norma  Shearer  (who  almost  played  the 
famous  "Miss  O'Hara")!  She  is  wearing  a 
Directoire  model  of  appliqued  satin.  Her 
"Rhett  Butler"  is  George  Raft,  of  course 


Lana  Turner  flaunts  a  lynx 
coat  which  is  very  nearly 
as  stunning  as  her  tricky 
feather  bird.  The  latter's 
an  anchor  for  the  hood  of 
Lana's   Gladys   Parker  gown 


It's  Clark  ("Rhett  Butler")  Gable's 
big  night,  and  wife  Carole  Lombard 
does  him  proud  in  a  classic  gown  and 
wrap  of  stippled  gold.  With  this  she 
wears  a  minimum  of  jewelry,  topping 
tiny  earrings   with   a    chic   up   hair-do 


is    set — Jean  Arthur  weicom* 
ed   MacMurray,   mor 
she   married   Melvyn   Dougli 
iggles,  writer  Claude  Binyo 


What's  this?  Bigamy  a  new 
trend?  It  looks  that  way — 
with  two  gay  new  movies  both 
featuring  marriage  for  three 


/ 


\ 


<       / 


*o<* 


\*« 


3aO 


Aoe' 


V>a<* 


aYWe 


we^' 


TOO  MANY   WIVES 


N 


m 


Bearded  from  his  long  exile,' 
Fred  executes  a  barber  shop 
bolero  at  the  prospect  of' 
seeing  "his"  wife  —  unaware 
that  she  is  Melvyn's  now! 
Who  wins?  That's  a  surprise 


RKO  reverses  the  situation  in  "My  Favorite 
Wife,"  with  Irene  Dunne  and  Cary  Grant — 


— for  Cary  finds  himself  with  just  one 
wife  too  many,  when  his  honeymoon  with — 


— Gail    Patrick   is   interrupted    (to   express   it 
mildly)  by  Irene's  return  from  supposed  death 


■  >* 


You  hear  of  "bear  hugs,"  but  do  you  remember  this  "bear  kiss"?    The  twelve-year-old  note  with  it  says 
that  Dolores  Del  Rio  "received  a  grealer  thrill  in  this  movie  kiss  than  any  she  received  heretofore" 


■Mil      III  I  Mil  L  MMIimiJUiliiliWPIWP 

I  tiift  ui; 


Aha!    With  the  aid  of  her  trusty  binoculars,  a   1924  bathing  beauty  spots  a  homemade  sheik. 
Wonder  what  Jack  Holt  and  Norma  Shearer  think  of  this  sample  of  precandid-camera  art  now? 


J 


r;^' 


s&1' 


Something  to  kick  about,  looking  back!  Football 
fever  got  all  the  little  starlets  in  those  days,  just 
as  inevitably  as  autumn  rolled  around.  The  Para- 
mount entrants  for  1928  All-American  honors 
turn  out  to  be  Jean  Arthur  and  Nancy  Carroll 


l  it  1 1 


Sweet  are  the  uses  of  public- 
ity— but  we've  an  idea  that, 
today,  the  stars  wish  they'd 
never  posed  for  these  stills! 


Oh,  Nora,  what  BIG  muscles  you  have! 
The  better  to  sock  Nick,  eh?  But  we 
have  a  feeling  Myrna  Loy  would  rather 
drown  than  wear  that  bathing  cap  again 


>retta!  Nowadays  the  popu- 
s  Young  can  walk  right  out, 
oesn't  like  an  assignment,  but 
ion  a  time  she  couldn't  even 
t  a  bit  of  javelin-throwing! 


/     *'         49 


Richard  Greene,  waitin_ 
Zorina  gets  her  "costume"  adjusted  for 
flying  leap-and-lciss  in  "I  Was  an  Adver 
turess,"  forgets  there's  many  a  slip.  .  . 


^*C 


^ 


COVER    THE    STUDIOS 


Villains  play  with  toys,  heroes  go 
to  jail,  directors  act  impassioned 
love  scenes — that's  Hollywood  for 
you,  "business  going  on  as  usual" 

BY  JACK  WADE 


OH — to  be  in  Hollywood,  now  that 
spring  is  here!" 
Excuse,  please,  the  slight  misquota- 
tion and  those  heavy  sighs.  It's  all  Deanna 
Durbin's  fault.  We  just  saw  her,  and  we  say 
spring  ought  to  be  here!  Yes  sir,  burgeoning 
and  budding! 

After  all,  fifty  young  puppy  lovers,  lying  side 
by  side  on  the  grass  and  gazing  up  at  fleecy 


clouds,  can't  be  wrong,  calendar  or  no  calendar. 
That's  the  sentimental  sight  that  greets  us  on 
the  outdoor  set  of  Universal's  "It's  a  Date." 
We  almost  trip  over  Deanna,  in  blue  slacks, 
stretched  out  on  a  blanket,  her  head  couched 
tenderly  on  the  stomach  of  dark,  good-looking 
Lewis  Howard.  As  far  as  we  can  see,  pretty 
teen-age  extra  boys  and  girls  are  doing  the  same 
with .  interesting  variations.  The  sudden  field 
of  mass  mugging  and  al  fresco  woo  startles  us. 
"Hey!"  we  shout  to  Director  Bill  Seiter.  "Is  all 
this  strictly  nice?" 

"Not  if  you  stay  in  the  scene!"  he  retorts,  so 
we  move  in  behind  the  camera. 

In  "It's  a  Date,"  Deanna  plays  the  daughter 
of  a  famous  actress.  She  happens  to  compete 
with  her  mama,  Kay  Francis,  for  a  big  stage 
part  on  Broadway.  Around  that  and  handsome 
Walter  Pidgeon's  love-making,  Universal  has 
whipped  up  a  clever  Durbin  standard-situation 
script,  pitting  Kay  and  Deanna  against  each 
other,  mostly  for  laughs,  with,  of  course,  some 
melodies  thrown  in. 

It's  nice  to  see  Deanna  getting  so  grown  up, 


with  twenty-eight  tres  chic  gowns  (one  costing 
$1500),  a  sophisticated  make-up,  and  coiffure. 
Just  as  it's  nice  to  see  Kay  Francis,  greyish 
streaks  in  her  hair,  acting  her  age  and  playing 
a  mother  role — and  saying  she  loves  the  ma- 
ternal touch! 

As  we  watch,  Deanna  is  shifting  her  head 
around  on  Lewis'  midriff  for  the  right  camera 
angle.  And  Lewis  is  ticklish!  Every  now  and 
then  he  bounces  to  his  feet  shaking  with  the 
funnies.  He's  a  little  skittish,  too,  because  in  a 
minute  he  has  to  kiss  Deanna,  and  he's  never 
done  that  before — on  the  screen,  or  anywhere 
else. 

This  isn't  the  most  romantic  setting  in  the 
world,  we'd  say.  The  picture  starts  off  in  one 
of  those  New  England  summer  stock  groups. 
Winfield  Sheehan's  Hidden  Valley  ranch  was  as 
good  as  the  Universal  location  man  could  do 
about  that,  so  the  background  for  young  love 
is  a  big  red  barn  looming  behind  and  lazy  cows, 
horses,  ducks  and  chickens  wandering  through 
the  lanes  of  lazy  lovers.  That's  atmosphere  for 
you,  and  we  do- mean  atmosphere! 


50 


Gaelic  tempers  and  Gaelic  humor  both  get  a  workout  on  the  set  of  "Three  Cheers 
for  the  Irish,"  with  Thomas   Mitchell,   Dennis  Morgan,   Priscilla   Lane  in  the  cast 


here's  little  enough  feminine  interest  in  "Dance  with  the 
evil" — but  Dottie  Lamour  provides  it,  making  up  for  a  lot 


I 


's  a   two-timing   baby   Eddie   Cantor  sings   to   in    "Forty   Little 
Mothers,"   but  she  can't  fool   Eddie  when  it  comes  to  teething! 


What  with   being  ticklish,  and   Director   Bill   Seiter  looking   on,   and   all, 
Durbin  and  Lewis  Howard  have  trouble  getting  that  spring  mood  in  "It's 


Deanna 
j  Date" 


Anyway,  Deanna,  Lewis  and  the  hundred  ex- 
tra love  bugs  rise  above  it  and  the  cameras  roll. 
We  have  to  admit  it's  a  touching  sight,  as 
Deanna  and  Lewis  confide  their  dreams  to  the 
blue  sky,  a  microphone  and  collected  onlookers. 
Then  Lewis  decides  on  the  kiss.  But  just  as 
Lew  touches  Deanna's  ruby  lips,  there's  a  shat- 
tering "M-o-o-o-o-o!"  and  Lew  leaps  up  as  if 
he'd  been  bored  by  a  wasp.  We  would  swear 
that  cow  winked. 

That  reminds  us,  incidentally,  of  the  kiss 
trouble  Richard  Greene  is  having  at  Twentieth 
Century-Fox  one  day  when  we  find  that  beau- 
tiful young  man's  fancy  lightly  turning  to 
thoughts  of  love  with  the  svelte  Zorina  in  "I 
Was  An  Adventuress." 

Zorina,  the  script  says,  is  in  cahoots  with  in- 
ternational jewel  slickers  Eric  von  Stroheim  and 
Peter  Loire,  on  the  Riviera.  Then  comes 
wealthy,  young,  upstanding  Britisher  Dick 
Greene;  comes  love;  comes  Zorina's  desire  to 
ditch  her  past  and  be  an  honest  woman.  But 
evil  Eric  shakes  his  shaved  head.  You  can  take 
it  from  there. 

Dick  and  Zorina  are  taking  it  from  the  point 
where  the  grand  passion  gets  going  in  a  lavish 
bit  of  Riviera  hotel  bedroom  set.  It's  some  set, 
too.     Full  length  mirrors  line  the  floors,  walls 


and  ceilings.  Silks  and  satins  drape  over  every- 
thing, including  Director  Gregory  Ratoff  and  his 
cigar.  Twin  satin-covered  beds  snuggle  to- 
gether. Dick's  in  one  of  them,  pretty  cute  in 
blue  silk  pajamas.  Zorina  wears  a  satin  shirt 
and  black  ballet  trunks  which  don't  exactly  hide 
her  famous  gams.  All  in  all,  the  setting's  on 
the  sexy  side — as  it's  meant  to  be. 

Because  the  next  thing  Zorina  does  is  a  run- 
ning dive  at  Dick  in  his  satin  beddy-bye,  and 
they  melt  in  a  long,  lingering  kiss.  They'd  be 
arrested  if  they  did  it  in  public,  but  Director 
Ratoff  thinks  it's  much  too  tame.  And  what 
Ratoff  thinks,  he  says — out  loud  and  with  ges- 
tures. Now  he  shoves  Zorina  aside  and  leaps 
on  the  bed  beside  the  terrified  Richard. 

"You  loaf  heem!"  cried  Ratoff  to  Zorina.  "You 
keez  heem!  So — "  And  he  grabs  Dick  with  a 
body  slam  and  bestows  a  resounding  smack! 

Zorina  yells  with  laughter.  She  thinks  it's 
very  funny,  and  promises  to  deliver  as  enthu- 
siastically next  time.  But  Dick  gasps  and  sput- 
ters angrily.  "I'll  kiss  Zorina  for  nothing,"  he 
states.  "But  if  I  have  to  kiss  you  any  more, 
Gregory,  my  salary  doubles!" 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  hand  out  directing  ideas 
to  the  Great  Ratoff,  but  we  can't  help  recalling 
a  possibly  less  painful  cure  for  listless  lolligog- 


ging  which  we  hear  Wesley  Ruggles  propose  the 
day  we  visit  the  "Too  Many  Husbands"  set  at 
Columbia. 

Of  course,  when  a  Somerset  Maugham  char- 
acter like  the  one  Jean  Arthur  plays  (who  finds 
herself  with  two  husbands  on  her  hands,  a  re- 
turned long-lost  spouse  and  his  best  friend  she 
has  married  meanwhile),  she  has  to  know  a 
thing  or  two  about  the  gentle  art  of  osculation. 
We've  never  heard  any  complaints  about  Jean 
in  that  branch  of  cinema  endeavor.  Nor  are 
there  any  current  kicks  about  Fred  MacMurray, 
either,  come  to  think  of  it.  Just  the  same,  Fred 
carries  around  an  inferiority  complex  about  his 
camera  kissing,  and  inferiority  complexes  take 
an  awful  beating  around  Ruggles.  The  other 
day  Wes  smuggled  Fred's  wife  on  the  set  to 
watch  him  make  love.  We  knew  Fred  had 
vetoed  it — so  he  hired  Mrs.  M.  as  an  extra! 

This  day  when  we  arrive  to  scan  the  startling 
mix-ups  of  "Too  Many  Husbands,"  Jean  and 
Fred  are  snuggled  up  together  in  a  sawed-off 
automobile.  Where  the  hood  and  engine  nor- 
mally are,  a  camera  crew  levels  down  on  the 
stars  in  the  back  seat.  Where  the  wheels  nor- 
mally spin  along  the  pavement,  property  men 
and  grips  are  heave-hoing  on  wooden  planks  to 
(Continued  on  page  86) 


#***+«*&. 


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1 


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W   x: 


Sh!  A  gambler  enters  the 
quiet  rummy  sessions  in 
the   old   brownstone   house 


Remember  Fanto,  the  fantastic  poodle  who  was  always 
stealing  the  show  from  his  just  as  fantastic  master, 
the  Great  Boldini  (played   here   by  Felix  Bressart)7 


.*•-•* 


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e\e 


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v-i 


F*  \ 


TALL  CAME  TRUE 


Photoplay's  March  MovieBook 
comes  brilliantly  to  life  in 
Warners'  romantic  production 
of  the  Louis  Bromfield  novel 
that  we  brought  you  last  month 


S** 


K 


&<T 


Bridget  (Jessie  Busley)  and  her  boarders — Mr.  Van  Diver 
(Brandon  Tynan),  Rene  Salmon  (Grant  Mitchell),  and  Miss 
Flint — see  their  old  home  transformed  into  a   night  club 


i    H 


«<GaM  x  x  V>1 


G*a 


ssev 


52 


PHOTOPLAY 


rt 


•lk 


II 


BY  GWENN  WALTERS 

Fashion  Editor 

Assisted  by:  Frances  Hughes, 

June  Smith,    Peggy  Sweet 


/ 


'■'S  i 


Everitt-Buelow,  Houston; 
Wm.  H.  Block  Co.,  Indianapolis; 
B.  Forman,  Rochester,  N.  Y. 


The  Higbee  Cc 


■shall  Field  &  Co.,  Ch, 


Ellen  Drew,  of  Paramount's  "French  without 
Tears,"  models  a  Junior  Guild  suit  (above). 
Snowy  white  pique  fashions  the  blouse  .  .  .  navy 
Twill  Brook,*  the  jacket  and  pleated  skirt. 
Around  $25.  Little  spools  of  cotton  run  riot 
over  her  mustard  print  crepe  frock  (at  right) 
and  huddle  on  the  pocket  of  her  mustard  Twill 
Brook*  coat.  Around  $25.  Sketched,  top  right 
— a  voluminous-sleeved,  Gaucho-inspired  blouse 
of  crinkly  chiffon  tucks  into  a  youthful  sus- 
pender skirt  of  novelty  crepe  (both  are  woven 
with  Celanese  rayon).  Candy  colors — around  $  1 8 


54 


*Croivn  Tested  rayon  and  wool 


All  hats  by  Leslie-James 


'cago 


At  the  left,  Muriel  Angelus,  of  Paramount's 
"Safari,"  wears  a  Margie  Joy  jacket-dress  of 
navy  faille  (Cohama's  Lluana)  with  pink  cuffs. 
Around  $20.  Below,  her  six-pocketed  blouse 
of  navy  rayon  (Duplan's  Young  Glory)  is  teamed 
with  a  red  and  white  polka  dot  skirt  and  a  red 
kidskinbelt.  Around  $12.95.  Sketched,  below— 
a  navy  bolero-suit  of  Botany's  Crispette,  with 
red  and  white  polka  dot  blouse,  white  pique 
revers  and  red  ribbon  girdle.     Around  $29.75 


Arnold  Constable,  N.  Y.;  Stix,  Baer  &  Fuller 
Co.,   St.    Louis;    Mandel    Brothers,    Chicago 


S  P  R 


Individualize  a  navy  costume  with 
Leo  Glass'  patriotic  flag-wreathed 
rooster  pin — around  $2;  and  this 
navy  calf  bag  that  waves  a  brave 
red  tassel — there's  over  a  foot  and 
a  half  of  it  to  carry  upright. 
Around  $19 

Dramatize  any  new  spring  frock 
with  Leo  Glass'  giant  white  lotus 
blossom  ensemble — jeweled  cen- 
ters sprout  from  braided  cords. 
Necklace,  $5;  bracelet,  $2 


56 


1.  Perforated  patent  leather  step-in 
pump  with  cutouts.  Around  $6. 
Tarsal   Tread 

2.  "Mikado" — a  maracain  sabot  in 
navy  with  walled  last,  keg  heel  and 
elasticized  gabardine  strap.  Around 
$8.    Grayflex 

3.  Neatly-stitched  bow-trimmed  pat- 
ent suit  pump  of  black  patent  lea- 
ther and  ombre-striped  elasticized 
grey  gabardine — walled  last.  Around 
$7.    Milius 

4.  "Anna"  featured  here  In  black 
gabardine-Lastex,  a  peep-toe  step- 
in,  with  patent  peg  heel  and  quar- 
ter.   Around  $8.    Rhythm  Step 


5.  Elasticized  faille  and  patent  cross- 
over vamp,  cutout  step-in  with  open 
ioe.   Around  $6.    Velvet  Step 

6.  Elasticized  black  gabardine  bow- 
pump  with  calf  vamp,  heel  and  trim 
on   walled   last.    Around   $4.     Jolene 

7.  High-wedge  step-in  of  Balenciaga 
tan  suede  —  matching  calf  heel. 
Around  $19.  Palter  DeLiso's  big 
fashion  news! 


For    the 

name    of   the   shop    in    voiiri 

hat  carries  the   items  shouM 

lore   ;i'i-i 

e  to  the  Fashion  Secretary,^ 

JIIOTOIM 

ay,    122    East    42nd    Street,^ 

Vew  Yo 

k.  These  prices  vary  slmhtlyi 

„   differ 

•nt   sections   of   the    country.' 

Peanut  Butter  is  the  smart  new  color: 
Here  it  is  (left  above)  in  Knox's  Milan 
braid  postilion,  around  $15;  Harry 
Rosenfeld's  pin-point  patent  bag, 
around  $13;  Merry  Hull's  new  doe- 
skin fingernail  gloves,  cut  longer  at  the 
finger  tips,  around  $6 


B.  Square-heeled  T-strap  sandal  of 
blue  calf  laced  with  white  kid. 
Around   $1  I.    Rice  O'Neil 

9.  Walled  last  spat-shoe,  turttan 
calf  with  brown  elasticized  gabar- 
dine spat,  brass  buckles.  Around 
$11.     Matrix 

10.  Perforated  patent  pump  with 
airy  lattice-stripped  vamp  and  bow 
of  Toga  snakeskin.  Around  $15.  La- 
Valle 

11.  Alligator-calf  pump  with  cut- 
outs and  peep-toes.  Around  $4. 
Paris   Fashion 


12.  High-wedge  step-in,  milk  choc 
olate  brown  calf  with  beige  elasti- 
cized linen.  Around  $11.  DeLiso- 
Debs 

13.  Town  sandal  of  black  patent 
leather  with  lattice  cutouts.  Around 
$6.    Heel  Latch 

14.  Beige  alligator-calf  "Hoolygan 
Kicks"  with  moccasin  vamp,  sport 
lacings,  and  Dutch  Boy  heels.  Around 
$7.      Paramount 

15.  Afternoon  peep-toe  pump  — 
gabardine  with  patent  leather  pip- 
ing  and   bow.    Around   $8.    Paradise 


,^C^>- 


57 


a£<*A+%zJ^  Jo* 


"Stress  pockets  on  all  your  clothes — select  navy, 
beige  or  grey  for  a  costume — spice  your  wardrobe 
with  color  and  make  it  gay  with  novelty  fabrics," 
says  Howard  Shoup,  currently  creating  clothes  for 
Warners'  "It  All  Came  True."  You'll  find  pockets 
in  these  designs,  colorful  novelty  in  these  fabrics 
— to  guide  you  when  you  sew  or  make  plans  with  your 
dressmaker!  The  PHOTOPLAY-McCALL  PATTERNS 
which  will  be  a  monthly  feature  in  these  pages) 
and  the  new  spring  fabrics,  illustrated  here,  are 
available  at  leading  stores  throughout  the  country 


In  your  search  for  spring  fabrics, 
for  these  outstanding  numbers: 

Duplan's  "Playtime" — red  and  white 
peppermint-striped  sharkskin- type 
rayon 

2.  Cohama  grey  chambray-spun  rayon 
that  grows  modernistic  trees  of  red 
and  white 

Celanese's  red  and  white  aero-print 
Cellenacel-jersey 

Stehli's  navy  and  white  baby-checked 

rayon  spectator  crepe 

St.  George's  nubby  sports  weave  of 

Du    Pont  spun   rayon   and   cotton 

Cavalry  tan,  the  new  beige 

Enka's  leaf  green  rayon  crepe  apple 

blossom  print  with  Premet's  matching 

woolen — born  companions 

and   American   Viscose's   Crown   Tested 

rayon   crepe,  as  featured   in   navy   blue 

in    Miss    N  eagle's    frock    at    right 


f  J  yS/i^x^ 


\N^ 


3657.  And  pockets  are  out  in  front  for 
evening,  too  . . .  dig-down  ones,  reaching 
into  a  gathered  skirt  which  flows  with 
lovely  rhythm  from  the  new  long-torso 
bodice,    Talon-fastened    at   the    side 


J| 


I 


■) 


tavy  blue,  frosted  with  white,  is  spring's  smartest 
erennial  combination.  Edward  Stevenson  has  used 
"  here  in  a  rayon  crepe  and  pique  bolero  frock, 
'orn  by  Anna  Neagle,  now  starring  in  RKO's  "Irene" 


SEASON 


For  the  striking  Zorina,  Royer  does 
an  equally  striking  navy  chalk- 
striped  suit  with  collarless  neck- 
line and  chevron  pockets.  She 
wears  it  in  the  20th  Century-Fox 
film,  "I  Was  an  Adventuress." 
Note  how  the  downward  stripes 
of  the  fabric  emphasize  the  new 
longer  line  of  the  jacket.  Royer 
adds  a  lacy  lingerie  blouse,  spar- 
kling flower  ear-bobs,  a  navy  and 
white  pillbox  and  long  white  gloves 


itos. 


* 


For  Gail  Patrick's  dark  beauty, 
Howard  Greer  makes  a  grey  flannel 
ink-button  tailleur.  You'll  see  her 
wear  it  in  RKO's  "My  Favorite 
Wife."  This  suit  also  dresses  up 
with  feminine  accessories — a  grey 
rWoire  blouse,  a  twisted  pearl  neck- 
lace and  a  brilliant  jeweled  bow 
For  the  triangular  pocket.  Gail's 
grey  felt  toque  matches  her  giant 
pouch  bag  amusingly  decorated 
with  a  floppy  bow  of  the  suit  fabric 


ggfat  (Trademark) 

Miss  Penny  Wise  makes  her  debut — she's  the  glamour 
girl  who  dresses  on  a  budget  and  makes  it  balance!  Out 
she  went  this  month  and  turned  up  six  little  treasures  to 
help  you  dress  smartly  and  balance  your  "budget"  too 


I.  This  grey  flannel  suit  has  shining 
silver  buttons,  bulky  militaristic 
pockets,  and  a  skirt  flared  to  the 
swish  of  spring.  Around  $17. 
Quilled  sailor — Alice  May.  Barrel 
bag — Turoff  Hodes 


2.  You  will  look  efficient  by  day — 
so  feminine  after  five — in  this 
"Rambling  Junior"  grey  Celanese 
rayon  Feathercel  frock  with  pristine 
starched  collar  and  red  leather 
drawstring  belt.  Around  $16 

3.  With  spring  come  polka  dots! 
Lingerie  trim  and  gay  red  pocket 
binding  set  off  this  jacket  dress 
of  navy  and  white  rayon  crepe. 
Around  $16.  Alfreda's  pique 
sailor.    Bag— Ritter  &  Ritter 


4.  Neat-as-a-pin — definitely  smart! 
A  "Terry  Rogers"  dress  of  grey  and 
white  rayon  crepe  border  print. 
Around  $12.  Alfreda's  white  straw 
sailor;  longer  gloves  by  Kayser; 
bag— Ritter  &  Ritter 


5.  Black  and  white — always  perfect 
fashion.  This  cunning  model  from 
"Debutante  Frocks"  of  Stehli's 
crepe  Dolores  (woven  with  Cela- 
nese rayon)  is  scrolled  with  braid — 
it  goes  to  a  job  or  keeps  a  date 
with  equal  charm.   Around  $16 


6.  Spring  blues  must  be  gay! 
"Rambling  Junior"  chooses  spirited 
Cadet  Blue  to  make  an  interesting 
frock  of  Celanese  rayon  Feather- 
cel. Skirt  fullness  flows  from  cir- 
cular corded  pockets.  Around  $16 


^m    W ^m^^i  w^*A 

r                    ^^ 

■       '1 

J^t  ll 

©    * 


f 


BY  WILBUR  MORSE,  JR. 


I 


S  Jim  Stewart  going  to  marry  Olivia  de 
Havilland?" 
Whether  or  not  President  Roosevelt  would 
seek  a  third  term  may  have  been  the  most  vital 
topic  of  gossip  and  speculation  among  the  polit- 
ical-minded this  past  month,  but  to  movie- 
minded  maidens  from  Penobscot  to  Pasadena 
the  most  serious  item  in  current  affairs  was  the 
amorous  attachment  of  Hollywood's  most  elig- 
ible bachelor  and  the  beautiful  Melanie  of 
"Gone  with  the  Wind." 

Newspaper  columnists  were  coupling  their 
names  on  an  average  of  three  times  a  week. 
Radio  chatterers  bulletined  their  budding  ro- 
mance as  minutely  as  horticulturists  log  the 
leafings  of  a  midnight  blooming  cereus.  And 
from  the  soda  fountain  of  the  M-G-M  studio 
commissary  to  the  bar  of  the  Stork  Club  in  New 
York,  the  romance  peddlers  were  prattling: 


They  refused  roles  as  man-and-wife  in  "Saturday's 
Children,"  but  their  whirlwind  New  York  romance  set 
Hollywood  wondering  if  Jimmy  (above,  in  flying  togs) 
and  Olivia  plan  to  play  those  very  parts  off-screen! 


"Is  Jim  Stewart  going  to  marry  Olivia  de 
Havilland?" 

Photoplay  wanted  to  know,  too. 

Now  if  anyone  was  in  a  position  to  answer 
that  query  it  certainly  was  Mr.  James  Maitland 
Stewart  himself,  and  so,  just  before  this  mag- 
azine started  to  press  we  picked  up  the  tele- 
phone to  find  out. 

Once  the  call  was  in,  we  began  to  feel  a  little 
impudent  telephoning  a  man  3,000  miles  away 
to  prod  into  just  about  the  most  private  phase 
of  his  life.  Maybe  Jim  wouldn't  want  to  talk 
about  it. 

And  as  we  waited  for  the  telephone  connec- 
tion to  be  made,  we  reviewed  what  we'd  al- 
ready gleaned  of  the  romance  from  Jim's  two 
pretty  younger  sisters,  Mary  and  Virginia 
Stewart,  who  live  in  New  York,  and  from  a  close 
friend  of  Olivia's  who  had  been  watching  her 
most  recent  ride  on  the  merry-go-round  of  a 
whirlwind  courtship  with  considerably  more 
than  casual  interest.  Here,  then,  was  what 
could  truly  be  called  the  "case"  history. 

The  romance  of  Jim  and  Olivia  had  had  its  in- 
ception in  New  York,  the  week  before  Christ- 
mas. They  had  met  just  once  before  in  Holly- 
wood, casually. 

Jim,  who  had  flown  East  to  spend  the  holidays 
with  his  family  in  Indiana,  Pennsylvania,  was 
in  Manhattan  for  a  week's  go-around  of  the 
new  shows  and  supper  clubs.  He  had  been  in 
New  York  two  days  when  a  telephone  call  came' 
through  from  Hollywood  from  his  agent  and 
best  friend,  Leland  Hayward,  who  also  repre- 
sents Olivia  as  business  manager. 

"Olivia  de  Havilland  is  leaving  for  New  York 
by  plane  tonight,"  announced  the  agent.  "She 
has  two  tickets  for  the  opening  of  'Gone  with 
the  Wind,'  and  I've  told  her  you  would  meet  her 
at  the  airport  and  take  her  to  the  premiere. 
Now,  about  that  picture  at.  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  business,"  interrupted  Jim. 
"Olivia  de  Havilland!  I've  been  wanting  to  take 
her  out  ever  since  we  met.  Leland,  you're 
marvelous!" 

Hanging  up  the  phone,  the  lanky  actor  turned 
to  his  sisters,  who  had  stopped  by  for  dinner 
with  him,  and  beamed. 

"What  an  agent!"  he  said,  enthusiastically. 
"What  an  agent!" 

Of   all   the   celebrities   who   paraded   by   the 

kleig  lights  and  cameras  at  the  gala  opening  of 

"Gone  with  the  Wind"  at  Broadway's  Capitol 

(Continued  on  page  90) 


A  revealing  telephone  interview  with  Jimmy  Stewart  re:  that  Oli 


C\ 


'Si 


Olivia  de  Havilland  went 
to  Washington,  too  (for 
the  President's  Ball) — 
but  will  she  be  Jimmy 
Stewart's  "Mrs.  Smith"? 
See  story  opposite  page. 


tjLu^ 


GOSSIP    OF    HOLLYWOOD 


Cupid  may  be  as  blind  as  they  say, 
but  our  scout  isn't!  He  sees  all, 
he  hears  all — and  tells  everything 


PHOTOGRAPH 


H  Y  M  A  N      FIN 


No  Hitting  in  the  Clinches! 

nT  last,  it's  come.  Hollywood's  domestication 
finally  results  in  a  promise  of  at  least  three  pic- 
tures in  which  married  couples  will  emote  to- 
gether; Clark  Gable  and  Carole  Lombard,  Bob 
Taylor  and  Barbara  Stanwyck,  and  Gene  Ray- 
mond and  Jeanette  MacDonald.  Cal  can  just 
hear  those  dinner  conversations  after  a  day's 
shooting. 

Wife:  "Darling,  don't  you  think  director  So- 
and-so  has  a  keener  understanding  of  men's 
emotions?    I  mean — " 

Husband:  "You  mean  you  think  he's  giving 
me  the  best  of  it?" 

Wife:  "I  mean  no  such  thing.  After  the  way 
you  shoved  me  away  in  that  close-up  I  should 
think  you'd  be  ashamed  to — " 

Husband:  "Me?  Shove  you?  Now  that's  a 
laugh.  I'm  practically  black  and  blue  from  your 
shoving.    I — " 

Wife   (in  tears,  leaves  the  table):      "I'm  too 


tired  to  argue.  After  all,  I  have  to  maintain  my 
professional  rights." 

Husband:  "To  hell  with  professional  rights. 
I  have  some  too,  you  know.  And  what's  more 
I'm  as  tired  as  you  are." 

Wife:  "Oh,  are  you  darling?  Here,  let  me 
help  you  put  on  your  slippers.  I'm  sorry  I  was 
cross." 

Husband:  "Ah,  that's  all  right.  I  was  a  bit 
upset  myself.  I'm  sorry,  sweetheart.  That  last 
scene  got  me.  You  seemed  to  be  crowding  my 
lines." 

Wife:  "I?  Crowding  your  lines?  Now 
that's—" 

And  on  and  on,  into  the  cold  grey  dawn. 

Hollywood  Tidbits 

THE  town  is  bubbling  over  those  new  Scarlett 
O'Hara  and  Rhett  Butler  cocktails  featured  by  a 
local  cafe.  One  of  each,  and  you're  Gone  with 
the  Wind.  .  . 


<:^17 


Hollywood  eyebrows  shot  skyward  when  Bar- 
rister Leigh  Holman  of  London  named  Laurence 
Olivier  corespondent  in  his  suit  for  divorce 
against  Vivien  Leigh.  Jill  Esmond  Olivier  had 
already  been  granted  a  divorce  from  the  Eng- 
lish actor.  So,  Vivien  and  Laurence,  genuinely 
in  love  if  ever  two  people  were,  are  free  to 
marry  at  last. 

So  positive  is  Hollywood  that  Richard  Greene 
will  soon  wed  Virginia  Field,  it  is  laying  in  a 
sizable  rice  supply.  .  . 

James  Stewart  is  prouder  of  that  new  plane 
he  bought  than  Johnny  Ten-Year-Old  is  over 
his  new  baseball  suit.  .  . 

Ty  Power  and  Annabella  are  planning  jaunts 
all  over  the  country  in  their  new  amphibian 
plane.  .  . 

Jane  Withers,  alas,   is  growing  up.     Blush- 


65 


For  fun — and  relief  funds! — fhe 
Franco-British  ball  has  a  star- 
lit night  at  the  Cocoanut  Grove 


Ready  to  start  the  sales 
which  loaded  their  trays 
with  greenbacks — Oberon 


Annabella,  as  one  of  the  cigarette 
girls,  shows  Roz  Russell  how  they 
hawked  their  wares  at  $$  per  pack 


ingly,  Jane  admits  she's  started  a  hope  chest .... 

Is  all  well  or  all  wrong  with  the  Charles 
Chaplins,  Hollywood  wonders.  Charles  arrived 
at  a  i-ecent  premiere  quite  alone,  while  Paulette 
Goddard  Chaplin  arrived  with  a  separate  party 
of  friends.  » .  . 

Miriam  Hopkins  is  seen  more  and  more  with 
Anatole  Litvak,  the  husband  she  divorced. 
Reconciliation  or  sophistication?  .... 

One  hears  the  relatives  of  Norma  Shearer's 
late  husband,  Irving  Thalberg,  aren't  too  pleased 
at  the  prospect  of  George  Raft  becoming  Nor- 
ma's  second.  And  from  every  indication  it 
would  appear  to  Cal  that  Miss  Shearer  may  in- 
deed become  Mrs.  Raft  before  anothe"  year  rolls 
round.  .  .  . 


Curtain  Call 

I  HEY  sat  at  a  corner  table,  both  with  a  certain 
puzzled  bewilderment  in  their  eyes.  They  had 
tried  to  go  their  separate  ways.  She  had  been 
seen  here  and  there  with  some  eligible  beau  or 
other.  But  she  really  hadn't  laughed  very  gaily, 
one  noticed.  He  had  hidden  his  bitterness  in 
other  girls'  company,  but,  "Don't  speak  of  her 
to  him,"  people  had  warned.  "It's  like  touching 
a  sore  nerve." 

They  were  through,  Hollywood  said,  and  that 
was  that. 

That's  why  the  town  gaped  at  the  news  they 
were  lunching  together  again.  And  that's  why 
Hollywood  hopes  that  all  may  yet  not  be  over 
for  Cary  Grant  and  Phyllis  Brooks. 


Cradle  De  luxe 

WALLY  BEERY'S  modest  car  drove  through 
the  gates  of  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  studio  and 
drew  up  to  a  curb.  In  a  half  minute  flat  the 
car  was  surrounded  by  writers,  actors,  pub- 
licists, all  craning  their  necks  for  a  peep  inside 
Beery's  marvelous  nursery  on  wheels.  The 
back  seat  has  been  turned  into  a  bed  for  Wally's 
newly  adopted  ten-months-old  Phyllis  Ann.  A 
heater  to  warm  her  milk,  a  compartment  for 
diapers,  and  one  for  spare  clothing  were  neatly 
fitted  into  their  space.  No  imported  car  has 
ever  created  the  sensation  of  Beery's  portable 
nursery.  And  no  klieg  light  has  ever  shone  with 
greater  brightness  than  the  gleam  on  Papa 
Wally's  face. 


K 


Blame  It  on  the  Bangtails 

THE  director  thought  the  actress  looked  a  bit 
sheepish  when  she  reported  for  an  early  morn- 
ing scene. 

"Everything  okay,  Miss  Robson?"  he  asked 
smilingly. 

To  his  horror  only  a  hoarse  croak  came  from 
May's  throat. 

"Laryngitis?"  the  director  howled.  "You'll 
be  laid  up  for  days." 

"No,"  came  May's  basso  profundo,  "it's  only 
a  strain.    It  will  be  all  right  in  a  little  while." 

"How  in  heaven's  name  did  you  strain  your 
voice,  Miss  Robson?"  he  asked. 

The  actress  glanced  around  guiltily.  "Well, 
if  you  must  know,  I  yelled  so  loud  for  my  horses 
at  Santa  Anita  yesterday,  I  lost  my  voice,"  and 
with  that  Hollywood's  seventy-six-year-old 
wonder  flounced  off  to  her  dressing  room  for  a 
throat  spray. 


Glamour  in  Brogues 

WE  spied  Bette  Davis  at  the  next  table  in 
Warners'  commissary  just  as  Bette  spied  us. 
"Come  on  over  to  the  still  gallery  at  four,"  she 
called.  "I'm  having  some  art  made  and  we  can 
chat." 

Naturally,  we  were  on  hand  even  before  four 
and  presently  in  came  Bette  in  slacks  and  flat- 
heeled,  much-worn  brogues  with  her  hair- 
dresser in  tow  and  several  luscious  evening 
gowns  over  her  arm.  Bette  was  making  one  of 
those  dreaded  art  and  fashion  layouts  that  most 
actresses  loathe. 

"How  come  a  big  star  like  you  has  to  go 


through  this  ordeal?"  we  called  through  the 
dressing-room  door. 

"Oh,  it's  good  for  me,"  came  the  surprising 
answer.  "It's  a  necessary  part  of  the  business. 
I  don't  mind." 

Recovering  from  the  surprise  (for  Bette's  the 
first  and  only  star  who  hasn't  grumbled  over  the 
ordeal),  we  had  a  sudden  relapse  when  Bette 
emerged  in  a  wispy  blue  thing  that  made  her 
look  like  an  angel  from  on  high.  She's  looking 
exceptionally  well  these  days  anyhow. 

George  Hurrell,  the  photographer,  had  a 
strange  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  he  directed  Bette 
to  pose  in  one  corner  of  the  studio.  The  setting 
was  all  tropical  with  huge  bunches  of  green 
bananas  hanging  about. 

"Swell,"  Bette  said,  planking  herself  down  on 
the  floor. 

George's  face  fell.  "You  mean  you  like  it? 
Why,  I  fixed  it  as  a  gag.  Didn't  think  you'd  go 
for  it " 

"I  think  it's  wonderful,"  Bette  grinned,  wav- 
ing her  cigarette  in  one  hand  and  a  bottle  of 
soda  in  the  other.  And  then  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  those  old  worn  brogues  beneath  the  heavenly 
blue  chiffon,  and  thought  how  typically  Davis  it 
was.  The  shoes  wouldn't  show  in  the  photo- 
graph, of  course,  but  they  did  look  comical. 

During  the  hour  we  stayed,  Bette  Davis  never 
spent  more  than  five  minutes  at  a  time  changing 
her  frocks.  She  didn't  glance  at  her  make-up 
between  changes  and  never  once  fussed  with 
her  hair.  Behind  her,  Hurrell's  victrola  blared. 
Bette  sang  the  choruses,  the  camera  bulb 
clicked,  clicked,  clicked  while  George  and  Bette 
kept  up  a  constant  run  of  chatter.  There  was 
no  special  posing,  draping,  primping,  fussing. 

And  as  Bette  reclined  on  a  couch,  her  natural 
ash  blonde  hair  framing  her  face  just  as  it  fell, 
a  bit  of  hot  swing  on  her  lips,  one  brown  brogue 
waving  in  rhythm  while  the  camera  bulb  clicked, 
we  looked  at  her  and  made  this  discovery. 

Bette  Davis  is  a  really  beautiful  woman.  More 


66 


I 


^*<4fl 


-- 


Another  startling  role  for  Myrna   Loy — 
this    time,    a    night-club    cigarette    girl! 


than  that,  she's  an  arresting,  dynamic  woman, 
in  spite  of  her  easy  natural  air  and  self-deglam- 
orizing.  And  one  realizes  that  Bette  actually 
has  a  rare  quality  of  fascination  that  others  in 
Hollywood  miss — simply  because  she  doesn't 
strive  for  it. 

Incidentally — or  have  you  noticed?- — she  can 
act,  too! 

Blissful  Barrymores 

WlTH  newspaper  reporters  and  news  camera- 
men virtually  sharing  the  hotel  suite  in  which 
their  "second  honeymoon"  was  staged,  John 
Barrymore  and  Elaine  Barrie  conducted  a  front 
page  reconciliation  of  their  marriage,  the  night 
of  the  actor's  raucous  return  to  the  Broadway 
stage  in  "My  Dear  Children,"  that  could  have 
been  only  slightly  less  public  had  it  been  en- 
acted in  Macy's  window. 

John  Barrymore's  lap  has  become  the  seat  of 
the  season's  sensation  as  his  fourth  and  fieriest 
bride  has  once  more  ensconced  herself  on  the 
star's  knee,  both  dramatically  and  domestically. 

It  was  because  she  protested  that  the  nightly 
stage  spankings  John  gave  her  in  the  road  try- 
out  of  the  play  were  more  heavy  handed  than 
the  impersonal  demands  of  the  script  required, 
that  Elaine  last  fall  deserted  both  her  husband 
and  her  campaign  for  theatrical  recognition. 

Now,  after  brushing  aside  both  Diana  Barry- 
more  Blythe,  the  actor's  daughter  by  his  sec- 
ond marriage,  and  Doris  Dudley,  the  actress 
who  replaced  her  in  the  cast,  both  of  whom 
vainly  tried  to  "protect  John  from  that  woman," 
Elaine  has  returned  to  the  part  and  to  John. 


"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thin  Man" 
enlarge  their  off-screen 
family:  Arthur  and  Myrna 
Hornblow  welcome  Diana 
Lewis  (Mrs.  Bill  Powell) 
into  the  scrambled   circle 


Young  Fry  society  turns 
out,  too,  in  the  persons 
of  leaders  Judy  Garland 
and  Mickey  Rooney,  paus- 
ing to  greet  orchestra 
conductor   Horace   Heidt 


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fl 

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V                -     J 

k.  ^H 

1 

"All  I  want  is  twenty-four  hours  with  you," 
cooed  Elaine  when  she  elbowed  her  way  to  Bar- 
rymore's night-club  table  after  the  Manhattan 
opening.  At  the  end  of  the  twenty-four  hours, 
during  which  almost  hourly  bulletins  were  is- 
sued from  their  boudoir,  Elaine  and  John  an- 
nounced they  had  settled  their  professional  and 
domestic  squabbles. 

The  whole  tabloid  tale  was  so  much  like  one 
of  the  screwball  comedies  in  which  Barrymore 
has  arched  his  eyebrows  for  the  cameras,  that 
Darryl  Zanuck  has  announced  he  is  readying  a 


film  script  based  on  the  mad  merry-go-round 
and  called  it  "The  Great  Profile."  He  has  of- 
fered the  lead  in  it  to  Barrymore.  But  that 
jester  is  so  delighted  to  be  back  on  Broadway 
he  told  Photoplay  he  probably  wouldn't  con- 
sider another  picture  offer  "for  years." 

Hollywood's  Comment  of  the  Month: 

TOO  bad  that  history  as  it's  being  made  today 
provides  only  roles  for  a  Karloff. 

(Continued  on  page  92) 


Ultra-candid  moment  during  service  at  the  Masquers'  stag  dinner  for 
William  LeBaron — starring  Fred  MacMurray,  Bob  Taylor  and  Jack  Benny 


Two  young  stars  from  20th  Century-Fox  say  it  with 
flowers  at  the  Troc — Linda  Darnell  and  Robert  Shaw 


•  ABE  LINCOLN  IN  ILLINOIS-RKO-Radio 

ROBERT  SHERWOOD  got  the  Pulitzer  Prize  for  this 
play,  and  it  makes  an  exceptional  motion  picture. 
It's  hard  to  see  how  any  one  could  improve  very 
much  on  RKO's  version  of  Lincoln's  life,  represent- 
ing as  it  does  the  finest  picture  technique  and 
superb  writing.  Raymond  Massey's  Lincoln  is  ex- 
traordinary, a  truly  adult  study  of  the  backwoods 
messiah.  Story  concerns  Abe's  progress  from  young 
manhood  to  the  first  presidential  period,  and  treats 
the  character  with  an  intimacy  not  in  the  least  di- 
vorced frorii  respect  or  dignity.  Gene  Lockhart, 
Ruth  Gordon,  Mary  Howard  and  others  live  up  to 
their  difficult  assignments.  The  film,  besides  repre- 
senting an  absorbing  document  to  students  of  Lin- 
colnia,  is  entertainment  from  any  standpoint. 


un  j^ 


ADVENTURE  IN  DIAMONDS-Paramount 

iF  it  were  not  so  well  done,  with  careful  production 
and  all  the  trimmings  of  an  A-picture,  we  could  dis- 
miss this  as  just  another  jewel-thief  story.  It  pre- 
sents Isa  Miranda,  Italian  star.  She  is  the  accom- 
plice of  John  Loder,  crook  out  after  some  diamonds 
in  South  Africa,  and  mixes  with  George  Brent,  a 
British  soldier  stationed  in  the  colony.  Caught,  Isa 
is  sent  to  prison  and  later  offered  freedom  if  she  will 
help  capture  another  gang  of  thieves.  She  doesn't 
want  to  do  this  until  it  is  proved  to  her  that  the  new 
organization  will  not  stop  at  murder;  then  she 
about-faces.  Brent  wanders  through  his  role  with 
insouciance,  looking  very  attractive;  and  Loder  is 
good,  too.  The  last  two  reels  are  awfully  exciting. 
It's  not  much  of  an  opportunity  for  Miss  Miranda. 


GUIDE     TO     M  0  T  I  0 


•THE  GRAPES  OF  WRATH-20th  Century-Fox 

DaRRYL  ZANUCK  dared,  after  all,  to  bring  John 
Steinbeck's  brilliant  and  controversial  best-seller, 
"The  Grapes  of  Wrath,"  to  the  screen.  He  did  it 
with  a  minimum  of  compromise  and  managed  to 
pack  such  a  vigorous  wallop  into  each  scene  as  to 
leave  you  breathless  and  deeply  moved.  It  isn't  en- 
tertainment but,  with  its  newsreel-like  photography 
and  implication  of  great  honesty  in  characterization, 
it  fulfills  its  purpose:  To  excite  you  and  to  make 
you  think.  The  tragedies  and  misfortunes  of  the 
Joad  family,  made  homeless  in  the  Oklahoma  Dust 
Bowl  by  drought  and  lured  to  California  by  opti- 
mistic hope  of  plenty  among  the  orange  trees,  are 
presented  with  essential  fidelity.  California  land- 
owners and  ranchers  sent  out  handbills,  it  seems, 
promising  work  to  thousands;  and  the  great  migra- 
tion began.  Of  course,  there  were  more  Okies  than 
jobs,  with  resultant  abuses  and  trouble.  The  Joads 
are  simple  people  with  a  primitive  approach  to  life, 
enormously  hardy,  provincial  in  the  extreme  and 
somewhat  amoral.  Zanuck's  cast  has  distinction  and 
is  well  selected.  Henry  Fonda  as  Tom,  the  eldest 
son;  Jane  Darwell  as  Ma,  Russell  Simpson  as  Pa, 
John  Carradine  and  Dorris  Bowdon  and  Charles 
Grapewin — all  work  sincerely  and  well.  Those  who 
disliked  the  book  for  its  "artistic"  crudities,  or  for 
its  political  message,  will  find  the  picture  an  easier 
pill  to  take.  John  Ford  directed  with  a  blending  of 
brutality  and  tenderness,  and  ends  the  picture  on  a 
note  of  hope  for  the  Okies,  since  the  book  has 
brought  powerful  forces  into  action,  to  help  them. 


*  BROADWAY  MELODY  OF  1940— M-G-M 

nS  a  commentary  on  what  has  happened  to  the  public 
taste,  M-G-M  felt  it  necessary  to  put  Fred  Astaire, 
Eleanor  Powell  and  George  Murphy  into  one  film;  as 
further  evidence  of  pessimism,  brilliant  writing,  carte 
blanche  production  and  Cole  Porter's  music  were 
added.  Well,  it's  all  to  your  advantage.  You'll  see 
the  best  musical  of  the  last  two  years.  It  is  funny, 
romantic,  and  beautiful  to  watch.  It  does  not  drag. 
The  story  does  not  overshadow  the  dance  numbers, 
yet  it  survives.  Each  performer  is  in  top  form.  In  a 
word,  the  thing  is  good.  Astaire  and  Murphy  play  a 
dance  team  in  a  cheap  dime-a-turn  hall,  and  both 
have  ambitions.  Astaire  is  rated  the  best,  while 
George  drinks  too  much;  but  through  a  mistake  it  is 
the  latter  who  gets  a  bid  to  join  Broadway's  top 
show.  Eleanor  is  the  star.  This  setup  offers  in- 
numerable opportunities  for  big-time  dance  num- 
bers, and  of  course  makes  a  romantic  triangle,  since 
both  Murphy  and  Astaire  yen  for  Miss  Powell. 
Eleanor  might  have  put  more  oomph  into  her  in- 
terpretation; but  of  course  that  may  be  Will  Hays' 
fault.  Murphy  carries  away  acting  honors,  Astaire 
is  rhythm  on  built-up  heels  and  Frank  Morgan  con- 
tributes the  comedy,  abetted  by  a  series  of  blondes 
who  try  hard  for  an  ermine  cape  he  owns.  Eleanor 
does  the  best  work  she  has  ever  done,  Ian  Hunter 
is  excellent  and  sundry  vaudeville  acts  are  amus- 
ing. The  whole  picture  is  so  crowded  with  enter- 
tainment, it's  difficult  to  list  everything  thoroughly 
in  a  short  space.  Anyway,  put  on  your  laughing 
bib  and  buy  your  tickets  early — it's  all  in  fun. 


*  THE  BLUE  BIRD— 20th  Century-Fox 

lOUNG  Miss  Shirley  Temple  at  last  is  merely 
starred  in  a  good  motion  picture,  instead  of  being  a 
motion  picture  all  by  herself.  This  is  because  Shir-  . 
ley,  on  the  verge  of  growing  up,  has  no  longer  the 
indefinable  appeal  of  precocious  babyhood;  rather, 
she  is  an  excellent  actress  working  objectively.  Her 
studio  has  been  shrewd  throughout  this  production, 
which  is  thoroughly  beautiful  (in  Technicolor),  im- 
bued with  charm,  well-directed  and  superbly  cast. 
The  very  modern  American  audience  may  find 
Maeterlinck's  fantasy  somewhat  whimsy-pooh — but 
the  kids  will  love  it  and  react,  possibly,  to  the  be- 
good-children  propaganda.  Perhaps  you  remember 
the  fable:  Mytyl  and  Tyltyl,  brother  and  sister,  go 
out  in  search  of  the  Blue  Bird  of  Happiness  and 
have  quite  incredible  adventures  before  they  dis- 
cover they're  living  in  an  allegory.  Tylo,  the  dog, 
and  Tylette,  the  cat,  have  human  forms.  This  aids 
the  dream  illusion  all  symbolic  children's  stories 
have.  The  nightmare  quality  is  here,  too,  when  the 
forest  attacks  the  little  party.  Shirley  as  Mytyl, 
Johnny  Russell  as  Tyltyl,  Eddie  Collins  as  Tylo  and 
Gale  Sondergaard  as  Tylette  are  all  at  peak  form, 
as  are  Spring  Byington,  playing  the  mother,  and 
Nigel  Bruce  in  the  role  of  Mr.  Luxury.  Shirley 
shows  some  evil  nature,  for  a  change.  Two  interest- 
ing sequences  deal  with  the  visit  to  the  land  of  the 
unborn,  and  the  land  of  the  dead — a  little  hard  for 
the  very  young  to  grasp,  perhaps,  but  nice  emotional 
variations  for  adults.  The  film  has  been  made,  on 
the  whole,  with  imagination  and  taste. 


63 


THE  MAN  FROM  DAKOTA-M-G-M 

IT'S  difficult  to  decide  whether  this  interesting  pic- 
.ture  should  be  labeled  as  comedy,  history  or  straight 
horror  stuff.  Wallace  Beery,  as  the  scout  from  Da- 
kota, is  undeniably  funny;  the  scene  is  behind  the 
Confederate  lines  in  Civil  War  time  and  you  will 
suffer  suspense  with  a  distinct  Frankenstein  flavor 
at  times.  Lieutenant  John  Howard  and  Sergeant 
Beery,  escaped  prisoners,  are  just  beginning  their 
long  dash  for  Union  lines  when  they  become  bur- 
dened not  only  with  Dolores  Del  Rio,  but  with  a 
map  which  is  a  key  to  the  entire  placement  of  Con- 
federate forces.  You  will  undergo  fifteen  minutes 
of  prolonged  shuddering  with  Beery  in  a  plantation 
house,  where  an  axe-fiend  is  at  large.  Donald  Meek 
affords  several  amusing  moments.     Dolores  is  fine. 


•  THE  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  BAY— 
Wanger-United  Artists 

lOU'LL  have  good  reason  to  remember  Joan  Ben- 
nett's latest  picture.  As  the  cabaret  girl  swept  off 
her  feet  by  a  sleek  young  gambler,  she  is  lifted  to 
the  heights  of  luxury  and  gayety  on  one  day,  only 
to  drop  to  the  depths  of  despair  the  next,  when  her 
husband  is  sentenced  to  ten  years  in  Alcatraz.  The 
temptations,  and  social  problems  of  a  convict's 
widow  make  compelling  drama.  Joan  is  torn  be- 
tween the  love  of  George  Raft  and  that  of  Walter 
Pidgeon.  Raft  has  a  different  type  of  racketeer 
role;  Pidgeon,  as  a  socialite  airplane  designer,  man- 
ages to  be  gallant  without  being  stilted.  Gladys 
George  is  excellent  as  Joan's  confidante  and  self-ap- 
pointed Alcatraz  guardian.    Lloyd  Nolan  is  the  heavy. 


•  DR.  EHRLICH'S  MAGIC  BULLET— Warners 

I  HE  Brothers  Warner  add  another  name  to  their 
screen  Hall  of  Fame  in  this  film  biography  of  Dr. 
Paul  Ehrlich — with  Edward  G.  Robinson  doing  an 
outstanding  job  as  the  great  doctor.  Ehrlich's  life 
lacked  glitter  and  glamour,  so  those  of  you  who 
crave  it  may  be  disappointed  by  this  film.  However, 
there  is  inspiration  in  the  portrait  of  a  man  who  la- 
bored unceasingly  to  achieve  victory  over  disease, 
and  won  the  battle  with  his  diphtheria  serum  and 
his  606  cure  for  syphilis.  It  is  a  story,  not  of  the 
drawing  room,  but  of  the  laboratory;  of  a  devoted 
wife,  beautifully  played  by  Ruth  Gordon;  and  of 
loyal  friends,  Otto  Kruger  and  Donald  Crisp.  There 
is  depth  of  sincerity  in  Robinson's  performance,  and 
the  remainder  of  the  cast  adds  to  the  film's  luster. 


SAVES     YOUR     PICTURE     TIME     AND     MONEY 


THE    BEST   PICTURES   OF  THE    MONTH 

Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois 

The  Blue  Bird 

Broadway  Melody  of  1940 

The  Grapes  of  Wrath 

The  Outsider 

Pinocchio 

The  House  Across  the  Bay 

Dr.  Ehrlich's  Magic  Bullet 

Swiss  Family  Robinson 

Vigil  in  the  Night 

The  Baker's  Wife 

The  Fight  for  Life 

BEST   PERFORMANCES    OF    THE    MONTH 

Raymond  Massey  in  "Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois" 

Shirley  Temple  in  "The  Blue  Bird" 

George  Sanders  in  "The  Outsider" 
Mary  Maguire  in  "The  Outsider" 

Henry  Fonda  in  "The  Grapes  of  Wrath" 
Jane  Darwell  in  "The  Grapes  of  Wrath" 

Edward  G.  Robinson  in 
"Dr.  Ehrlich's  Magic  Bullet" 

Fred  Astaire  in  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940" 

George  Murphy  in  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940" 

Eleanor  Powell  in  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940" 

Walt  Disney  for  "Pinocchio" 

Freddie  Bartholomew  in  "Swiss  Family  Robinson" 

Raimu  in   "The  Baker's  Wife" 

Carole  Lombard  in  "Vigil  in  the  Night" 
Anne  Shirley  in  "Vigil  in  the  Night" 


•  PINOCCHIO— Disney-RKO 

CERTAINLY  this  is  the  best  example  of  animated 
cartoon  features  ever  made;  it  may  even  be  one  of 
the  best  motion  pictures  of  any  type  ever  produced. 
With  the  exception  of  the  music,  which  in  any  com- 
parison is  thoroughly  charming,  "Pinocchio"  is  tech- 
nically far  ahead  of  "Snow  White"  and  artistically 
quite  as  good.  The  performances  of  the  various 
characters  are  equal  to  those  of  the  finest  human 
talent.  The  famous  fable  here  brought  so  vividly  to 
the  screen  concerns  Geppetto,  a  woodcarver,  who 
makes  a  puppet  named  Pinocchio  and  wishes  he 
were  a  real  boy.  The  Blue  Fairy  brings  the  little 
puppet  to  life,  appoints  Jiminy  Cricket  as  his  con- 
science, but  will  not  turn  him  into  a  flesh  and  blood 
boy  until  he  proves  himself  worthy.  Pinocchio  sets 
out  to  school,  but  is  misled  by  wily  Honest  John  and 
Giddy  Cat,  is  kidnapped  by  Stromboli,  the  puppet 
master;  goes  to  the  Island  of  Pleasure  and  nearly 
turns  into  a  donkey;  and  finally  joins  Geppetto  in 
the  stomach  of  Monstro,  the  whale.  A  tribute  to 
Disney's  genius  is  that  all  of  this  seems  quite 
plausible.  Among  the  great  characters  created  for 
"Pinocchio"  are  the  Coachman,  Lampwick,  the  bad 
little  tough  boy,  Cleo,  the  glamorous  goldfish,  and 
Figaro,  the  funniest  kitten  you  have  ever  seen. 
Giddy,  idiotic  stooge  for  Honest  John,  is  an  amazing 
character,  dopier  than  Dopey  but  not  so  appealing. 
Christian  Rub,  the  voice  of  Geppetto,  obviously  was 
the  model  for  that  character.  You'll  love  every 
moment  and  every  sequence.  Seeing  it  will  be  the 
nicest  present  you  can  give  yourself  this  year. 


*  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON— RKO-Radio 

IIRST  offering  from  Hollywood's  favorite  happy 
chappies,  the  ebullient  Towne-and-Baker  team,  this 
picturization  of  the  Robinson  family's  fantastic  ad- 
ventures is  as  much  fun  as  six  barrels  of  monkeys. 
Further,  the  piece  has  been  put  together  with  a 
combination  of  gusto  and  loyalty  to  the  original 
theme,  so  that  you  come  away  with  some  thinking 
to  do  as  well  as  a  comfortable  sense  of  having  been 
entertained.  The  Swiss  Family  Robinson  live  in 
London  at  the  time  of  the  Napoleonic  wars,  and  the 
father  is  unhappy  because  one  son  has  turned  into 
a  dandy,  another  wants  to  go  off  and  fight,  and 
still  another  has  become  a  bookworm.  Besides  all 
this,  mama  has  social  ambitions.  Mr.  Robinson  gets 
a  wonderful  idea;  he  rounds  up  the  whole  caboodle 
and  packs  them  off  to  Australia — going  along  him- 
self for  good  measure.  The  ship  cracks  up  and  the 
Robinsons  coast  up  a  wave  onto  a  desert  Island. 
There  they  work  a  kind  of  community  Robinson 
Crusoe  setup,  a  social  group  evolving  which  brings 
out  the  good  in  each  and  makes  Papa  very  happy. 
There  are  plenty  of  obstacles  to  this,  of  course. 
Thomas  Mitchell  as  the  father,  Freddie  Bartholo- 
mew, Tim  Holt  and  Terry  Kilburn  as  the  sons,  Bobby 
Quillan,  the  baby,  with  Edna  Best  playing  Mrs. 
Robinson,  make  an  extraordinary  cast.  Here  is  ad- 
venture, a  round  scolding  to  ungrateful  offspring 
who  won't  listen  to  good  parental  advice,  much  hu- 
mor and  lots  of  genuine  pathos.  That's  a  lot  to 
find  in  one  movie.  See  it,  and  we'll  bet  you  agree. 
(Continued  on  page  94) 


6? 


THIS  WOMAN  HAS 


Though  the  road  from  obscurity  to 
fame  was  short,  Destiny  demanded 
its  toll  of  suffering  from  llona  Massey 

BY  ADELE  WHITELY  FLETCHER 


^H 


Young  though  she  was,  uona 
learned  that  when  dreams  go 
a-glimmering  there's  but  one 
antidote — a  cure-all  that  was 
eventually  to  make  her  one  of 
the  most  important  discov- 
eries of  the  studio  headed 
by   Louis   B.   Mayer   (below) 


A  LWAYS  in  love!  The  words  run  like  a 
/  \  theme  song  through  her  life,  from  the 
/  .  \time  when  she  was  the  youngest  of  the 
Hajmassey  family  of  Budapest,  in  the  ever- 
hungry  period  during  and  following  the  Great 
War,  until  she  became  world-famous  as  Nelson 
Eddy's  co-star  in  "Balalaika."  First,  there  was 
the  dreamy-eyed  youngster  with  whom  she 
staged  impromptu  operas  in  the  courtyard. 
Then,  the  son  of  a  teacher  in  far-off  Holland, 
where  she  lived  for  a  while  during  the  bitter 
days  of  Reconstruction  in  Hungary.  But  more 
serious  than  these  was  the  older  brother  of  her 
best  chum. 

Meanwhile,  llona  was  growing  up  and  her 
mother  sent  her  out  to  learn  dressmaking, 
llona  didn't  like  the  dressmaking — but  she  did 
like  her  employer's  son,  and  she  quite  forgot 
her  old  friend's  brother!  She  might  have  kept 
the  new  flame  glowing,  might  even  have  mar- 
ried him,  young  as  she  was,  if  she  hadn't  con- 
tracted stage  fever  from  passing  a  near-by 
theater  on  her  way  home  every  night.  Then 
there  was  room  in  her  thoughts  only  for  her 
ambition.  By  dint  of  persistence,  she  won  a 
producer's  offer  of — and  her  mother's  reluctant 
approval  of — a  place  in  the  chorus.  She  might 
learn  to  be  a  dancer,  in  time,  but  she  would 
never  be  able  to  sing!  In  the  face  of  their  criti- 
cism, her  resolve  only  grew  greater. 

Strange,  then,  that  with  all  these  burning 
hopes  and  ambitions  she  should  have  found  the 
time  and  inclination  to  become  so  interested  in 
young  Dr.  Niklos  Savozd.  Strange,  too,  that  he, 
whose  wealthy,  land-owning  family  had  long 
ago  formed  the  traditional  pattern  of  his  life, 
should  have  eyes  only  for  her.  But  that  was 
the  way  it  was.  From  the  very  moment  Niklos 
and  llona  met  on  the  beach,  he  forgot  the  care- 
fully-laid plans  for  his  future,  she  ceased  ta 
center  all  her  hopes  in  the  theater. 

IWO-and-one-half  years  llona  Massey  and 
Niklos  Savozd  loved  each  other.  Their  heads 
told  them  marriage  for  them  was  impossible. 
But  their  hearts  teased  them  with  the  wonder 
of  being  man  and  wife  and  putting  an  end  to 
the  farewells  that  left  them  ill  with  loneliness. 

"We  will  study  world  history  together,"  he 
told  her.  "We  will  learn  how  some  nations 
rise  to  enduring  glory  while  other  nations  fall 
in  disgrace;  perhaps  only  because  they  forget 
such  simple  things  as  a  man's  right  to  think 
with  his  own  mind.  .  .  ." 

That  was  1933.  And  even  then  in  Central 
Europe  there  were  thoughtful  men  whose  ears 
lay  back — the  way  a  dog's  will  when  a  stranger 
assumes  the  voice  of  his  master. 

It  wasn't  only  the  first  evenings  they  would 
spend  at  their  fireside  that  llona  and  Niklos 
dreamed  about  when  his  heart  overruled  his 
mind  and  he  talked  like  that.  They  dreamed 
also  of  how  she  later  would  rest  her  hand  on 
(Continued  on  page  83) 


MAdeHAVILL 


•SdaRfTon  YOURS 
sweef  fragrant  skin  W! M^ ' 


The  Complexion  Soap  9  o 


APRIL,      I  940 


•«'•""   and  e 


x*ulsite 


-'**>  91.25 


PIRFIWS  ORLOFF 

lO   WEST   »:ird  .STREET 


Portrait  of  the  Man  With  the  Chin 


hostess  a  $2500  bill  for  professional 
services. 

He  had  a  generous  collection  of  police 
badges  which  were  recently  stolen  and 
which  he  is  now  replenishing.  His  Eng- 
lish father  was  a  stone  contractor,  and 
he  boasts  a  library  of  twenty  thousand 
Scotch  jokes. 

He  hates  cats. 

He'd  rather  travel  by  boat  although 
he  suffers  a  little  from  seasickness,  and 
he  dislikes  women  who  dance  with 
their  eyes  closed  because  "they  might 
be  thinking  of  someone  else." 

He  plays  an  excellent  game  of  golf 
with  a  handicap  of  six.  He  has  never 
traveled  on  a  freighter  and  thinks 
mother-in-law  jokes  are  passe. 

IF  Bob  Hope  had  the  rest  of  his  life 
to  spend  on  a  desert  island  and  could 
have  only  three  people  with  him,  he 
would  choose  his  wife  and  daughter  and 
a  good  comedy  writer. 

He  rates  as  the  shortest  joke  he 
knows:  Mary  Rose  sat  on  a  tack — 
Mary  rose.  (".  .  .  if  you  can  call  it  a 
joke.") 

He  never  carries  a  watch. 

He  drinks  a  quart  of  milk  a  day. 

He  cannot  eat  radishes,  artichokes, 
cucumbers,  and  doesn't  like  being  called 
Bubbles  by  Bing  Crosby  whom  he  calls 
Chub. 

He  has  never  carried  a  penknife,  does 
not  believe  in  matrimonial  vacations, 
and  would  give  a  great  deal  to  be  able 
to  play  the  piano.  He  wears  his  wife's 
baby  ring  on  the  little  finger  of  his 
left  hand. 

His  mother  was  Welsh,  a  concert- 
singer,  and  Bob  was  brought  to  the 
United  States  at  the  age  of  four. 

He  likes  marimba  orchestras  and  has 
never  read  "  The  Grapes  of  Wrath"  or 
"Gone  with  the  Wind." 

He  is  not  easily  depressed,  dislikes 
eating  duck  or  goose,  and  thinks  the 
American  people  are  becoming  more 
humor-conscious.  ".  .  .  there  are  no 
more  sticks." 

He  and  his  wife  plan  to  adopt  a  baby 
boy  about  one-and-a-half-years  old. 

He  built  himself  a  beautiful  English 
farmhouse  that  is  more  a  mansion  than 
farmhouse.  The  greatest  disappoint- 
ment of  his  life  is  that  his  father  and 
mother  did  not  live  to  enjoy  the  com- 
forts he  could  give  them  today. 

He  is  quick  to  admit  a  mistake. 

He  has  no  talent  for  cooking. 

He  thinks  few  women  look  well  in 
slacks. 

He  likes  ice  water  and  has  never  dis- 
played any  aptitude  for  painting,  sculp- 
ture or  carving.  He  cherishes  his 
mother's  sewing  machine  which  she  in- 
herited from  her  mother. 

His  hair  and  eyes  are  brown,  and  he 
believes  that,  although  unnecessary,  war 
is  a  symptom  of  growth  in  the  life  of 
mankind.  He  is  specially  fond  of  vaca- 
tioning in  Glen  Eagles,  Scotland. 

He  studied  dancing  while  still  in 
high  school. 

His  insurance  against  the  future  are 
investments  in  government  bonds  and 
annuities.  He  speaks  no  other  lan- 
guages, and  is  constantly  going  at  a 
terrific  pace  due  to  his  two  jobs — radio 
and  pictures. 

His  best  golf  is  in  the  short  irons  and 
putting. 

He  has  an  average  of  130  jokes  in  his 
radio  show. 

He  is  addicted  to  nail-biting. 

He  enjoys  attending  symphonic  con- 
certs and  opera.  He  dislikes  writing 
letters  and  likes  his  steaks  medium  rare. 


(Continued  from  page  19) 

His  first  job,  after  finishing  high 
school,  was  as  a  clerk  for  a  motor  com- 
pany. He  once  took  up  amateur  boxing 
but  quickly  gave  it  up  after  he  was 
knocked  out. 

He  has  never  memorized  a  poem. 

He  enjoys  listening  to  old  records  of 
Bert  Williams  and  new  records  of  Bing 
Crosby.  He  once  went  without  food 
for  three  days  while  trying  to  break 
in  a  single  act. 

He  likes  driving  at  sixty-five  miles  an 
hour. 

He  plays  a  very  stale  saxophone. 

ME  goes  through  a  curious  routine  when 
retiring  at  night:  He  takes  everything 
off  except  his  shoes  and  socks,  he  then 
dons  his  pajamas,  and  finally  takes  off 
his  shoes  and  socks. 

He  would  like  to  raise  chickens  and 
breed  dogs.  He  is  averse  to  the  rugged 
individuality  philosophy  and  believes 
that  a  government  has  a  definite  re- 
sponsibility in  its  indigents. 

He  would  rather  watch  W.  C.  Fields 
on  the  screen  and  Frank  Fay  on  the 
stage  than  any  other  comedians.  He 
flunked  in  history. 

He  likes  reading  detective  stories  and 
the  digest  magazines. 

He  often  wishes  that  using  a  tooth- 
pick after  a  meal  was  not  bad  manners. 

He  dislikes  beer,  popcorn  and  car- 
hoppers  who  tell  sad  tales  before  mak- 
ing a  touch.  His  decisions  are  impul- 
sive, he  gets  few  traffic  tickets  and  loves 
strolling  on  Fifth  Avenue  or  Bond 
Street. 

He  does  not  regret  having  never  gone 
to  college. 

He  believes  definitely  that  there  are 
such  things  as  new  jokes  which  have  no 
root  in  oft-told  tales.  He  thinks  mod- 
ern slang  and  new  situations  create  new 
jokes,  and  cites  as  an  example  the  one 
about  King  George  donning  a  diving 
suit  to  review  his  fleet. 

He  always  reads  the  sport  page  while 
sitting  in  a  barber  chair. 

His  home  musical  instruments  include 
a  piano,  ukelele,  harmonica,  Jew's  harp 
and  a  sweet  potato. 

His  chief  form  of  exercise  and  irre- 
sistible passion  is  golf.     He  can  spot  a 


New  York  went  to  town  on  the  huge 
dinner  for  "The  Fighting  69th,"  with 
Gov.  Lehman,  Jimmy  Cagney  and 
Pat    O'Brien    as    guests    of    honor 


phony  a  mile  away  on  a  foggy  day. 

He  enjoys  friends  dropping  in  un- 
announced. 

He  has  a  suspicion  that  he  is  bad  luck 
to  any  wedding  at  which  he  is  best  man, 
so  many  have  gone  awry. 

His  favorite  amusement  at  Coney 
Island  is  the  cyclone  roller  coaster. 

His  wife  discourages  his  wearing  bow 
ties. 

He  likes  pickled  herring,  tweeds,  blue 
bathing  trunks,  and  Mark  Twain. 

He  doesn't  like  the  juices  of  grape- 
fruit, tomato  or  sauerkraut,  and  he  al- 
ways remembers  where  he  puts  things. 
He  likes  boy  sopranos,  and  he  makes 
it  a  point  never  to  miss  the  radio  pro- 
grams of  "Information  Please"  and  Bing 
Crosby.  He  seldom  attends  an  art  ex- 
hibit. 

He  signs  his  name  in  blue  ink  and 
plays  an  exceptional  game  of  three- 
cushion  billiards. 

He  weighs  170  pounds  and  never 
smokes  before  dinner.  He  smokes  a 
lot,  however,  if  he  takes  a  couple  of 
drinks.  He  sticks  to  cigarettes.  ("The 
press  notices  have  to  be  awful  good  for 
cigars.") 

He  hates  green  in  men's  clothes. 

He  catches  cold  in  his  eyes  often, 
due  to  the  strain  of  his  work.  He 
never  misses  a  boxing  match.  He  is 
inclined  to  suspect  most  people's  mo- 
tives. 

His  first  professional  appearance  was 
with  another  youth  in  a  dancing  act. 
He  rides  hunches,  his  lucky  number  is 
seven,  and  he  is  forever  helping  down- 
and-out  vaudevillions  of  his  early  days. 

He  was  best  man  at  the  wedding  of 
Jackie  Coogan  and  Betty  Grable. 

HE  has  just  started  a  collection  of  off- 
stage comedy  pictures  of  celebrities,  the 
nucleus  being  Dorothy  Lamour,  Jack 
Benny,  Charles  Butterworth  and  Bing 
Crosby.  He  was  very  fond,  as  a  boy, 
of  walking  on  his  hands. 

His  favorite  wine  is  red-sparkling 
Italian,  and  there  is  nothing  else  he 
would  rather  have  been  than  a  come- 
dian. 

He  has  never  operated  a  night  club. 

He  rarely  loses  his  temper. 

He  needs  eight  hours  sleep  but  gets 
only  six. 

He  has  a  great  Dane  and  two  Scotties, 
and  as  a  schoolboy  ran  the  hundred- 
yard  dash  in  ten  seconds  three. 

He  has  two  rehearsals  for  his  radio 
show,  the  second  being  on  Sunday  night 
with  audience.  This  rehearsal  is  re* 
corded  and  played  back,  thus  giving 
Bob  Hope  the  final  test  of  his  laughs. 
He  is  so  dependent  on  audience-reaction 
that  only  recently  he  sold  N.B.C.  offi- 
cials the  idea  that  his  program  would 
go  better  if  he  worked  in  a  full-sized 
theater  than  in  one  of  the  broadcasting 
studios. 

He  is  only  fair  at  tennis,  badminton, 
bowling. 

He  is  lucky  in  gambling,  prefers  blues 
and  greys  in  his  suits,  and  never  uses 
a  cigarette  holder. 

His  favorite  cocktail  is  the  Daiquiri. 

He  belongs  only  to  golf  and  theatrical 
clubs. 

He  chews  a  lot  of  gum,  and  doesn't 
believe  in  any  kind  of  fortune  telling. 
He  believes  that  technical  and  scientific 
advancements  have  actually  lessened 
the    pain   and   heartache   of   humanity. 

He  is  not  affected  by  high  altitudes, 
prefers  suburban  life,  and  was  con- 
vinced, after  seeing  a  test  nine  years 
ago  that  his  profile  would  keep  him  out 
of  pictures. 


72 


PHOTOPLAY 


mv 


Washington's  smart  young  people  take 
an  active  interest  in  national  affairs. 
Miss  Fish  shows  out-of-town  guests 
some  of  the  city's  historic  landmarks. 


Miss  Elizabeth 
Stuyvesant  Fish, 
daughter  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hamilton  Fish  of 
Washington,  D.  C,  is  a 
popular   debutante. 
Here,  she  and  some  of 
her   deb   friends   primp 
between  dances. 


Miss  Janet  Holden  g 

of  Cleveland,  Ohio,  has     P 
been  working  for  almost     W 
two  years  in  one  of 
Cleveland's  leading 
department  stores — is 
ambitious  to  be  a  buyer     £ 
some  day. 


» 

4 


VI 


BUT  BOTH  HELP 

KEEP  THEIR  SKIN  FRESH 

AND  YOUNG  LOOKING 

WITH  PONDS 


QUESTION  TO  MISS  FISH. 
Miss  Fish,  when  do  you  believe 
a  girl  should  begin  guarding  her 
complexion  with  regular  care? 

ANSWER i  "The  younger  the  better! 

1  think  if  you  want  a  nice  skin 
when  you're  older,  you  have  to 
take  care  of  it  when  you're  young. 
That's  why  I  began  using  Pond's 

2  Creams  when  I  reached  my 
teens.  Every  girl  wants  a  lovely 
complexion!  Using  both  Pond's 
Cold  Cream  and  Pond's  Vanishing 
Cream  every  day  helps  to  keep 
mine  clear." 


QUESTION    TO    MISS    FISH! 

Would  you  describe  what  each 
Pond's  Cream  does  for  your  skii 
Miss  Fish? 


answer:  "Yes,  of  course.  Every 
morning  and  evening  I  use  Pond's 
Cold  Cream  to  freshen  up  my 
face.  These  regular  cleansings 
help  keep  my  skin  looking  soft  and 
healthy.  Pond's  Vanishing  Cream 
serves  an  entirely  different  pur- 
pose. I  use  it  before  powdering 
to  give  my  skin  a  soft  finish  that 
holds  powder  smoothly  for  hours." 


QUESTION  TO  MISS   HOLDEN: 

In  your  opinion,  Miss  Holden, 
what  things  help  most  in  a  career 
girl's  success? 

ANSWER:  "Interest  in  her  job, 
willingness  to  work  and  a  good 
appearance!  But  nothing  cheats 
your  looks  like  a  dull,  cloudy  skin, 
so  you  can  bet  I'm  always  sure  to 
use  Pond's  Cold  Cream  to  keep 
my  skin  really  clean  and  soft. 
I  can  count  on  it  to  remove  every 
trace  of  dirt  and  make-up!" 


w 


•a 


A  Sunday  ride  in  an  open  car  is  fun 
but  chilly!  \\  hen  bet  young  man  sug- 
gests "franks"  and  hot  coffee,  Miss 
Holden  thinks  it's  a  fine  idea. 


Life  for  a  Washington  debutante  mea 
a  constant  round  of  parties — this 
spring  Miss  Fish  is  having  the  busiest 
season  she  has  ever  known. 


POND'S 

^ 

c&',:i,y- 

BOND'S 

-''"'"NT.;,'  "•"" 

QUESTION  TO  MISS   HOLDEN: 

Doesn't  the  wind  off  Lake  Erie 
make  your  skin  rough  and  difficult 
to  powder? 

ANSWER:  "Well,  Cleveland  is 
mighty  breezy,  but  little  skin 
roughnesses  don't  worry  me  a  bit. 
I  just  use  another  Pond's  Cream 
to  help  smooth  them  away  .  .  . 
by  that  I  mean  Pond's  Vanishing 
Cream.  And  besides  smoothing 
and  protecting  my  skin,  it's 
perfect  for  powder  base  and 
overnight  cream  because  it's 
absolutely  non-greasy!" 


SEND  FOR 

TRIAL 
BEAUTY  KIT 


special  tube 
.as  samples 


15-CVD.      Oinl 
of  Pond's  Cold  Ci 


i-am.  .ii.iiicli  for  ')  Irraliiu-iits.  will 
K  Oram.  l*«mflV  Liqut-tN  iiiK  Crean 
and  5  different  slia.l..-  of  Pond'i 
postage  and  packing. 


Copyright,  1940.  Pond's  Extract  Company 


fife^sr*^ 


,*>/:.  <N^o* 


^.^^ii^s 


.  .  .  the  sheer-as-film  beauty  of  Vanity  Fair  dull  crepe  chiffons. 
They're  safeguarded  for  long,  long  wear  by  the  Kneelast  feature 
that  flexes  with  the  knee  to  prevent  runs  from  garter  strain.  Three 
proportioned  lengths  sheathe  the  leg  in  top-to-toe  perfection.  Tawny 
Desert  Tones  glamour-ize  your  new  Spring  costumes.  At  better  stores. 


K  N  E  E  L  A  S  T 
STOCKINGS 


•kWarner  Bros,  ha<ve  selected 
Vanity  Fair  Kneelast  Stockings 
to  be  nvorn  exclusively  by  all 
their  stars  and  players. 


VANITY  FAIR  SILK  MILLS 
READING,  PA. 


i 


i 


■3 


***&* 


<^-£L  no 


■Air-^ 


HOLLYWOOD  NEWS  ON  HAIR 
STYLES— We  are  firm  believers 
in  going  to  experts  for  everything 
we  want  to  know.  So,  when  we  de- 
cided that  what  we  needed  at  this  time 
of  year  was  some  good  expert  advice  on 
what  the  new  coiffures  were  going  to 
be  and  how  to  keep  our  hair  in  order, 
we  immediately  dashed  madly  around 
Hollywood  querying  stars  and  hair  styl- 
ists to  get  the  best  advice. 

Fred  Fredericks,  hair  stylist  of  the 
famous  Max  Factor  make-up  studios  in 
Hollywood,  tells  us  that  one  of  the  new- 
est trends  in  coiffures  is  toward  bangs. 
Soft,  smooth  bangs.  Their  length  will 
depend  upon  the  shape  of  your  face, 
because  bangs  can  add  to  or  detract 
from  the  attractiveness  of  your  face 
with  equal  ease,  so  you'll  have  to  try 
them  out  for  yourself  before  you  find 
what's  best  for  you.  Your  hair  will  still 
be  pulled  up  on  the  sides,  but  will  fall 
down  very  simply  in  back.  Three  rolls 
in  back  will  add  to  the  charm  of  this 
style,  with  a  hair  ribbon  pinned  neatly 
at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  just  above  the 
rolls. 

If  your  neck  is  long,  and  your  face  is 
thin,  keep  the  hair  at  the  back  wide,  so 
that  it  frames  your  neck;  and  pull  it  up 


softly  on  the  sides.  Remember  that  hair 
around  your  neck  and  chin  shortens  the 
apparent  length  of  your  face. 

If  your  face  is  round  and  your  neck 
short,  just  the  opposite  is  needed.  Then 
you  build  your  hair  up  on  top  and  keep 
it  slick  on  the  sides  and  toward  the 
center  of  your  neck  in  the  back.  See 
how  simple  it  all  is? 

Mr.  Fredericks  says  the  biggest  mis- 
take that  most  women  make  in  dressing 
their  hair  is  to  imitate  the  coiffure 
of  some  other  woman  regardless  of 
whether  or  not  it  suits  their  own  type. 
To  achieve  distinction,  one  should  ex- 
periment with  coiffures  until  she  finds 
exactly  the  one  that  does  the  most  for 
her,  regardless  of  whether  or  not  it's 
considered  smart  or  new.  An  attractive 
hairdress  suits  your  face,  not  fashion. 

A  middle-aged  woman  should  wear 
her  hair  short  because  her  face  has  a 
tendency  to  sag  a  little  and  a  short  hair- 
dress  will  help  to  keep  her  face  round 
and  youthful. 

You  can't  wash  your  hair  too  often, 
says  Mr.  Fredericks,  very  firmly.  Clean- 
liness is  the  most  important  factor  in 
hair  beauty.  Your  occupation  will  help 
you  determine  how  often  your  hair 
needs  shampooing.  A  housewife,  for  ex- 


74 


PHOTOPLAY 


To  add  length  to  her  heart-shaped 
face,  Alice  Faye,  star  of  "Little  Old 
New  York,"  piles  curls  right  smack  on 
top  of  her  head,  and  lets  the  snood 
serve     a     double-barrelled     purpose 


ample,  he  says,  who  dusts  and  sweeps, 
should  wash  her  hair  twice  a  week. 
Once  a  week,  at  the  very  least.  Brush- 
ing will  remove  the  surplus  dust,  and  he 
can't  overemphasize  its  importance  to 
healthy  hair. 

Another  thing  to  remember,  says  Mr. 
Fredericks,  is  the  importance  of  your 
hairline.  If,  for  example,  you  have  a 
rather  long  face,  then  your  first  wave 
should  come  at  the  side  of  your  fore- 
head. If  you  wear  it  right  in  the  middle 
or  have  any  curls  or  fluffiness  right 
there,  then  your  face  will  assume  the 
shape  of  an  egg.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
your  face  is  round,  then  you  want  that 
first  wave  right  up  high,  near  the  center, 
to  give  your  face  added  length. 

I  RETTY  Anne  Nagel,  who's  appearing 
in  Universal's  "My  Little  Chickadee,'' 
wears  her  hair  in  a  manner  that  does 
the  very  most  for  her  face  and  per- 
sonality and  is  extremely  smart  as  well. 
The  cluster  of  curls  on  top  of  her  head 
and  falling  over  her  forehead  add  length 
to  her  face,  and  the  sides  are  softly 
pulled  up  to  join  the  top  cluster.  Anne 
wears  it  low  on  her  neck  in  back,  with 
a  hair  ribbon  pinned  just  above  the 
curls.  It's  very  youthful,  and  Anne 
says  it's  very  easy  to  care  for.  You  just 
roll  it  up  in  little  pin  curls  at  night  and 
comb  it  out  in  the  morning. 

Anita  Louise  brushes  her  hair  so  long 
and  so  energetically  every  day  that  it 
is  luxurious  and  bright,  as  a  result. 

Because  Anita's  face  is  rather  long, 
she  wears  it  very  softly,  with  a  side 
part,  and  the  first  curl  brought  up  on 
the  side  of  her  head.  The  side  hair  by 
her  ears  is  also  brushed  up  into  a  curl, 
but  very  softly  so  that  it  gives  width  to 
her  face,  instead  of  its  being  pulled  back 
sleekly,  which  would  make  her  face  ap- 
pear even  thinner.  The  back  hair  falls 
around  her  face  and  neck  to  give  added 
width  and  to  shorten  her  face. 

Virginia  Field's  hair  is  brushed  far- 
ther back  from  her  face  and  is  kept 
short  and  curled  up  in  back  in  order  to 
give  her  face  a  more  oval  appearance. 


The  high  curl  she  wears  just  above  her 
eye  also  gives  added  length.  If  your 
face  is  shaped  like  Virginia's,  then  this 
headdress  would  be  ideal  for  you. 

Alice  Faye  gives  added  length  to  her 
heart-shaped  face  by  the  cluster  of  curls 
right  smack  on  top  of  her  head,  leav- 
ing her  forehead  clear.  The  sides  are 
pulled  back,  thus  making  her  face  ap- 
pear narrower.  The  snood  she  is  wear- 
ing is  ideal  for  this  hair  style,  since  it 
starts  just  behind  the  curls  and  keeps 
her  back  hair  securely  in  place.  The 
absence  of  hair  showing  around  the 
front  and  sides  of  her  neck  also  makes 
her  face  seem  more  slender. 

"It's  as  necessary  for  the  hair  to 
breathe  as  it  is  for  the  body,"  is  Bar- 
bara Stanwyck's  contention.  Barbara 
lets  her  hair  fly  wildly  when  she  is 
engaged  in  outdoor  sports.  She  says, 
"Most  girls  think  it's  imperative  to  tie 
their  hair  up  in  a  bandana  the  moment 
they  poke  their  heads  out-of-doors.  It's 
true,  of  course,  that  the  hair  doesn't 
gather  dust  when  covered,  but  what  if 
it  does  have  to  be  shampooed  more 
often?  The  benefits  derived  from  let- 
ting hair  breathe  in  the  sun  and  the 
air  can  not  be  overestimated." 

Besides  brushing  her  long  hair  con- 
stantly, the  only  other  care  Dorothy  La- 
mour  gives  it  is  to  have  it  shampooed 
once  or  twice  weekly  with  a  very  fine, 
pure  soap.  Dorothy  has  her  hair  set 
with  water  after  each  shampoo,  and 
highlights  it  with  a  touch  of  brilliantine 
when  it's  dry.  One  of  her  favorite 
beauty  tricks  is  to  have  a  few  drops  of 
her  favorite  perfume  in  the  final  rinse 
water  to  give  her  hair  a  delicate  scent. 

We've  given  you  the  best  advice  and 
hair  routines  that  we  could  find  in  Hol- 
lywood. From  now  on,  you're  on  your 
own.  We  can  only  suggest  that  you  ex- 
periment with  your  hair  to  find  the 
best  coiffure  for  yourself,  then  take  the 
same  expert  care  of  it  that  the  Holly- 
wood stars  do;  once  you  have  found  the 
coiffure  and  hair  routine  that  does  the 
most  for  you,  stick  to  it  faithfully  and  it 
will  repay  you  in  added  loveliness. 


WOVEN   WITH 

££^*^RAYON   YARN 


LEAD  THE  SPRING  FASHION  PARADE  IN 


"CREPE  ENTICE" 


^/^f 


mi    ^mJ$ 


From  the  sidewalk  cafes  on  Fifth  Avenue.. to  those  on 

the  boulevards  of  sunny  California  you'll  catch  the  eye 

of  every  young  eligible  in  these   Bowery   Checks 


HOPSCOTCH 

Tailored  to  the  taste  of  every  young 
glamour  girl  .  .  this  lively  jacket  dress 
with  sprightly  bow-knot  pockets.  You'll 
keep  the  males  hopping  (and  hoping) 
for  dates  whether  you  wear  it  with  the 
jacket  or  just  the  impudent  little  frock 
with  its  bias  cut  yoke.  In  navy  or  black. 
around   $16 


CROSSPATCH 

As  soul-satisfying  to  your  ego  as  the 
compliments  it  is  sure  to  bring.  A  terse 
little  jacket  nipped  to  perfection  .  .  its 
bright  red  nail-studded  collar  and  pock- 
ets young  and  proud.  Beneath,  a  spirited 
frock  as  you  like  it.  In  navy  or  black, 
around   $16 


At  favorite  stores  or  write 


^4Wt2%*6&    ^^^OF     CH 


Original  Designs 

Pot.  pond.  U.S.  pot.  off. 


237     SOUTH     MARKET     STREET 


ICAGO 

CHICAGO 


APRIL,      I  940 


7S 


nUJUJUns 

7 he  ^mani  J\lew-  Minimum 

-layl  BEVERLEY  CLARKE 

Lovely  John  Powers  Model 


BLUE  SWAN 

miniums 


Nobelt  Waistband 


BLUE  SWAN  MILLS,  INC. 

Empire  State  Bldg.,  N.  Y.  C. 

Send    me    tree    booklet   56    and    actual 

sample   oi   the  Nobelt   waistband;    also 

name   of   my   nearest   MINIKIN   dealer. 

NAME   


ADDRESS 
CITY 


Hawaiian  Honeymoon 


(Continued  from  page  17) 


sensible  little  thing  is  probably  lying  in 
that  great  big  tropical  house  right  now 
with  an  ice  pack  on  her  head." 

Randy  sat  up.  "Why  shouldn't  Ann 
be  happy?  She's  married  to  the  man 
she  idolizes.  She's  the  wife  of  the 
handsome,  intelligent,  sensitive.  .  .  ." 

"Careful,  don't  overdo  on  sweets," 
Caroline  said.  "You  know  your  tend- 
ency to  mental  indigestion,  dear." 

".  .  .  the  top  male  box-office  star  in 
America.  Ann  is  twenty-three,  unbe- 
lievably successful  in  comedy,  sighed 
after  by  every  male  under  and  over 
fifty.  If  she's  not  happy  she  should  go 
back  to  Russia." 

"She  didn't  come  from  Russia.  She 
came  from  Weehawken,  New  Jersey." 
Caroline  added  irrelevantly,  after  a  mo- 
ment, " — and  you're  a  fool." 

Randy  bowed  elaborately.  "Believe 
me,  dearest,  I  would  not  wound  you  for 
worlds.    If  I  seemed  harsh.  .  .  ." 

Caroline  interrupted,  "You  know  Da- 
vid pretty  well,  don't  you?" 

"I've  washed  his  back  many  times," 
said  Randy.  "Before  he  got  a  bath 
brush,  that  is." 

"What  happened  between  him  and 
Laurel  Crane?" 

"Who?" 

"I  may  look  weak  and  feminine,  but 
if  I'm  put  to  it  I  can  kill  you  with  my 
bare  hands.  Don't  say  who  to  me 
again.  What  happened  between  David 
Crawford  and  Laurel  Crane?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Randy  said,  flatly. 

"You're  a  liar,"  Caroline  said,  as 
flatly. 

"All  right,"  Randy  said. 

"How  does  David  feel  about  Ann?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Randy  said.  "He 
told  me  they  were  going  to  be  married 
and  I  said  congratulations.  Or  maybe 
I  said  .  .  .  no,  that's  exactly  what  I  said." 

"I   don't   blame   you,"    Caroline   said. 

"What  else  could  I  say?" 

"No,  I  mean  if  you  asked  me  things 
about  how  Ann  felt,  I'd  do  just  what 
you're  doing.  I'd  lie  if  I  had  to.  But 
.  .  .  Ann  loves  him  so  much,  Randy." 

And  they  were  silent  because  the 
shadow  of  Laurel  Crane  lay  between 
them  and  they  could  both  see  it. 

I  HE  house  Ann  Adams  and  David 
Crawford  had  taken  for  their  honey- 
moon was  a  large  one.  This  was  fitting 
and  proper,  since  their  combined  in- 
comes were  something  to  stagger  the 
mere  fifty-thousand-dollar-a-year  man. 
They  had  been  ushered  into  it  two  days 
before  in  a  flurry  of  open  secrecy,  had 
posed  for  pictures  on  the  long,  palm- 
fringed  lawn  which  sloped  down  to  the 
sea.  They  had  posed  eating  guavas  from 
the  tree  near  the  lanai,  ("It's  a  porch  to 
me,"  Ann  had  said,  "but  I'll  try  to  re- 
member.") and  one  enterprising  pho- 
tographer had  presented  Ann  with  a 
dish  of  poi  (the  dish  filched  from  her 
own  kitchen)  and  caught  on  celluloid 
her  look  of  wonder  as  she  tasted  it.  "It 
couldn't  be,"  Ann  had  said,  "that  Ha- 
waiians  eat  much  of  it?"  David  was 
luckier.  He  drew  a  pineapple  to  pose 
with,  and  when  everybody  cleared  out 
they  had  devoured  the  pineapple  with 
relish,  and  unpacked. 

Now,  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  huge 
lounge  on  the  lanai  (porch  to  Ann  still), 
Ann  was  remembering  that  unpacking. 
She  stared  at  the  sea  and  tried  valiantly 
to  crowd  back  down  her  throat  the  fear 
that  kept  rising  there. 

"If  only  I  hadn't  read  it,"  she  kept 
thinking.  "If  I  had  just  laid  it  on  his 
dresser  and  said,  'This  is  something  I 
found  in  your  pocket.  .  .  .' " 


How  Well  Do  You 
KnowYourHollywood? 


A  Spring  song  from  Universal: 
Singing  starlet  Gloria  Jean,  ap- 
pearing in  "If  I  Had  My  Way" 


GRADE  yourself  ten  points  for  every 
one  you  guess  right.  If  you  get  sixty 
or  less,  you  don't  keep,  up  with 
Hollywood.  If  your  score  is  eighty,  you're 
doing  quite  well;  and  if  you  have  a  score 
of  one  hundred,  you  know  as  much  as 
PHOTOPLAY.     Check  up  on  page  84. 

1.  Samuel  Goldwyn,  after  seeing  this  star's 
screen  test,  told    him  to  go  home  and   gain 
weight;   instead    he  signed   with    M-G-M: 
Henry  Fonda  Jimmy  Stewart 
David  Niven  Robert  Taylor 

2.  One  of  this  shy  star's  favorite  hobbies 
is  playing  the  ukelele: 

Ronald  Colman  Greta  Garbo 

Jane  Bryan  Paul  Muni 

3.  He  was  once  a  member  of  the  King  of 
England's    personal    bodyguard: 

Ray  Milland  Errol  Flynn 

Basil  Rathbone  Edward  Arnold 

4.  Two  of  these   directors  are  famous  for 
the   way   they   murder  the    English    language; 
Michael  Curtiz  Frank  Capra 
Woody  Van  Dyke        Gregory  Ratoti 

5.  Irene    Dunne    is    married    to: 
Arthur  Hornblow         Dr.  Francis  Griftin 
Bob  Howard  J.  Walter  Ruben 

6.  This   studio   uses  the  trademark   of    Leo 
the  Lion  on  its  pictures: 

Warner  Brothers        Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer 
RKO-Radio  Columbia 

7.  Two    of   these    stars    have    just    recently 
secured    divorces: 

Brenda  Joyce  Ann  Sothern 

Madeleine  Carroll        Penny  Singleton 

8.  This  film  beauty  is  considered  the  best 
cook  in    Hollywood: 

Priscilla  Lane  Marlene  Dietrich 

Rosalind  Russell  Ginger  Rogers 

9.  This  actress  made  the  song,   "My  Heart 
Belongs  to    Daddy,"   famous: 

Ethel  Merman  Mary  Martin 

Mary  Healy  Gloria  Jean 

10.    Noted     for     his     gangster     roles,     thi: 
actor   is   famous  for   his   art   collection: 
George  Raft  James  Cagney 

Humphrey  Bogart         Edward  G.  Robinson 


She  was  to  blame  for  this  misery. 
But  when  you're  going  through  your 
husband's  bags,  preparatory  to  sending 
out  his  laundry,  you  always  look  in  the 
pockets  to  be  sure  they  don't  get  a  ten- 
dollar  bill  to  wash.  She  bit  her  lip  and 
stared  at,  without  seeing  it,  a  flashing 
little  hummingbird  which  darted  in  and 
out  of  a  plumeria  blossom.  No  matter 
where  she  turned  she  kept  coming  up  | 
against  the  fact  that  David  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him.  That  should  cancel 
anything  that  had  happened  before.  But 
the  letter  had  been  written  after  their 
marriage.  She  was  ashamed  to  realize 
how  well  she  remembered  every  word 
in  the  letter.  Her  memory  wasn't  ordi- 
narily as  good  as  that.  She'd  only  read 
it  once  and  then  folded  it  quickly,  the 
blood  in  her  face  suddenly  as  hot  as 
though  she  had  a  fever. 

So  you  did  it.  You're  hurting 
yourself  more  than  you're  hurting 
me.  I  won't  say  I  wish  you  happi- 
ness because  I  don't.  I  hope  you're 
utterly  miserable  and  lie  awake 
nights  thinking  of  me  as  I  shall  lie 
awake  thinking  of  you  and  wishing 
you  were  dead.  Wishing  we  were 
both  dead.  .  .  . 

I  HERE  hadn't  been  a  signature.  In- 
deed, a  signature  would  have  been  su- 
perfluous. Only  one  woman  could  have 
written  it.  Only  one  woman  could  step 
back  in  when  it  was  too  late  and  so 
deftly  ruin  everything.  Until  now,  Ann 
had  never  gone  in  for  comparisons  of 
herself  with  other  women. 

She  was  small.  (Should  she  have 
been  tall  and  very  thin?)  She  had  that 
sprinkling  of  freckles  that  goes  with  red 
hair.  (Would  it  have  been  better,  that 
delicate  dead-white  skin  stretched  tight 
across  high  cheekbones?)  Her  mouth 
curled  up  at  the  corners,  full  of  the 
suggestion  that  she  laughed  more  often 
than  not.  (Somewhere  a  mouth  that  he 
had  kissed  turned  down  sullenly  but 
too  desirably.)  Red  hair  or  black, 
which  was  best?  Or  was  it  more  im- 
portant, what  was  behind  the  eyes  and 
in  the  heart  and  the  bloodstream?  Was 
it  more  important  to  want  always  to 
give  him  happiness  than  to  want  him 
to  give  it  to  you?  Laurel  Crane  de- 
manded happiness  and  fought  bitterly 
when  she  didn't  get  it.  Bitterly  and 
unfairly.  But  can  you  get  it  that  way? 
Does  life  deal  it  out  to  the  people  who 
make  the  most  noise?  Or  is  there  a 
wheel  somewhere,  turned  by  a  hand 
past  happiness  or  pain,  which  stops 
spinning  and  points  out:  Ann  Adams, 
one  measure  of  happiness,  sufficient,  if 
judiciously  used,  for  a  lifetime. 

What  had  the  wheel  pointed  at  the 
night  she  met  him?  His  smile  had  been 
the  kind  that  seems  to  hurt  the  mouth 
with  the  effort  of  keeping- it  in  place. 
During  the  months  that  followed  he  had 
never  mentioned  his  former  marriage. 
Laurel's  name  had  not  passed  his  lips. 

The  night  he  asked  her  to  marry  him 
he  said,  "I  didn't  know  that  a  woman 
could  be  so  decent.  I  thought  when 
women  helped  men  there  was  always 
a  great  noise  about  it.  But  you've 
helped  me  through  the  worst  time  of 
my  life  and  I  want  to  go  on  with  you 
always.  I  don't  ever  want  to  be  with- 
out you  again.     Will  you,  Ann?" 

And  now  had  he  changed  his  mind? 
Was  he  regretting  those  words? 

How  does  one  begin  the  conversation 

when  one  suspects  a  husband  of  being 

sorry  he  married   one?     As  he   opens 

(Continued  on  page  78) 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


Joan  Crawford 

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77 


Handbag 
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JououLruq    loudLi 
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HAN  1)  BAG  S 


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the  door,  you  could  sing  out  cheerily, 
"I  know  what's  wrong  with  you.  You're 
sorry  you  married  me  and  I  don't  blame 
you.  I've  been  looking  in  the  mirror 
and  I  have  a  very  ordinary  face."  Or 
one  could  say,  "Has  it  ever  occurred 
to  you  how  easy  divorce  is  these  days? 
Six  weeks  in  Reno  and  it's  all  over. 
It's  a  wonderful  age  we  live  in,  isn't 
it?"  Ann  found  herself  twisting  her 
hands  together  as  though  they  were 
cold.  She  thought:  "I'm  cracking  up. 
This  is  the  way  it  happens.  You  crack 
up  inside  and  then  it  starts  coming  out 
and  you  twist  your  hands  and  find  the 
back  of  your  neck  aching  as  though 
somebody  had  hit  you  with  a  mallet. 
You  try  to  tell  yourself  jokes  and  you 
feel  very  clever,  but  you  can't  laugh." 
The  tightness  in  her  throat  got  worse 
and  she  had  a  queer  aching  feeling  be- 
hind her  eyes.  All  her  life,  Ann  had 
responded  to  these  symptoms  with  one 
course  of  action,  which  was  to  take  a 
bath.  She  deserted  the  couch  and  went 
swiftly  to  the  bathroom  where  she 
turned  on  the  water  and  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  tub  undressing  and  crying  at  the 
same  time.  As  she  cried,  she  thought 
irrelevantly,  "I  always  thought  there'd 
be  wonderful  songbirds  in  Honolulu, 
but  there  aren't.    I  wonder  why." 

The  traces  of  tears  had  effectively 
been  erased  with  cold  cream  and  ap- 
plications of  hot  and  cold  water,  when 
the  creaking  of  the  bedroom  door  an- 
nounced the  presence  of  the  little  Jap- 
anese doll  who  served  them  their  break- 
fast and  quietly  padded  about  effacing 
all  evidences  of  their  untidiness.  Keiko 
stood  in  the  doorway,  hiding  her  hands 
in  the  folds  of  her  gaily  patterned 
kimono.  "Please,"  she  said  shyly.  She- 
always  began  that  way. 

After  she  had  given  that  word  time 
to  sink  in,  she  repeated  it  and  added, 
"A  man  and  a  lady." 

ANN  found  Randy  and  Caroline  in  the 
drawing  room  watching  the  bedroom 
door  through  which  she  came  as  though 
they  were  a  couple  of  cats  who  had 
cornered  one  mouse.  "Well,"  Caroline 
said  heartily,  as  though  she  had  prac- 
ticed it,  "hello." 

"Hello,"  Ann  said.  She  looked  at 
Randy  and  her  worst  suspicions  were 
confirmed.  Whenever  Caroline  was 
worried,  Randy  looked  serene.  The 
worse  things  got,  the  serener  Randy  got 
until,  when  things  were  at  their  black- 
est, his  face  wore  a  vacant  expression 
usually  attributed  to  those  who  walk  in 
their  sleep. 

"We  just  came  over,"  Randy  said,  in 
response  to  Ann's  look. 

They  seemed  singularly  jumpy. 
"What's  up?"  Ann  said. 

As  one  voice  they  said,  "Nothing." 

Ann  said  to  Randy,  "Do  you  want  a 
drink?"  Randy  said,  "Yes,  please,"  with 
such  alacrity  that  the  words  ran  to- 
gether. Ann  rang  for  Keiko.  "See 
David  over  at  the  beach?  He  went 
surfing." 

"Well  .  .  ."  Randy  said. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  yes,"  said  Caro- 
line rapidly. 

"The  Scotch,  Keiko."  Ann  looked  at 
Caroline  and  then  at  Randy.  "What's 
the  matter  with  you  two?" 

Caroline  said  brightly,  "Nothing.  We 
— we   just  came  over." 

Keiko  came  in  and  put  the  whisky 
at  Randy's  elbow.  She  plopped  some 
ice  into  the  glasses  and  said,  "Please,"  to 
Randy. 

"  'Please,'  what?"  Randy  said. 

"That's  all,"  Ann  said.  "Just,  'please.' 
Don't  press  her  about  it  because  she 
cries  very  easily." 

Randy  smiled  rather  uncertainly  at 
Keiko,  and  she  bent  in  the  middle  as 
though  she  were  hung  from  the  ceiling 


(Continued  from  page  76) 

on  strings.  Randy  said  to  Ann,  "What 
do  I  do  now?" 

"Say  'Thank  you'  and  she'll  go  away." 

Randy  said,  "Thank  you,"  and  Keiko 
vanished,  eyes  demurely  downcast. 
Caroline  drew  a  deep  breath.  Randy's 
face  took  on  added  serenity  and  he 
sipped  his  drink,  staring  into  it. 

"We  met  David  on  the  beach,"  Caro- 
line said.  "He — he  asked  us  to  give 
you  a  message." 

Randy  said  testily,  "Don't  act  as 
though  it  were  the  message  to  Garcia. 
What's  so  world-shaking  about  a  man's 
being  late  for  dinner?" 

"Did  he  say  how  late  he'd  be?"  Ann 
was  puzzled.  She  kept  looking  from 
one  to  the  other  of  them,  but  they  were 
strangely  unhelpful.  Caroline  shook 
her  head.  Randy  shook  his  head.  Car- 
oline looked  at  her  shoes  and  Randy 
inspected  his  drink.  Ann  said,  "Well, 
I'd  better  tell  them  in  the  kitchen. 
You'll  stay,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,"  Caroline  said,  as  though  she 
were  accepting  an  invitation  to  com- 
mit suicide. 

When  Ann  was  gone,  Randy  put  down 
his  glass  impatiently.  "Now  see  here," 
he  said,  "the  very  least  she  could  sus- 
pect, the  way  you've  been  acting,  is 
that  we've  murdered  David  and  buried 
him  somewhere  between  here  and 
Waikiki.  All  that's  actually  happened 
is  that  he  came  up  to  us  on  the  beach, 
seemed  rather  upset  and  asked  us  to 
tell  Ann  he'd  be  late  for  dinner." 

"Why  was  he  upset?"  Caroline  de- 
manded. "Why  is  he  going  to  be  late  for 
dinner?  Where  could  he  go  that  he 
couldn't  take  Ann?" 

"I  don't  know!" 

Caroline's  was  the  voice  of  doom. 
"Something's  wrong." 

"All  right,  something's  wrong.  But 
if  being  late  for  dinner  is  synonymous 
with  trouble,  then  the  world's  full  of 
trouble." 

"There's  no  reason  to  be  late  for  din- 
ner in  Honolulu,"  Caroline  said,  with 
a  kind  of  feminine  logic  which  should 
be  stamped  out. 

Randy  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  marry 
you.     I've  just  made  up  my  mind." 

"I  don't  remember  ever  accepting 
you,"  Caroline  retorted,  huffily.  She 
picked  up  the  evening  paper,  effectu- 
ally indicating  that  the  discussion  was 
at  an  end.  They  sat  in  hostile  paper- 
rustling  and  ice-clinking  silence.  Pres- 
ently, Randy  said,  "Maybe  Ann  knows 
how  pineapples  grow.  I  think  .  .  .  I'm 
not  sure  .  .  .  the  man  I  borrowed  the 
money  from  wears  glasses.  It's  coming 
back  to  me  gradually.  He  said,  'I'm  in 
the  pineapple  business,'  and  I  said,  'Do 
you  need  any  capital?'  and  he  said,  'No,' 
and  then  I  said,  'Well  I  do,'  and  he 
gave  it  to  me  and  then  we  spent  the 
rest  of  the  evening  together  somewhere 
in  a  cellar.  .  .  ." 

"What?"  Caroline  jumped. 

"It  was  a  very  nice  cellar,"  Randy 
said,  on  the  defensive.  "Some  kind  of 
a  club.  What's  wrong  with  you? 
You've  gone  quite  white.  Can  I  get  you 
something?" 

"No  thank  you.  I've  got  something." 
She  brandished  the  paper  under  his 
nose  as  though  he'd  been  responsible 
for  printing  it.  "Do  you  know  who's 
here?" 

"Napoleon?"  Randy  said,  politely. 

"Laurel  Crane.  She  came  in  this 
morning  on  the  Clipper." 

Randy  set  his  glass  down  and 
snatched  the  paper.  There  it  was,  in 
the  list  of  Clipper  arrivals:  Laurel 
Crane.  He  lowered  the  paper,  looking 
grave.  "Better  throw  up  the  fortifica- 
tions," he  said,  "there's  going  to  be  a 
fight.    Laurel's  not  giving  up  so  easily." 

"What  kind  of  a  woman  can  she  be?" 
Caroline  was  almost  crying.    , 


"Laurel's  not  a  woman.  She's  just 
trouble  wrapped  in  skin." 

And  in  the  cocktail  bar  of  the  Royal 
Palms  Hotel,  David  sat  facing  Laurel 
Crane.  He  remembered  a  lot  of  things, 
sitting  there.  While  Laurel's  long, 
nervous  white  hands  mashed  out  the 
fire  of  a  cigarette  just  lit  and  turned 
to  the  careful  destruction  of  a  paper 
napkin  in  Laurel-like  patterns,  Laurel's 
deep  voice  said  the  cutting  and  wooing 
things  which  were  Laurel-like  too. 
David,  without  wanting  to,  remembered 
months  back  when  she'd  left  him  with- 
out even  saying  good-by.  He  could 
still  feel  the  pain  he'd  felt  (as  though 
a  man  could  forget  those  long  nights 
staring  at  the  ceiling  and  wondering 
where  he'd  failed),  still  writhe  at  the 
recollection  of  going  into  the  studio  to 
work  under  lights  that  stabbed  eyes 
which  had  been  open  all  night.  He 
could  remember  trying  to  say  easily, 
"Laurel?  Oh,  she's  away  for  a  rest. 
Nobody  can  go  the  pace  that  Laurel 
goes  without  needing  a  rest  occasion- 
ally, you  know.  When?  Oh  .  .  ." 
vaguely,  "she'll  be  back  soon."  Then 
that  awful,  cheery  smile.  "I  hope  she'll 
be  back  soon.  Being  a  bachelor  isn't 
my  idea  of  fun.    Dinner?     I'd  love  it." 

I  HOSE  dinners.  Sometimes  he'd  drunk 
too  much  trying  to  keep  from  seeing 
Laurel  where  she  wasn't.  The  mornings 
after  those  evenings  he  would  tell  him- 
self nervously  that  his  depression  was 
caused  by  the  alcohol  the  night  before. 
The  thing  was  to  keep  a  clear  head,  see 
things  clearly.  He'd  go  for  several 
weeks  without  a  drink  and  then  the 
dinners  were  one  long,  clear  agony. 
Once  he  remembered  kissing  a  girl  vio- 
lently and  telling  her  he  was  mad  about 
her,  and  after  that  she  kept  calling  him 
up  and  he  felt  an  awful  swine,  but  he 
couldn't  bring  himself  to  talk  to  her. 
And  all  these  things,  one  by  one,  he 
piled  up  against  Laurel  without  know- 
ing it.  But  he  still  waited  to  hear  from 
her.  He  did,  finally.  She  had  filed 
suit  for  divorce.  She  was  unfair  that 
way  and  full  of  surprises. 

"I  don't  mean  to  say,"  Laurel  was 
saying,  "that  I  believe  marriages  are 
made  in  heaven,  but  I've  come  to  be- 
lieve that  if  something's  in  your  blood 
it's  there  to  stay.  You  try  and  put  me 
out  of  your  mind.    Just  try" 

"I  don't  have  to  try,"  David  said.  "I 
have." 

"You're  lying,"  Laurel  said,  dispas- 
sionately, "I  don't  blame  you,  but  I 
don't  believe  you  either.  You've  mar- 
ried a  milksop  who's  willing  to  bring 
you  your  slippers.  But  that  isn't  what 
you  want.  I  know  you  better  than  you 
know  yourself,  David." 

"You're  a  vicious  woman,"  David 
said. 

"I  may  be  vicious,  but  I'm  the  woman 
you  want,"  Laurel  said.  "You've  tried 
to  tell  yourself  that  it's  the  way  I  look 
and  your  pride  in  me  that  you're  miss- 
ing, but  that's  not  true  either.  It's 
something  else.  It's  what  I  am.  It's 
what  you  wanted  to  live  with  for  the 
rest  of  your  life  and  without  me  you 
feel  empty  and  unfinished.  When 
you're  with  her  you  feel  quite  separate 
and  all  one  person  inside  your  own 
skin.  But  when  we  were  together  you 
didn't  feel  that  and  that  was  right. 
That's  the  way  it  should  be." 

"Will  you,  for  God's  sake,  stop  talk- 
ing?" David  said. 

"No,"  said  Laurel.  "They've  laid 
down  nice  little  rules  about  what  a 
woman  should  say  when  her  former 
husband  has  married  another  woman. 
But  I  don't  follow  the  rules.  I  never 
have.     Why  should  I  start  now?" 

David  reflected  despairingly  that  the 
usual     arguments     couldn't     be     used 


78 


PHOTOPLAY 


against  Laurel  because  she  had  a  way 
of  cutting  the  ground  out  from  under 
them  with  one  nasty  swoop  and  mak- 
ing you  feel  a  fool.  And  if  she  wasn't 
right,  the  way  she  said  things  made 
them  sound  logical  and  true  and  fair. 

It  was  twelve  o'clock  and  Caroline 
couldn't  stand  it  any  more.  Ann  wasn't 
trying  to  talk.  She  was  just  trying  to 
live  until  David  got  there.  Randy  had 
given  up  long  since  and  quietly  im- 
mersed himself  in  drink,  having  looked 
up  in  the  encyclopedia  during  one  of 
the  thick  silences  after  dinner,  how 
pineapples  grew.  He  said,  "Well,  think 
of  that,  now.  The  second  largest  indus- 
try in  Hawaii  is  growing  and  canning 
pineapple.  It  is  conducted  by  nine 
companies  with  a  capital  totaling 
$17,825,000  and  assets  exceeding  $35,- 
750,000.     The  pack  in  1930.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  shut  up,-'  Caroline  said.  "Who 
cares?" 

"I  care,"  Randy  said  stiffly.  "I  am  in- 
terested in  things  that  are  going  on 
around  me." 

"Well,  pineapple  is  growing  all 
around  you,"  Caroline  said.  "Why 
don't  you  go  out  and  listen  to  it  and 
leave  us  in  peace?" 

Ann  smiled  at  Randy  wanly.  "Caro- 
line is  mad  at  you  because  David  didn't 
come  home.      Don't  pay  any  attention." 

Then,  at  twelve  o'clock,  Caroline  said, 
"I'm  going  home.  I  don't  want  to  be 
here  when  David  comes  because  I'm 
quite  sure  I'll  give  way  to  murder." 

Randy  paused  ceremoniously  in  the 
doorway.  "It  was  a  lovely  dinner,"  he 
said.     "Thank  you." 

"You're  welcome,"  Ann  said. 

Randy  couldn't  seem  to  get  himself 
out  of  the  door.  He  said  uncomforta- 
bly, "Don't  worry.  They're  probably 
just  hashing  things  over  and  don't 
realize  how  late  it  is." 

"Probably,"  Ann  said. 

Caroline  said  from  the  darkness, 
"Come  on,  Pollyanna,  before  I  really 
give  you  something  to  be  cheerful 
about." 

Ann  sat  on  the  lanai  when  they  had 
gone.  It  was  a  beautiful  tropical  night 
with  a  beautiful  tropical  moon,  but  it 
was  pretty  useless  to  her.  She  didn't 
feel  like  crying.  She  hadn't  felt  like 
crying  since  Caroline  had  told  her 
about  Laurel's  arrival.  All  her  energy 
had    been    concentrated    in    trying    to 


breathe.  Before  she'd  always  taken 
breathing  for  granted.  Now  she  was 
acutely  conscious  of  it  as  an  effort. 
During  this  breath  he  might  be  kissing 
Laurel  and  admitting  a  mistake.  Dur- 
ing this  one  he  might  be  on  his  way 
home.  Or  ...  he  might  be  on  his  way 
swiftly  in  another  direction,  leaving  her 
as  Laurel  had  left  him,  without  a  word. 
She  was  amazed  when  she  realized  how 
many  places  in  the  world  a  person 
could  go,  and  you'd  never  know,  unless 
he  left  you  some  word  where  to  look 
for  him.     If  he  didn't  come.  .  .  . 

But  he  came  at  one-thirty.  He  looked 
very  tired,  even  in  the  half  light  of  the 
lanai.  His  hair  was  wind- tossed  as 
though  he'd  been  driving  like  mad 
(would  Laurel  kill  him  one  way  or  an- 
other? On  a  curve,  perhaps,  trying  to 
push  the  memory  of  her  out  of  his  head 
with  the  impact  of  wind?)  and  as  he 
lit  a  fresh  cigarette  she  could  see  his 
hand  shaking.  He  said  gently,  "I'm 
desperately  sorry,  Ann." 

"That's  all  right,"  Ann  said. 

"Caro  and  Randy  were  here  for  din- 
ner, I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"They  told  you  Laurel  is  here?" 

"Yes." 

"I  meant  to  come  earlier,"  David  said 
then.  "I  really  meant  to,  but  it  got  so 
involved." 

Ann  said,  "David  ...  is  it  true?" 

"Is  what  true,  darling?" 

"Do  you  lie  awake  nights  wishing  you 
were  dead  as  she  said  you  would  in  the 
letter?" 

There  was  a  long  silence.  David 
turned  his  back  and  crushed  out  the 
cigarette  with  a  quick,  nervous  gesture. 
He  just  stood  there.  Ann  wanted  to 
scream,  or  to  run  but  she  didn't  do 
either.  She  could  hear  herself  breath- 
ing and  his  breathing  crossing  hers  in 
sound.  She  forced  her  voice,  just  to 
hear  something  in  the  stillness.  "Do 
you,  David?" 

"Yes,"  David  said.  "Yes,  I  do.  I 
have,  ever  since  the  night  she  left  me. 
I'm  sorry,  Ann." 


-op. 
nbo'9 


one 

bea" 


A  shattering  awakening  for  a  bride  on 
her  honeymoon — and  especially  for 
Ann!  With  her  carefree,  childlike  charm, 
how  can  she  hope  to  compete  with  the 
allure  (and  the  determination)  of  Dav- 
id's former  wife?  Don't  miss  the  unex- 
pected developments  in  May  Photoplay.' 


Hollywood's  Greatest  Lessons  in  Love 


(Continued  from  page  23) 


like  that,  and  that's  to  ask:  To  ask 
happy  wives,  and  women  many-times- 
divorced — husbands  of  ten  years'  stand- 
ing, and  ex -husbands  of  a  month — press 
agents,  and  maids  on  the  lots.  To  get 
the  answer,  you  must  become  a  uni- 
versal pest. 

I  became  such  a  pest,  and  I  finally 
came  to  a  single  conclusion,  which  is 
herewith  presented  to  those  who  may 
be  smug  about  their  own  success  in  mar- 
riage: 

Hollywood  marriages  have  no  outside 
props  to  keep  them  up.  If  they  survive, 
it  is  because  the  man  and  wife  con- 
cerned are  truly  happier  together  than 
apart! 

Analyze  the  marriages  which  have 
failed  in  the  moving-picture  colony, 
and  you'll  notice  that  they  have  failed 
for  causes  which  rarely  crop  up  in  the 
average  American  home.  Analyze  the 
ones  which  have  succeeded,  and  you'll 
see  that  they  have  survived  difficulties 
which    are    abnormally    severe. 

Here  are  the  abnormal  circumstances 
which  make  marriage  a  difficult  accom- 
plishment in  Hollywood — here,  in  dis- 
tilled form,   is   the   comment  made   by 


dozens  of  confidantes  close  to  the  stars: 

1.  Many  of  these  wives  work,  and 
work  at  very  exacting  jobs.  They  must 
often  sacrifice  their  husbands'  needs,  as 
well  as  their  own  inclinations,  to  the 
necessities  of  their  career. 

2.  Hollywood  homes  have  too  much 
money. 

3.  There  is  no  Mrs.  Grundy  in  Holly- 
wood, to  look  askance  at  couples  eager 
to  break  up. 

4.  Marriage  is  a  normal  way  of  life, 
developed  for  the  average  man  and 
woman;  but  Hollywood  is  inhabited  by 
people  of  very  different  dispositions  and 
tastes  from  the  average. 

5.  Many  of  the  stars  are  too  pam- 
pered and  spoiled  for  marriage. 

rOINT  No.  1  was  mentioned  so  often 
that  I  sought  out  a  famous  psychiatrist 
and  asked  him  to  tell  me  whether  he 
thought  a  wife's  moving-picture  career 
causes  an  unusual  strain  on  a  marriage. 
"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Hollywood 
homes  have  no  one  who  puts  the  mar- 
riage first — and  a  happy  home  demands 
great  sacrifices  on  the  part  of  at  least 
one  of  its  members. 


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"All  working  women  have  trouble 
with  their  marriages.  For  they  have  to 
divide  their  loyalties  between  two  men 
— the  husband  and  the  boss. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  "that  you're  a 
working  woman,  due  on  the  job  at  nine 
in  the  morning — at  eight-fifteen  your 
husband  runs  a  temperature.  If  you 
stay  at  home,  your  career  may  suffer, 
but  your  marriage  will  be  strengthened. 
If  you  rush  off,  you're  taking  the  first 
step  toward  Reno. 

"A  great  many  screen  actresses,  un- 
der similar  circumstances,  have  kept 
their  engagements  on  the  lot." 

That's  a  mistake,  from  the  point  of 
view  of  married  happiness — we  all  can 
see  that.  But  this  is  a  difficult  decision, 
which  the  average  wife  is  never  called 
upon  to  make.  Point  No.  1,  alone,  shows 
why  marriage  is  more  difficult  in  many 
Hollywood  homes  than  in  the  average 
American  town. 

And  yet — look  at  the  Gleasons,  and 
the  George  Burns,  and  the  Joel  McCreas 
— in  those  homes,  six  successful  careers 
are  going  full  tilt,  without  a  divorce  de- 
cree in  the  sky.  Point  No.  1  need  not  be 
fatal! 

But  there  are  many  broken  homes  in 
Hollywood  in  which  the  wife  has  been  a 
lady  of  leisure.  For  a  clue  to  such 
divorces  as  these,  we  must  move  on  to 
Points  2,  3,  4  and  5. 

HOLLYWOOD  homes  have  too  much 
money."  That  struck  me  as  absurd. 
Half  the  domestic  squabbles  in  the  av- 
erage household  take,  place  because 
there  isn't  enough  money!  Why  should 
ample  means  lead  to  the  divorce  court? 

I  found  a  divorced  actor  who  gave 
me  one  explanation. 

"Most  happy  couples,"  he  said,  "think 
about  a  divorce,  at  some  point,  during 
their  first  years  together.  But  if  the 
man  is  making  $2,000  a  year,  they  have 
to  think  it  over.  They're  still  making 
payments  on  the  car,  and  the  wife  can't 
get  a  job  while  she  has  children  to  care 
for,  and  so  they  have  to  delay  the 
divorce  until  the  husband  will  make 
enough  money  to  support  two  homes. 

"That  little  breathing  space  saves 
their  marriage.  In  a  month  or  so  they 
forgive  each  other.  Poverty  holds  more 
homes  together  than  it  ever  breaks  up." 

When  you  think  of  it,  that's  true. 
There's  a  vast  difference  between  sav- 
ing your  nickels  for  the  bus  fare  to 
Reno,  and  simply  notifying  the  studio 
lawyer  you  want  a  divorce  by  Tuesday 
next.  Separation  is  fearfully  easy  for 
stars  who  make  mammoth  salaries.  Cir- 
cumstances do  not  force  them  to  stop 
and  think  it  over. 

Then  take  Point  No.  3:  "Hollywood 
lacks  a  Mrs.  Grundy." 

A  happily  married  wife  of  a  famous 
actor  told  me,  with  feeling,  about  this. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "nobody  in  Hol- 
lywood can  afford  to  be  old-fashioned 
about  accepting  the  divorced.  Some  of 
our  least  conservative  men  and  women 
are  in  the  most  influential  positions 
here,  and  we've  got  to  accept  anybody 
who's  Box  Office. 

"So  what  happens?  Any  prominent 
star  can  break  up  a  home  without  fear 
of  social  consequences.  People  in  other 
towns  may  be  held  to  their  marriage 
because  they  know  their  friends  would 
disapprove  if  they  gave  up  without  suf- 
ficient reason.  Any  old  whim  of  a  rea- 
son is  good  enough  for  a  Hollywood 
star's  friends;  so  long  as  she  is  pulling 
down  her  $4,000  a  week,  nobody's  go- 
ing to  cut  her." 

So  that's  another  coaster  brake 
without  which  the  Hollywood  marriages 
have  to  get  along.  Public  opinion  helps 
the  rest  of  us  over  the  rough  spots  in 
our  married  life,  more  often,  perhaps, 
than  we  think.  By  their  success,  the 
stars  are  deprived  of  its  aid. 

On  Point  No.  4 — the  difficulty  stars 
have  in  adjusting  themselves  to  so  nor- 


mal an  institution  as  marriage,  many 
of  the  experts  spoke  with  a  bitter 
emphasis.  How  can  a  marriage  have  a 
chance,  they  said,  when  husband  and 
wife  lead  erratic  lives,  with  irregular 
hours — when  they  have  separate  social 
circles  during  the  working  hours  of 
every  day — when  all  parties  are  given 
over  to  shoptalk?  Non-acting  husbands 
and  wives  are  outsiders  in  Hollywood 
social  affairs,  and  are  often  made  to 
feel  it. 

"Marriage  is  hard  when  either  hus- 
band or  wife  is  more  successful  in  pic- 
tures than  the  other,"  a  divorced  man- 
star  said  to  me.  "But  it's  hell  when  one 
of  them  is  an  outsider,  with  no  stand- 
ing in  the  community  at  all." 

So  think  of  that,  you  husbands  and 
wives  who  live  in  normal  towns  where 
the  husband's  standing  is  no  higher 
than  the  wife's,  and  where  shoptalk 
ends  with  the  business  day!  Point  No.  4 
places  a  greater  strain  on  the  devotion 
of  Hollywood   couples  than  any  other. 

DUT  there  was  another  point  which 
many  of  these  Hollywood  observers 
made  to  me — Point  No.  5:  "Many  of  the 
stars  are  spoiled."  A  woman  who  had 
been  married  twice  to  well-known  ac- 
tors  spoke   passionately   on   this   score. 


VENGEANCE 

For  months  he  had  carried  a 
blunt-nosed  automatic  in  his 
pocket,  seeking  vengeance  for 
a  wrong,  until  the  hatred  in  his 
heart  drove  him  to  the  deter- 
mination to  take  his  own  life. 
Then  a  strange  thing  happened 
to  stay  his  hand.  You  will  find 
this  man's  dramatic  story  FIVE 
MINUTES  FROM  SUICIDE  by 
Crawford  Trotter  in  the  March 
issue  of  the  nonsectarian  mag- 
azine 

YOUR  FAITH 

At  Your  Newsdealer's 
A  MACFADDEN  PUBLICATION 


"The  average  star,"  she  said,  "has 
worked  hard  for  his  success  and  he  rel- 
ishes it.  He  loves  to  drive  through  a 
city  with  the  sirens  making  way  for 
him.  He  adores  the  clamor  for  his  auto- 
graph. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "he  comes  home, 
fresh  from  these  triumphs,  and  expects 
his  wife  to  treat  him  as  if  she  were 
writing  him  a  fan  letter.  He  doesn't 
want  a  wife — he  wants  an  all-time 
stooge.  And  if  his  wife  falters  in  her 
flattery  for  a  single  day,  she  knows 
there  are  scores  of  silly  women  ready 
to  worship  at  her  husband's  profile." 

So  there  you  have  them — the  five  se- 
vere handicaps  under  which  Hollywood 
marriages  must  suffer,  if  they  are  to 
survive.  How  is  it  possible,  with  all 
these  difficulties,  to  remain  married  in 
Hollywood,  at  all? 

And  yet  we  know  that  it  can  be  done. 
We  know  there  are  such  promising  ven- 
tures as  the  Fred  Astaires.  the  Gary 
Coopers,  the  Melvyn  Douglases,  the 
Don  Ameches.  (Nobody  dares  predict 
whether  any  of  them  will  make  the  sil- 
ver wedding  anniversary,  but  so  far  the 
Five  Points  don't  seem  to  have  worn 
them  down.) 

Well— how  do  they  do  it? 

I  WENT  back  to  my  eminent  psychia- 
trist to  find  out.  I  showed  him  the  list 
of  abnormal  difficulties  these  famous 
people  encounter.  He  looked  at  the  list, 
and  then  he  smiled. 

"Why,  all  these  things,"  he  said,  "can 
be  grouped  together  under  one  simple 


heading:  'Lack  of  crutches.'  A  mar- 
riage that  is  a  thumping  fine  success 
doesn't  need  a  crutch! 

"Hollywood,"  he  said,  "may  be  the 
acid  test  for  the  happiness  of  a  home. 
Many  will  not  pass  it,  but  those  that 
do  will  probably  be  among  the  hap- 
piest homes  on  earth! 

"If  a  man  and  woman  are  hobbling 
along  together,  with  no  great  ecstasy 
over  their  love,  then  lack  of  money,  or 
fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy  may  hold  them  to- 
gether in  a  kind  of  makeshift  substi- 
tute for  a  happy  marriage.  But  these 
things  won't  make  their  homes  happy. 

"Hollywood's  attitude,"  he  said,  "is 
admirable  in  a  sense:  These  people  are 
as  ruthless  as  a  surgeon  in  discarding 
relationships  which  are  not  up  to  their 
ideal.  Hollywood  can  afford  to  reject 
all  shoddy  substitutes  for  true,  married 
love— it  will  accept  no  patched-up  pre- 
tense of  happiness.  If  a  marriage  on 
the  Coast  has  failed,  the  fact  is  imme- 
diately blazoned  forth  to  the  world. 

"But  if  it  succeeds,"  he  said,  "the  hus- 
band and  wife  know  that  its  success  is 
the  real  thing.  These  people  stay  to- 
gether because  they're  happier  together 
than  they  would  be  apart.  That's  the 
only  real  test  for  a  marriage's  success, 
no  matter  where  you  live. 

"We  would  all  be  happier,"  he  added, 
"if  we  made  our  marriages  as  strong 
and  enduring  as  the  Hollywood  suc- 
cesses— if  we  were  all  sure  that  we  are 
not  being  held  together  by  artificial, 
outside  influences." 

"Give  me  some  rules  for  a  marriage 
that  will  be  strong  enough  to  pass  the 
Hollywood  test,"  I  asked  him. 

He  did — and  here  they  are: 

1.  Somebody  must  put  the  success  of 
the  marriage  first,  and  be  willing  to 
pass  up  professional  opportunities  for 
its  sake.  Almost  always,  it  is  the  wife 
who  can  most  gracefully  assume  this 
job.  If  she  works,  she  will  clearly  un- 
derstand that  her  work  is  secondary  to 
her  husband's  needs  for  her.  If  she 
keeps  house,  she  must  not  make  his 
happiness  subservient  to  her  passion  for 
cleanliness  or  caring  for  her  children. 
He  must  be  her  first  concern. 

2.  Interrupt  your  quarrels  before  they 
really  begin.  If  a  husband  and  wife 
are  determined  to  get  along  without 
squabbling,  they  will  never  reach  the 
stage  of  wondering  whether  they  can 
afford  a  divorce  or  not 

3.  Pay  no  attention  to  the  advice  of 
outsiders — especially  of  in-laws.  There 
are  always  plenty  of  people  around  who 
are    eager    to    act    as    troublemakei-s. 

4.  If  you  lead  a  normal  social  life, 
thank  your  lucky  stars  you  do!  See 
couples  in  other  occupations,  so  that 
the  evenings  will  never  tend  to  descend 
to  shoptalk.  Share  your  friends  in 
common  and  never  move  in  social  cir- 
cles to  which  you  do  not  both  belong. 

5.  If  your  husband  or  wife  demands 
an  abnormal  amount  of  pampering,  give 
it  to  him!  Only  those  who  are  unsure 
of  themselves  need  bolstering  up,  and 
they  usually  need  it  badly.  A  wife  can 
do  worse  than  to  behave  like  an  ador- 
ing fan  for  a  few  minutes  every  day! 

Such  marriage  without  props  is  the 
considerable  accomplishment  of  many 
men  and  women  on  the  Coast.  Other 
Hollywood  couples  have  found  its  dif- 
ficulties too  severe.  But  from  both 
groups,  the  non  -Hollywood  married 
and  the  about-to-be  married  can  learn 
many  things,  among  them  this: 

Any  marriage  that  is  a  true  success 
can  survive,  even  under  the  conditions 
of  Hollywood. 

No  marriage,  held  up  by  crutches,  is 
wholly  satisfactory,  in  Hollywood,  or  in 
any  other  town;  but  such  a  makeshift 
marriage  can,  by  effort  and  the  observ- 
ance of  five  rules,  be  made  strong 
enough  to  pass  the  Hollywood  Test.  And 
that  means — ladies — a  Golden  Wedding 
one  of  these  fine  days! 


PHOTOPLAY 


When  Sonja  Henie  Met  Alan  Curtis 


(Continued  from  page  26) 


appealish  and  an  extraordinarily  good 
actor  as  he  demonstrated  when  he 
played  the  role  of  an  unregenerate  heel 
in  "Mannequin,"  his  first  important  pic- 
ture, and  yet  made  people  like  him.  He 
should  have  been  pushed  right  ahead 
after  that  first  click.  Instead  he  some- 
how got  lost  in  the  shuffle  at  the  casting 
office. 

Even  though  nobody  told  him  the 
truth,  Alan  knew  what  was  blocking  his 
career.  Some  wise  person  once  said  that 
few  people  fail  through  actual  lack  of 
ability.  What  creates  their  failure  is 
their  lack  of  skill  in  handling  other  peo- 
ple. That  was  the  situation  with  Alan. 
It  is  always  a  tough  lesson  for  a  sincere 
person  to  learn  that  flattery  is  just  as 
potent  as  ability.  Alan  was  not  only 
sincere,  but  he  was  also  in  that  concen- 
trated state  known  as  being  in  love, 
which  always  interferes  with  anyone's 
keeping  his  eye  on  the  main  chance. 

I  HE  girl  was  Priscilla  Lawson,  a 
pretty  young  thing,  also  under  contract 
to  Metro.  She  and  Alan  had  met  each 
other  while  they  were  both  models  in 
New  York.  They  encountered  each 
other  again  in  Hollywood,  both  a  bit 
homesick,  both  a  bit  scared,  both  young 
and  eager — they  fell  in  love.  Having 
fallen  in  love,  they  got  married. 

Perhaps  if  Alan  had  scored  an  over- 
night success,  or  if  Priscilla  had  regis- 
tered an  immediate  hit,  the  Curtis-Law- 
son  marriage  might  have  been  wonder- 
ful. Instead,  Priscilla  was  let  out  of  her 
contract,  Alan's  career  stood  stiller  than 
a  cigar-store  Indian,  and  under  that  dis- 
illusion the  propinquity  that  had  orig- 
inally lent  enchantment  got  to  be  the 


propinquity  that  meant  only  boredom. 
Exactly  what  made  them  separate  is  not 
generally  known,  largely  because 
neither  Alan  nor  Priscilla  was  important 
enough  at  the  time  of  the  smash-up  for 
Hollywood  to  inquire  about  it. 

Whatever  the  situation,  however,  the 
fact  remains  that  Alan  had  practically 
not  dated  any  girl  from  the  time  he  and 
his  wife  had  separated  until  that  night 
in  early  October  of  the  "Hollywood 
Cavalcade"  premiere.  But  that  evening 
he  particularly  did  want  to  date  some- 
one. That  picture  represented  his  first 
sympathetic  movie  role  of  any  impor- 
tance.   So  he  wanted  to  celebrate. 

Alan  thought  immediately  of  asking 
Sonja  Henie  to  go  with  him,  and  then 
he  got  an  attack  of  shyness.  He  had 
been  introduced  to  Sonja  on  the  20th 
Century-Fox  lot  and  had  been  imme- 
diately attracted  to  her,  for  she  was  his 
kind  of  girl — direct,  friendly,  fond  of 
sports  and  utterly  without  pretense.  If 
she  hadn't  been  a  celebrity  and  the  place 
hadn't  been  Hollywood  he  would  have 
tried  to  date  her  at  once,  but  second 
thought  made  him  fear  he  might  be  re- 
pulsed for  being  presumptuous.  A 
premiere,  however,  is  a  really  first-class 
occasion,  and  so,  weeks  later  when  the 
"Hollywood  Cavalcade"  opening  was 
scheduled,  he  sought  out  a  friend  of 
Sonja  and  asked  if  it  would  be  all  right 
if  he  telephoned  her.  The  friend  said 
there  was  no  harm  in  trying,  and  so 
Alan  called  and  Sonja  accepted.  It  was 
just  as  simple  as  that. 

They  made  a  handsome  couple,  pho- 
tographed together,  he  so  dark  and  she 
so  fair  They  did  a  great  deal  of  danc- 
ing that  first  night  and  shared  a  vast 


amount  of  that  light,  delightful  laughter 
peculiar  to  two  people  who  have  been 
made  wise  to  the  hurts  that  deeper  emo- 
tions can  give. 

Sharing  happiness,  though,  is  nearly 
as  much  of  a  bond  as  sharing  misery, 
and  so,  the  next  day,  Alan  wanted  very 
much  to  telephone  Sonja,  and  did,  and 
she  agreed  to  another  date  for  the  next 
week.  They  had  that,  and  it  turned  out 
to  be  fun,  too,  and  then  Alan  met  Sonja's 
mother  and  brother,  who  liked  him 
tremendously,  and  so  they  had  a  third 
date  and  a  fourth.  Four  dates  in  Hol- 
lywood being  equal  to  about  two  solid 
years  of  steady  courtship  anywhere  else, 
it  was  then  that  the  film  colony  began 
to  sit  up  and  take  notice.  When  it  was 
learned  that  Alan  and  Priscilla  had  been 
discussing  a  divorce,  the  excited  whis- 
pers began  singing  around  movieland. 

Just  what  might  have  happened  if 
Sonja  herself  had  not  at  that  point 
thrown  the  monkey  wrench  into  the 
love  machinery,  is  no  telling.  She  did 
it  by  suddenly  going  into  rehearsal  for 
her  annual  skating  tour  of  America. 
She  has  taken  that  tour  every  winter  for 
three  years  now,  but  still  Hollywood  did 
speculate  on  whether  or  not  she  did 
not  welcome  it  this  time  as  a  breathing 
space  in  which  to  think  calmly  about 
her  own  and  Alan's  intentions.  But 
asked  the  question  direct  about  Alan 
she  would  only  say,  laughing  the  while, 
"Well,  I  have  to  go  out  with  somebody, 
don't  I?" 

The  answer  to  that  is  yes  and  no. 
She  did  go  out  certainly  after  her  ro- 
mance with  Tyrone  Power  broke  up, 
but  she  definitely  was  not  the  vibrant, 
gay  figure  she  was  last  fall,  when  she 


and  Alan  were  popping  into  this  night 
club  or  that,  evening  after  evening. 

As  for  Alan — a  gentleman  who  is  not 
yet  divorced  can't  very  well  form  an 
alliance  that  may  follow  the  one  that  is 
not  yet  broken  up.  But  the  well-known 
volumes  that  his  eyes  say  when  you  dis- 
cuss Henie  with  him  should  really  be 
bound  in  asbestos  to  keep  them  from  ig- 
niting the  surrounding  territory. 

All  of  which  adds  up  to  the  fact  that 
almost  anything  can  happen. 

I  HE  Henie  skating  tour  will  keep 
Sonja  away  from  Hollywood  until  the 
first  of  spring. 

Hollywood  doesn't  get  a  really  ter- 
rific spring.  No  business  of  lilacs  burst- 
ing into  bloom,  or  birds  flying  back  from 
the  South,  or  thaws.  Still  it  does  have 
its  own  kind  of  spring;  a  magical,  over- 
night kind  of  spring,  when  suddenly  the 
brown  hills  become  all  golden-green, 
and  gigantic  scarlet  and  yellow,  and  the 
days  fluctuate  between  bitter  cold 
mornings  to  red-hot  noons  and  shivery, 
scented  evenings.  And  on  one  such  day 
Sonja  will  come  back  to  town  again, 
with  her  yellow  hair  flying  and  her  blue 
eyes  dancing,  and  Alan,  who  is  all 
brooding  and  intensity,  will  meet  her. 
And  if  the  gentle  springs  of  other  climes 
make  young  men's  fancy  turn  to 
thoughts  of  love,  think  what  is  more 
likely  than  not  to  happen  with  two  vivid 
people  in  a  spring  that  is  so  swift  that 
it  is  like  a  kind  of  lovely  gasp  before 
the  heat  of  summer  comes. 

Nobody  can  tell  exactly  what  will  de- 
velop then,  of  course,  and  least  of  all 
right  now  Alan  and  Sonja.  But  it  will 
most  certainly  bear  watching. 


Champion  Guest  Greeter 

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current  Grade-A,  gilt-edged  glamour 
femme  of  the  moment.  This,  of  course, 
will  necessitate  a  complete  new  ward- 
robe, but  it  is  about  time  that  you  were 
changing  your  dress  mood.  Being  iden- 
tified with  one  kind  of  role,  one  style  of 
dress,  coiffure,  chapeau  (whoops!),  is 
prelude  to  the  sounding  of  the  death 
knell  of  your  career,  you  think. 

lOUR  hair,  to  continue,  has  been  shorn 
in  all  shapes.  Years  ago,  when  you 
were  doing  only  small  parts,  you  had 
Jim,  the  barber,  do  you  a  "wind-blown" 
bob.  Tiring  of  a  shingled  head,  you 
adopted  the  long  mane  of  wavy,  curling 
locks  that  fell  below  your  collarbone. 
The  front  hair  was  fluffed  and  banged 
about  the  face.  Since  that  time  your 
hair  has  been  curled  into  tight  ringlets, 
a  la  sculpture  of  the  Greeks. 

With  the  fashion  edict  of  "hair  up!" 
you  spent  several  troublesome  moments 
consulting  your  hairdresser  (who  is 
probably  your  most  intimate  friend  and 
confidante).  You  both  decided  that  it 
added  ten,  maybe  twelve  years,  to  your 
age.  Even  earrings,  hats  as  big  as  post- 
age stamps,  plus  pink  veils  didn't  help. 
You  decided  to  stick  to  your  guns  and 
look  like  an  aborigine.     (You  do.) 

Your  figure  is  the  pride  of  your  life, 
and  the  livelihood  of  several  masseuses. 
You  are  about  five-feet-five  inches  tall, 
and  you  weigh  ten  pounds  less  than  the 
figure  stated  as  normal  for  that  height 
(132  pounds)  by  the  life  insurance 
medical  directors.  You  avoid  excessive 
intakes  of  starch,  sugar,  fats,  and,  illog- 
ically,  go  off  on  terrific  food  benders. 
Repentant,  you  swear  never,  never  to 
indulge  again.     (You  do.) 

Your  bust  is  thirty-seven  inches,  your 
waist  twenty-five  inches,  your  hips 
thirty-five  inches.  Secretly  you  envy 
Ginger  Rogers'  tiny  waist,  and  wonder 
how  she  does  it. 

Next  to  popcorn,  crossword  puzzles, 
new  beaux,  your  prime  passion  is  for 
shoes.  You  wear  a  size  four-B,  and  you 
prefer  the  cut-out  sandal  type,  although 
the  wedge-heeled  oxford  makes  you 
look  little -girlish  and  helpless,  a  role 
that  you  like  to  play  on  occasion,  in  real 
life.  Your  shoe  racks  are  loaded  with 
dozens  of  shoes  that  range  from  square- 
toed  ski  shoes  to  flimsy  chiffori-scarved 
evening  sandals  with  platform  soles. 
Around  the  house  you  invariably  wear 
an  old  pair  of  lapin-lined  (rabbit  to  the 
furrier)  scuffers  that  you  bought  out  of 
your  first  week's  contract  money. 

You  are  a  violent  fad  addict.  Last 
year  you  discovered  Sun  Valley  and 
winter  sports.  (Also  that  handsome  ski 
instructor.)  Before  last  winter,  ice  had 
merely  been  a  frozen  commodity  used 
for  a  skin  conditioner,  and  something  to 
chill  the  Daiquiri  cocktails  that  the  stu- 
dio stubbornly  maintains  you  do  not 
drink.  Now  ice  is  a  bracing  new  me- 
dium for  conquest.  (The  skating  teacher 
is  handsome,  too.)  On  the  set,  between 
scenes,  you  knit  madly.  Or  crochet. 
At  the  moment  it  is  an  Early  American 
rug  of  thick  white  cotton  that  you  are 
crocheting. 

You  are  not  a  Hollywood  cinema  dar- 
ling because  you  have  great  histrionic 
abilities  and  you  want  to  exercise  them. 
If  you  were  sincere  about  wanting  to 
act,  you  would  try  the  theater — even  if 
it  were  only  a  microscopic  "Little 
Theater."  You  are  a  glamour  girl  by 
sheer  exertion  of  personality. 

You  know  the  growth  of  a  personality 
is  aided  by  publicity.  The  more  a 
glamour  girl  is  seen  at  the  right  places 
— early   in   her    career — the    faster   the 


(Continued  from  page  18) 

legend  of  her  devastating  charm  grows. 
Therefore,  you  are  seen,  for  a  time,  with 
the  Writer-Producer  who  is  currently 
Hollywood's  Beau  Number  One.  He  is 
a  cavalier  of  quality  caliber.  He  goes  to 
the  right  places,  knows  how  to  order  a 
perfect  supper,  knows  the  right  wines 
with  the  right  courses,  and  how  to 
sympathize  charmingly  over  producer- 
trouble,  leading  man-trouble,  director- 
trouble,  et  cetera.  He's  witty,  too. 

During  your  career  you  will  be  seen 
with  Howard  Hughes.  Here  you  have 
Money;  also  a  Romantic  Aura.  You 
will  also  dine,  sometime  during  your 
career,  at  the  Russian  Bublichki  with 
Pat  di  Cicco,  go  to  Venice  and  roller 
coast  with  Jimmy  Stewart,  dance 
divinely  to  Troc,  Victor  Hugo  and  Bev- 
erly Wilshire  music  with  Cesar  Romero, 
spurn  an  invitation  to  go  on  a  little 
cruise  on  That  Producer's  yacht. 

Along  about  the  age  of  twenty-five 
you  will  marry.  He  will  be  an  actor. 
You  will  have  been  engaged,  succes- 
sively to:  a  Wall  Street  broker;  a  Vir- 
ginia horse  breeder  ("he  looked  so  stun- 
ning in  his  jodhpurs!") ;  a  junior-lieu- 
tenant in  the  U.  S.  Navy;  a  French  title 
who  wanted  your  money.  You  will  have 
eloped  to  Yuma,  by  chartered  plane, 
with  the  leading  man  in  your  current 
picture,  not  because  you  love  him  hon- 
estly or  intellectually,  but  because  he 
is  on  your  emotional  plane,  and  emo- 
tionalism is  contagious. 

One  morning,  three  years  later,  you 
will  suddenly  see  the  face  that  has  been 
sitting  opposite  you  at  the  breakfast 
table  for  approximately  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  days  (there  was  that  two- 
weeks'  location  trip  your  husband  made 
to  Chino  last  year) .  Really  see  the  face, 
we  mean.  The  setting  will  be  the  ruffled 
sunroom  of  your  Bel-Air  two-acre  es- 
tate, with  swimming  pool,  badminton 
court,  "rumpus  room."  There  will  be 
jonquil  plates  on  real  damask,  and  the 
silver  will  be  sterling,  but  that  doesn't 
help  matters.  You  wonder  what  ever 
made  you  marry  him,  the  dope.  Such 
vapidity.  And  you  had  never  noticed 
that  he  parted  his  hair  in  the  middle! 
You  divorce  him,  immediately,  on 
grounds  that  he  is  "sulky."  If  he  di- 
vorces you,  he  does  it  on  the  grounds 
that  you  read  in  bed,  love  your  career 
more  than  your  husband. 

You  would  be  very  lonely  if  it  were 


THE 

BERNARR  MACFADDEN 

FOUNDATION 

conducts  various  non-profit  enterprises:  The 
Macfadden-Deauville  Hotel  at  Miami  Beach, 
Florida,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  resorts  on 
the  Florida  Beach,  recreation  of  all  kinds  pro- 
vided, although  a  rigid  system  of  Bernarr  Mac- 
fadden  methods  of  health  building  can  be 
secured. 

The  Physical  Culture  Hotel,  Dansville.  New 
York,  is  also  open  the  year  around,  with  ac- 
commodations at  greatly  reduced  rates  for 
the  winter  months,  for  health  building  and 
recreation. 

The  Loomis  Sanatorium  at  Liberty,  New  York, 
for  the  treatment  of  Tuberculosis,  has  been 
taken  over  by  the  Foundation  and  Bernarr  Mac- 
fadden's  treatments,  together  with  the  latest 
and  most  scientific  medical  procedures,  can  be 
secured  here  for  the  treatment  in  all  stages 
of  this  dreaded  disease. 

Castle  Heights  Military  Academy  at  Lebanon, 
Tennessee,  a  man-building,  fully  accredited 
school  preparatory  for  college,  placed  on  the 
honor  roll  by  designation  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment's governmental  authorities,  where  char- 
acter building  is  the  most  important  part  of 
education. 

The  Bernarr  Macfadden  School  for  boys  and 
girls  from  four  to  twelve,  at  Briarcliff  Manor, 
New  York.  Complete  information  furnished 
upon  request.  Address  inquiries  to:  Bernarr 
Macfadden.  Room  717,  205  East  42nd  Street. 
New  York,  N.  Y. 


not  for  Michael.     Michael  is  the  six- 
months'    old    baby    you    adopted    from      ' 
Evanston's  The  Cradle.     He  makes  life 
worthwhile  for  you,  watching  him  grow, 
listening   to   his   childish   prattle.     You 
debate  about  taking  another  youngster; 
perhaps  a  little  girl.     You  would  call 
her  Susan  Ann.    You  are  a  great  one 
for  homespun  names.     A  nice  contrast      ] 
to  your  exotic  moniker.    You  decide  to      I 
let  the   girl-child  wait  a  bit,  and  you 
throw  yourself  into  charitable  activities. 

lOU  have  a  mother  who  may  make 
her  home  with  you,  from  time  to  time, 
but  no  record  of  an  existing  father.  You 
have  a  sister  whose  best  talent  is 
motherhood.  Sometimes  you  envy  her. 
You  have  a  brother,  too,  who  sometimes  I 
needs  a  check.  This  you  impulsively 
send  him,  and  your  business  manager  ! 
lectures  you  for  it. 

You  have  charge  accounts  at  I.  Mag-      ; 
nin,  Saks  Fifth  Avenue,  Bullocks- Wil- 
shire,   and    you    have    your    tailleurs     j 
constructed   by   the   town's   best   man's 
tailor.    You  like  nothing  better  than  to      i 
have  a  Magnin  saleswoman  phone  and 
tell  you  that  the  new  imports  have  just 
arrived   and   there's  a  love  of  a  rasp- 
berry chiffon  with  chartreuse  trimmings 
("It  sounds  mad,  but  it's  a  divine  com- 
bination!")   that  would  be  stunning  on 
you.    You  strive  to  be  soignee.    You're 
not  quite  sure  what  soignee  means,  your 
French  being  what  it  is.    You  buy  the 
Hattie  Carnegie  number. 

Another  pleasure  is  attending  the 
openings  given  by  the  fashion-lad  crew 
— Howard  Greer,  Travis  Banton,  and  | 
others.  It  gives  you  a  quickening  of  the 
pulse,  a  sense  of  being  a  privileged 
member  of  the  snobbish  fashion  aris-  | 
tocracy  (for  you  are  a  small-town  girl), 
to  be  able  to  call  Hatter  John-Fredrics 
"Mister  John"  and  buy  half  a  dozen 
original  models  from  off  his  models' 
heads.  Having  flowers,  colors,  perfumes, 
race  horses  (everything,  in  fact,  except 
brassieres  and  panties)  named  after  you 
is  old  news,  but  always  flattering. 
Glamour  babe  Shirley  Temple  has  a  J 
rose-pink  sweet  pea  named  for  her; 
Mary  Pickford  a  pompon  chrysanthe- 
mum; Barbara  Stanwyck  a  dahlia. 

You  worship  culture  and  in  pursuit  of     , 
it  you  join  the  monthly  book  clubs  (the     j 
books  always  look  well  between  those    'i 
solid    onyx    book    ends,    even    if    you     j 
haven't  time  to  read  them) ,  subscribe  to     j 
the  leading  women's  and  fashion  maga-     \ 
zines.    You  consider  yourself  a  Liberal,     j 
and    sympathize    with    the    Underdog. 
You  buy  the  most  expensive  radio  and  a 
cabinet  full  of  symphonies,  all  played  by     ! 
Leopold  Stokowski.    His  interpretations 
of  the  classics  make  sense  to  you.    You 
also  have  a  complete  set  of  Crosby  rec- 
ords, and  a  few  of  the  better  platters  by 
the  Andrews  Sisters.    The  men  in  your 
life,   you   tell   interviewers,   have    been 
your  best  introduction  to  knowledge — 
book  knowledge.     Paul  introduced  you 
to  Proust,  John  to  Pater.     You  found 
James  Cain  yourself. 

At  the  moment  you  are  between  love 
affairs  and  life  is  a  little  boring.  You 
know  that  the  next  White  Knight  will 
set  you  off,  willy-nilly,  on  a  new  hobby. 
His  hobby,  of  course.  You  know  this  as 
well  as  you  know  that  God  made  green 
apples  and  roving  Romeos.  You  took 
up  golf  and  flying  for  Howard,  and  an- 
other time  you  went  in  for  yachting. 
Your  swain  had  a  boat.  Carole  Lom- 
bard, you  reflect,  took  up  skeet  shoot- 
ing for  Gable.  You  hope,  devoutly,  that 
your  next  Romeo  will  not  be  a  whaling 
enthusiast.    So  messy,  you  know. 


82 


PHOTOPLAY 


This  Woman  Has  Loved! 


(Continued  jrom  page  70) 


his  arm  to  interrupt  his  reading  for  the 
minute  it  would  take  her  to  fly  upstairs 
and  be  reassured  about  drafts  and 
covers  in  the  nursery. 
[  For  more  and  more  that  was  how  it 
was  with  them.  He  forgot  the  ambi- 
tion for  land  that  had  been  instilled  in 
him  when  he  was  a  boy  and  he  had 
learned  to  measure  a  kilo's  length  by 
counting  his  strides.  And  she  no  longer 
dreamed  of  the  way  it  would  be  when 
she  sang  in  the  opera  house  and  flowers 
fell  on  the  stage  at  her  feet.  Their  love 
for  each  other  grew  greater  with  time 
and  brought  them  back  to  simple  things. 

Then,  one  day  they  had  a  long  talk 
and  they  rebuked  themselves  for  having 
allowed  their  love  to  run  away  with 
them. 

"You  must  marry  that  rich  girl  it  was 
planned  for  you  to  marry,"  she  told  him, 
"and  live  in  peace  with  your  mother  and 
your  father  on  your  land." 

"And  you,"  he  said,  "must  study  so 
you  can  sing  in  the  opera  house.  And 
soon  you  will  be  famous.  And  I  will 
sit  in  the  stalls  beside  my  rich,  dull 
wife.  .  .  ." 

"Loving  me  still?"  she  whispered. 
"Just  a  little,  Niklos — to  take  nothing 
she  would  miss  from  her.  .  .  ." 

"I  hope  not,"  he  said  bitterly.  "By 
that  time  I  hope  I  will  have  become  so 
dull  that  I  will  feel  nothing.  .  .  ." 

Three  days  later  they  were  married! 

HER  parents  and  two  of  his  cousins 
went  with  them  to  the  office  of  the  no- 
tary. Niklos  settled  a  little  house  and 
some  land  on  the  Hajmassey's  so  they 
would  not  miss  the  money  Ilona  had 
brought  home  from  the  theater.  And 
he  and  Ilona  left  for  the  fertile  country- 
side over  which  his  father  ruled  like 
an  ancient  king. 

"I  will  be  such  a  fine  wife  to  you," 
she  told  him  as  they  rode  on  the  train, 
"that  your  mother  and  your  father  will 
bear  with  me.  And  when  our  sons  are 
born  they  will  be  so  strong  and  brilliant 
and  handsome  that  it  will  be  forgotten 
I  had  no  rich  dowry." 

The  Savozd  lands  reached  over  four 
thousand  acres.  They  counted  their 
cows  and  steers  by  hundreds  and  their 
pigs  by  thousands. 

Niklos'  parents  lived  in  the  Big  House. 
He  and  Ilona  were  assigned  a  fifteen- 
room  dwelling  down  the  road.  They 
gave  him  what  was  his  due  as  their 
only  remaining  son.  But  beyond  this 
they  didn't  go.  There  was  no  warm 
welcome  for  his  bride.  There  were  no 
parties  to  introduce  her  to  the  country- 
side. And  had  they  known  Ilona  had 
hoped  for  these  things  they  would  have 
pitied  her  for  a  fool. 

All  day  Niklos  was  away  from  home 
— riding  over  the  land,  supervising  the 
men  in  fields  and  barns  and  gardens, 
and  doing  accounts  in  the  office.  And 
all  day  Ilona  waited  for  him  to  come 
home.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
house  that  had  been  cold  and  forlorn 
sprang  into  splendor.  Ilona  would  laugh 
at  herself  because  she  had  wept. 

And  she  would  discount  what  she  had 
overheard  the  chauffeur  from  the  Big 
House  telling  her  cook  .  .  .  how  the 
boss  would  not  rest  until  she  and  Niklos 
were  divorced. 

When  Niklos  came  home  at  night  and 
Ilona  flew  down  the  stairs  and  flung 
herself  into  his  arms,  it  concerned  him 
that  even  the  radiance  of  her  smile 
could  not  hide  the  fact  that  she  was 
growing  paler  and  that  once  more  she 
had  been  weeping.  And  while  he  won- 
dered how  he  could  support  life  without 


her  he  asked  if  she  was  sorry  she  had 
come  there  with  him. 

"I  am  not  sorry — ever!"  she  told  him, 
as  she  pulled  off  his  gloves  and  warmed 
his  hands  and  led  him  to  the  fire.  "And 
now  that  you  think  that,  I  am  afraid  to 
ask  you  something  .  .  .  Niklos,  would 
you  mind  if  I  studied  singing  and  Eng- 
lish? I  have  no  friends  here  and  it 
would  occupy  me  if  a  teacher  came 
sometimes.  I  am  not  happy  when  I 
have  no  work  to  do." 

He  was  grateful  to  her  for  planning 
this  way  of  keeping  occupied  and  of  es- 
caping the  cold  air  of  disapproval  for  a 
little  while.  For  he  knew  her  ardor. 
And  he  lived  in  fear  of  the  hour  in 
which  she  would  tell  him  she  could  not 
stay  any  longer — in  spite  of  all  her  pro- 
testations. 

I  HEN  one  day  when  Ilona  and  Niklos 
had  been  married  about  a  year,  when 
things  were  no  worse  than  they  had 
been  all  along,  the  elder  Savozd  de- 
manded that  a  divorce  be  arranged  at 
once.  Either  this  or  he  would  disown 
Niklos  completely. 

"We're  going  away  from  here,"  Niklos 
told  Ilona.  "We're  going  to  live  in  the 
city.  Until  I  find  my  way,  we'll  be  poor. 
But  that  will  not  matter,  for  we'll  still 
have  each  other." 

She  did  not  ask  him  to  explain  the 
reason  behind  all  this.  She  knew  too 
well.  And  suddenly,  although  he  was 
ten  years  her  senior,  she  was  the  older 
one. 

"Niklos,"  she  said,  "what  could  you 
do  to  earn  money  in  the  city?" 

"At  first,"  he  told  her,  "just  so  we'll 
have  something  to  eat,  I'll  be  a  chauf- 
feur!" 

Her  eyes  traveled  over  his  face.  It 
was  strong  and  lean  and  full  of  pride 
and  confidence.  These  were  things  she 
loved  and  would  preserve  at  any  cost. 

It  was  for  him  she  was  afraid.  She 
knew  how  to  be  poor.  And  she  was, 
besides,  one  of  those  favorites  of  the 
gods  who  could  forget  the  thin  jingle 
of  coins  in  her  purse  while  she  laughed 
at  a  Punch  and  Judy  show  in  the  park. 

"Sweet  Niklos,"  she  said.  She  did  not 
try  to  hide  her  tears  for  she  knew  the 
kindest  thing  she  could  do  was  let  him 
see  her  heart  was  breaking,  too — so 
when  she  went  away  he  would  not  too 
quickly  doubt  that  she  loved  him. 

"Niklos,  my  darling — sometimes  you 
act  like  such  a  little  boy  that  you  make 
me  feel  a  very  old  woman.  This  is  such 
a  time  as  we  must  do  not  what  we  want 
to  do  but  the  best  we  can  do!" 

His  eyes  lifted  to  ask  the  question. 

"And  the  best  we  can  do  .  .  .  You 
must  stay  here,"  she  told  him,  "where 
you  will  have  money  enough  and  to 
spare  and  I  must  go  into  the  city  where 
I  can  study  and  get  work  in  the  opera 
house  so  we  can  be  independent  .  .  . 
For  it  is  only  because  your  father  knows 
our  helplessness  that  he  tells  you  what 
you  must  do — and  how  you  must  do  it 
— and  when.  .  .  ." 

She  left  his  side  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room.  Now  she  wasn't  the 
yielding,  tender  girl  he  always  had 
known.  There  was  about  her  the 
strength  and  force  of  the  matriarch  she 
might  have  become  had  she  borne  sons 
to  inherit  the  Savozd  gold  and  land. 
Watching  her,  Niklos  took  heart  and  re- 
membered what  his  good  friend,  Mrs. 
Hajmassey,  had  told  him  .  .  .  that  what- 
ever Ilona  would  do  she  could  do! 

IN  Vienna  Ilona  lived  with  the  Wellers. 
Mrs.    Weller   had    taught   her    English. 


Hue 


itlei 


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y 


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OTY 


Mrs.  Weller  understood  how  things 
were.  There  was  no  need  fcr  Ilona  and 
Niklos  to  explain  to  her  the  eagerness 
with  which  they  rushed  to  each  other's 
arms  when  he  came  straight  from  the 
train  .  .  .  even  while  their  plea  for  a 
divorce  was  held  in  the  court. 

Then  one  day  Ilona  went  to  the  opera 
house  for  an  audition.  It  was  just  the 
way  she  had  dreamed  it  would  be  when 
she  was  a  child  and  she  had  sung  "Tos- 
ca"  in  the  courtyard  with  little  Albogen 
Arpad,  the  first  youth  ever  to  catch  her 
romantic  fancy. 

She  stood  alone  on  the  large  bare 
stage.  Several  gentlemen,  the  impre- 
sario and  his  associates  and  friends, 
were  scattered  through  the  first  rows. 
The  musicians  played  the  introductory 
phrase  of  the  aria.  Then  her  voice 
1  floated  out  over  that  theater  and  those 
men  listening  forgot  to  look  indifferent. 

When  she  had  finished,  the  impre- 
sario said:  "You  know  'Tosca!'  Could 
you  sing  it  here — in  a  week,  say?" 

She  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  ex- 
plain that  aria  she  had  sung  was  the 
only  part  of  the  role  she  knew.  After 
all  she  could  go  home  and  study.  And 
she  did  study  too,  for  four  days  and 
nights.  Then  she  considered  her  prog- 
ress with  that  impersonal  attitude  that 
always  has  been  such  a  boon  to  her  and 
decided  it  would  be  another  week  be- 
fore she  really  would  be  ready.  And 
she  said  this  to  the  impresario.  And 
he  was  impressed  that  anyone  so  beau- 
tiful and  talented  and  young  should 
have   such  clear  purpose   and  wisdom. 

I  HE  same  night  Ilona  sang  at  the  lit- 
tle opera  house,  her  name  was  heard  in 
the  cafes  and  coffeehouses.  And  the 
next  morning  Maria  Komka,  Ilona's 
childhood  friend,  hurried  to  the  Wellers 
to  see  her.  "You  were  so  beautiful  last 
night,"  she  told  her,  "and  you  sang  like 
an  angel!" 

"What  you  say  about  me,"  Ilona  an- 
swered, laughing,  "I  cannot  trust.  But 
what  the  newspapers  say  this  morning 
and  what  my  impresario  says — that  is 
important — that  promises  I  will  have 
money!" 

News  of  Ilona's  success  in  the  little 
opera  house  reached  Felix  Weingartner, 
the  great  Felix  Weingartner  who  had 
studied  with  Wagner.  He  went  to  hear 
her.  He  asked  her  to  come  to  see  him 
at  his  big  opera  house. 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  he  told  her. 
"If  you  will  learn  German  I  will  give 
you  a  contract." 

"Every  day,"  Ilona  answered  him 
simply,  "I  have  three  hours  for  myself. 
Every  day  in  those  three  hours  I  will  do 
nothing  but  study  German.  That  way 
it  will  not  take  too  long." 

In  everything  she  did  now  she  was 
conscientious  and  painstaking.  Her 
mother  never  had  known  her  to  be  like 
this  before — except  for  that  short  time 
when  she  had  rehearsed  for  the  chorus. 
And  one  day  when  Niklos  Savozd  called 
on  Mrs.  Hajmassey,  she  spoke  of  this 
to  him. 

"It's  always  been  Ilona's  nature  to  be 
like  quicksilver,"  she  told  him.  "Now 
here  .  .  .  now  there  ...  In  the  theater 
she  is  a  stranger  to  herself.  She  finds 
nothing  too  much  trouble!  And  nothing 
takes  too  long!" 

"When  Ilona  is  in  the  theater,"  Niklos 
answered  Mrs.  Hajmassey  gently,  "it  is 
the  same  with  her  as  it  is  with  you 
when  you  sit  under  your  lamp  with 
your  needlework.  In  the  theater  Ilona 
is  at  home.  So  there  is  peace  in  her 
heart  and  she  is  able  to  work  patiently. 
Try  to  understand  this  and  be  glad — 
since  things  are  the  way  they  are.  .  .  ." 

Even  when  the  divorce  of  Ilona  and 
Niklos  had  been  final  for  months  they 
sought  each  other.  And  their  voices 
still  grew  soft  as  they  spoke  each  other's 
name.    And  they  still  found  it  important 


to  tell  each  other  everything  that  had 
happened  while  they  were  apart. 

Ilona  counted  the  days  it  would  take 
her  to  master  German  .  .  .  and  the  days 
she  must  rehearse  with  Weingartner 
.  .  .  and  the  days  after  that  before  she 
could  be  sure  of  a  contract  .  .  .  For 
these  days  added  together  would  bring 
her  to  the  security  that  would  allow 
her  and  Niklos  to  marry  again. 

And  Niklos'  love  for  Ilona  was  no  less 
than  her  love  for  him.  It  was  Ilona  he 
thought  about  until  the  end.  He  wrote 
her  a  note  one  day  and  sent  it  by  a 
servant  as  it  was  his  custom  to  do.  He 
told  her  to  be  sure  to  hear  Maria  Ne- 
meth  sing  and  he  told  her  how  much 
he  loved  her.  And  it  was  his  servant 
bringing  back  her  answer  who  found 
him  dead. 

All  the  people  who  knew  Ilona  and 
how  she  had  built  her  life  around  Nik- 
los were  afraid  to  see  her.  Only  her 
mother  had  the  courage  to  go  to  her 
with  that  question  others  asked  among 
themselves. 

"What  will  you  do,  my  daughter?" 
Mrs.  Hajmassey  asked. 

"I  was  coming  to  you,"  Ilona  an- 
swered, "to  ask  you  that.  .  .  ." 

"You  will  not  believe  me  when  I  say 
this  to  you  .  .  ."  Mrs.  Hajmassey  made 
a  supreme  effort  to  keep  her  voice  mat- 
ter-of-fact. "But  all  this  will  not  hurt 
so  much  when  time  has  separated  you 
from  it.  For  that,  my  child,  is  a  law  of 
life.     And  if  you  can  push  time  ahead 


HOW  WELL  DO  YOU 

KNOW  YOUR  HOLLYWOOD? 

Check  your  answers  to  the  statements 

on 

page  76  with  these  correct  ones: 

1. 

Robert  Taylor 

2. 

Greta  Garbo 

3. 

Ray  Milland 

4. 

Michael  Curtiz,  Gregory  Ratoff 

5. 

Dr.  Francis  Griffin 

6. 

Metro-Gold  wyn-  Mayer 

7 

Madeleine  Carroll, 

Penny  Singleton 

8. 

Marlene  Dietrich 

9. 

Mary  Martin 

10 

Edward  G.  Robinson 

of  you  with  work,  it  will  be  so  much  the 
better." 

Work  was  her  narcotic.  Every  week 
that  year  she  sang  two  or  three  times. 
In  Budapest  and  Vienna  and  Berlin 
they  talked  of  her  capacity  for  doing 
whatever  had  to  be  done.  And  when 
she  was  on  the  stage  and  when  people 
were  around  her  she  was  gay  and  vola- 
tile and  laughing. 

"She  does  not  grieve  so  much  now," 
her  father  said,  relieved. 

But  her  mother  shook  her  head. 
"People  affect  her  like  wine,"  she  told 
him.  "I  have  seen  her  when  she  is 
alone  and  then  it  is  different — then  she 
sits  very  still." 

I  HE  German  UFA  company  offered 
Ilona  thirty  thousand  marks  to  make  a 
picture  for  them. 

"For  that  money  I  cannot  do  it,"  she 
told  the  gentlemen  who  waited  upon 
her. 

They  protested.  Times  were  not 
prosperous.  This  was  all  their  company 
could  afford.  After  all,  she  would  have 
a  very  fine  production. 

"The  sum  is  enough,"  she  interrupted, 
"but  I  want  you  to  pay  it  in  shillings  or 
Austrian  money." 

She  was  not  naturally  shrewd  about 
affairs  of  this  kind.  But  every  word 
Niklos  Savozd  ever  had  said  to  her 
lived,  clear  and  fresh,  in  her  memory. 


So  it  was  as  if  his  great  knowledge  of 
finance — acquired  through  inheritance, 
study,  and  experience  —  had  been 
grafted  upon  her  artist's  brain. 

The  UFA  gentlemen  frowned.  Even 
in  an  ugly  woman  they  would  have  re- 
sented such  acumen.  Coldly  they  told 
her  what  she  asked  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, that  they  would  not  be  permitted 
to  pay  her  in  anything  but  German  cur- 
rency. 

"And,"  Ilona  says,  "when  they  told  me 
they  would  not  be  permitted  to  pay  me 
in  anything  but  marks,  I  knew  I  had 
been  wise  to  ask  what  I  had  asked. 
And  I  bid  them  good  day.  But  they 
had  done  me  a  great  favor.  They  had 
given  me  the  idea  of  being  in  a  motion 
picture.  And  I  wrote  to  the  head  of  the 
Austrian  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer." 

George  Cukor,  one  of  the  greatest  di- 
rectors in  Hollywood,  was  in  Vienna  at 
this  time.  He  saw  Ilona's  letter  and 
went  to  the  opera  house  to  hear  her. 
And  that  same  night  he  telephoned  Bob 
Ritchie  and  Benny  Thau,  two  Metro 
executives,  who  were — by  happy  chance 
— in  London.  What  he  said  isn't  a  mat- 
ter of  record,  but  the  gist  of  it  was,  "I've 
got  something  here!"  And  the  next 
time  Ilona  sang  these  three  men  were  in 
the  audience. 

"They  wanted  to  give  me  a  contract 
right  away,"  she  says,  "So  I  went  to 
London  in  an  airplane  and  a  contract 
was  arranged.  It  was  very  simple.  It 
was  marvelous." 

THAT  was  the  winter  of  1936.  For  over 
a  year  Ilona  had  lived  without  the  com- 
fort of  Niklos  Savozd  being  in  the  world 
with  her.  There  still  were  moments 
when  the  realization  of  her  loss  as- 
saulted her.  But  slowly  her  response 
to  life  was  coming  to  be  quick  and 
warm  again.  And  because,  following 
the  romantic  attachments  of  her  youth 
and  the  excitements  of  her  adolescence, 
a  deep  woman's  love  had  stirred  her 
soul  there  was  an  added  quality  about 
her.  It  was  as  if  her  beauty  and  her 
voice  and  her  acting  had  been  refined 
by  the  emotional  fires  she  had  come 
through. 

When  Ilona  returned  from  London 
after  signing  her  Metro  contract  Maria 
Nemeth's  name  shone  on  the  marquee 
of  the  Budapest  opera  house.  That 
opera  house  held  six  thousand  people; 
yet  it  was  difficult  to  get  tickets  for  this 
performance.  Ilona  was  going.  She 
never  missed  hearing  Nemeth  if  she 
could  help  it. 

The  performance  was  to  be  on  Sun- 
day. On  Wednesday  of  the  same  week 
the  impresario  from  the  opera  house 
called  Ilona  on  the  telephone .  "Miss 
Hajmassey,"  he  said,  "Maria  Nemeth  is 
scheduled  in  'Empress  Josephine'  on 
Sunday.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  Ilona  told  him,  "I  know. 
I  am  coming!" 

"Miss  Hajmassey,"  the  impresario 
interrupted,  "Miss  Nemeth  is  ill.  She 
will  be  unable  to  appear.  .  .  ." 

Ilona  sympathized.  "Everyone  with 
tickets  will  be  so  sad.  .  .  That  day  you 
are  going  to  hear  Maria  Nemeth — you 
reach  towards  it,  as  if  it  was  a  bright 
star!" 

"Miss  Hajmassey,"  the  impresario 
began  again,  "I'm  calling  to  ask  you  to 
take  Miss  Nemeth's  place.  .  .  ." 

"That  is  impossible!  IMPOSSIBLE!" 
Ilona's  voice  shook.  "She  is  the  biggest 
star.  .  .  Those  people  who  have  tick- 
ets to  hear  her,  they  would  not  have 
me!  And  I  do  not  know  one  word  of 
that  part.  .  .  ." 

But  one  hour  later  the  score  of  "Em- 
press Josephine"  was  strewn  all  over 
the  salon  of  her  little  flat.  The  accom- 
panist from  the  opera  house  was  at  the 
piano.  She  stood  beside  him.  And 
over  and  over  she  sang  the  opening 
aria. 


84 


PHOTOPLAY 


Not  one  seat  in  the  opera  house  was 
unoccupied.  In  the  back  they  were 
standing. 

One  little  group  in  that  great  theater 
had  fear  in  their  eyes  and  hope  in  their 
hearts.  .  .  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hajmassey, 
Ilona's  sister,  Dodo,  and  her  husband 
who  owned  a  beauty  shop,  and  Maria 
Komka.  .  .  . 

Said  Mrs.  Hajmassey  to  Mr.  Hajmas- 
sey, "I  have  always  said  what  Ilona 
would  do  she  could  do.  Now  I  am 
afraid  because  this  always  has  been  so, 
she  has  been  spoiled  — and  she  reaches 
too  far.  .  .  ." 

The  lights  went  out.  She  stepped  for- 
ward. The  conductor  raised  his  baton. 
In  the  split  fraction  of  time  that  came 
before  her  cue  she  wondered  if  Niklos 
could  know  about  this,  even  if  he  wasn't 
right  there  .  .  .  And  she  thought  he 
could  .  .  .  And  her  voice  rose  in  clear 
beauty  to  exalt  her  song. 

Women  tore  roses  and  orchids  and 
gardenias  from  their  corsages  and 
threw  them  to  the  stage.  And  lying 
among  these  flowers  at  her  feet  were 
the  single  maroon  and  white  carnations 
that  men  had  pulled  from  their  button- 
holes. And  the  next  morning  the  pa- 
pers said,  "Not  in  fifty  years  has  there 
been  such  a  performance  of  'Empress 
Josephine.' " 


It  was  the  summer  of  1937.  Swiftly 
the  S.  S.  Normandie  cut  through  the 
deep  water  that  lay  flat  under  a  hazy 
July  sky.  Ilona  and  her  sister,  Dodo, 
walked  the  deck.  So  many  times 
around  equalled  a  mile  and  so  many 
miles  equalled  their  day's  exercise. 

Quietly  Ilona  and  her  sister  dined  at 
a  preferred  table.  Like  two  schoolgirls 
on  a  holiday  they  marveled  that  every- 
thing on  this  ship  had  been  so  per- 
fectly arranged  for  them  and  that  al- 
though they  had  the  best  it  cost  them 
nothing;  M-G-M  paid  all  the  bills. 

But,  while  Ilona  was  on  the  sea  and 
while  she  was  journeying  across  the 
continent  from  New  York  to  California, 
there  was  consternation  at  the  M-G-M 
studios.  There  were  many  who  didn't 
relish  the  idea  of  having  an  Hungarian 
prima  donna  on  their  hands. 

"One  good  thing  about  it,"  they  said 
to  one  another,  "foreign  celebrities  usu- 
ally don't  last  long.  .  .  Too  grand  for 
their  own  good,  that's  the  trouble!  Be- 
sides, they  can't  take  the  rigorous  work- 
ing schedules  we  have  out  here." 

Then  Ilona  arrived.  She  didn't  ac- 
cept the  American  Beauties  that  were 
presented  to  her  with  a  shrug.  She  took 
them  in  her  arms  and  her  eyes  broke 
into  blue  stars.  At  the  hotel  she  did 
not  find  fault  with  the  suite  that  had 
been  reserved  for  her.  She  assured 
them,  a  little  solemnly,  that  it  was  very 
beautiful.  "Rosalie"  went  into  produc- 
tion and  she  did  not  have  a  tantrum 
when  they  asked  her  to  record  her  first 


song  a  dozen  times  and  more,  because 
her  accent  reproduced  with  a  little  lisp- 
ing sound.  It  was  with  annoyance  at 
herself  that  she  shook  her  golden  head, 
then  started  from  the  beginning  again 
— miraculously  sustaining  warm  joy  in 
her  voice. 

She  and  Dodo  took  a  little  house. 
Someone  called  her  attention  to  the  fact 
that  it  wasn't  in  the  fashionable  part  of 
town.  They  thought  she  might  like  to 
know.  "But  it's  pretty,  my  house,"  she 
said,  surprised.  "I  like  the  way  the 
palm  trees  grow  around  it.  You  mean 
only  that  it  isn't  the  right  number  on 
the  right  street  ...  Oh,  that's  all  right. 
Such  things  I  do  not  worry  about!" 

One  day,  however,  she  reached  the 
studios  with  eyes  blazing. 

"This  morning,"  she  announced,  "a 
girl  comes  to  see  me  about  being  a  maid 
in  my  house.  I  never  heard  of  such  a 
girl  before!  She  tells  me,  'I  am  study- 
ing singing  and  I  would  like  to  use  your 
piano  in  the  afternoon.'  I  say  to  her, 
'Just  a  minute,  do  you  wash  floors,  do 
you  clean  windows?'  And  she  says, 
'No!  No!'  Then  I  say  to  her,  'Thank 
you.     I  can't  use  you!    Good-day!'  " 

It  was  explained  that  there  was  a  se- 
rious servant  problem  in  California,  that 
maids  were  difficult  to  get,  that  she 
might  have  to  make  compromises. 

Her  laughter  rose  triumphantly. 
"Well,  I  won't  have  a  maid.  I  can  cook. 
And  I'll  find  some  woman  who'll  be 
glad  to  come  to  my  house  in  the  morn- 
ing and  clean  up  and  add  to  her  hus- 
band's little  money  and  buy  her  chil- 
dren shoes." 

"But,"  it  was  protested,  "when  your 
sister  goes  home  to  her  husband  and 
her  little  Francois,  you'll  be  lonely." 

"Do  not  worry!"  she  said,  "I  am  never 
lonely.  I  have  a  little  cat.  And  I  have 
a  Scotch  terrier.  We  are  very  good 
friends." 

They  were  prepared  to  withstand  any 
temperament  she  might  display  and  re- 
serve judgment  until  they  saw  her  on 
the  screen.  But  her  complete  simplicity 
so  impressed  them  that  long  before 
"Rosalie"  was  released  they  were  will- 
ing to  grant  she  was  as  great  as  "Bal- 
alaika" later  convinced  them  she  would 
be. 

Once  again  the  simple  Hungarian 
peasant  blood  that  also  is  part  of  her 
helped  her  keep  her  bearings  when  she 
easily  could  have  grown  confused  and 
lost  her  way. 

"Watch  Massey!"  says  Woody  Van 
Dyke,  the  most  hard-boiled  director  at 
Metro,  or  any  other  studio.  "It's  not 
hard  to  do.  And  I  have  an  idea  she'll 
be  around  for  a  long  time.  She's  got  a 
lot  of  what  it  takes!" 

And  he  could  have  added:  "This 
woman  has  lived.  And  loved.  And  had 
her  heart  broken.  And  found  her  way 
back  to  a  full,  warm  life  again.  And 
that  never  did  anyone  any  harm  as  an 
artist  or  a  woman!" 


MY   SON,   MY  SON 


PHOTOPLAY  is  indeed  proud  to  present  the  next  of  its  great 
Movie  Books,  condensed  for  busy  readers  and  published  com- 
plete in  one  issue — the  poignant  best-selling  novel  by  Howard 
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with  a  brilliant  cast  headed  by  Brian  Aherne,  Louis  Hayward 
and  Madeleine  Carroll.    Be  sure  to  read  "My  Son.  My  Son!" 


May   PHOTOPLAY 


m  / 


She's  nobody's  April  Fool!  wTth  her  transparent  "bumbershoot"  this 
Remember,  too,  all  the  other  advantages  Kotex  has  to  offer  .  . . 


'/* 


Many  a  time -you'll  be  thankful 
for  the  flat  (patented)  ends  of  Kotex 
...  so  different  from  napkins  with 
bunchy  ends! 

Thankful,  too,  that  Kotex  is  made 
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This  makes  Kotex  less  bulky  . . .  more 
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Km 


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APRI  L,      I  940 


FEEL  ITS  NEW  SOFTNESS. ..PROVE  ITS  NEW  SAFETY... COMPARE  ITS  NEW,  FLATTER  ENDS 


9Mfywovd'i 

FOR  DELUXE  TRAVEL 
TO   AND    FROM 

California 


\iifw  Chief 
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:dicated  entirely  to  first-class 


neys  to  and  from  Californi 
The  Super  Chief,  departi..3  ...... 

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y  evenings,  is  the  only  all-Pull- 

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~    It  will  be  < 

ations  early  on  these 

jnifice    ' 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


give  the  whole  scene  that  jiggly,  car-in- 
motion  look, 

Fred  and  Jean  wrap  up  and  get  to 
work  in  an  earnest  love  scene.  "Cut!" 
decrees  Wes  Ruggles.    "That's  fine." 

But  Fred  isn't  satisfied.  He  thinks 
he's  a  lousy  lover.  "Don't  you  think 
I  could  get  a  little  more  into  my  kiss- 
ing?" he  asks  Ruggles. 

"I  don't  know,"  replies  Wes.  "But  if 
you  want  me  to,  I'll  send  out  for  a 
Hollywood  High  School  boy  to  teach 
you  how!" 

PERSONALLY,  we  can't  imagine  any- 
thing more  terrifying  than  a  H.H.S. 
Casanova  in  action.  Unless  it's  "Black 
Friday,"  the  chiller  that  Universal  is 
brewing  for  macabre-minded  movie  lov- 
ers. "The  House  of  Seven  Gables,"  next 
door,  isn't  any  too  cheerful,  either,  as 
you'll  know  if  you've  read  your  Haw- 
thorne. Vincent  Price,  Margaret  Lind- 
say, George  Sanders  and  Nan  Grey  are 
suffering  through  the  long,  drawn-out 
curse  of  the  Pyncheons  at  Universal 
this  month,  too.  But  alongside  of  "Black 
Friday,"  a  cozy  little  curse  is  a  mere 
bagatelle.  "Black  Friday"  comes  across 
with  ten — count  'em — ten  bona  fide 
murders  and  one  execution!  Not  a  bad 
average  for  Karloff  and  Lugosi. 

Oddly  enough,  on  the  set  we  find 
Boris  comparatively  unmangled  by 
make-up,  except  for  a  Hindenburg 
hairpiece  that  bristles  like  a  vegetable 
brush.  Odder  still,  the  set  doesn't 
have  a  dark  shadow,  graveyard  or 
haunted  house  within  sight.  It's  just  a 
regulation  Hollywood  night-club  lay- 
out. Luscious  Anne  Nagel  steps  up  on 
the  band  stand  and  croons  a  song. 

The  story's  about  a  skilled  brain  sur- 
geon who  transplants  a  dying  criminal's 
cerebellum  to  injured  college  professor 
Stanley  Ridges.  From  then  on  Uni- 
versal scenarists  have  dreamed  up  some 
extremely  novel  ways  to  put  a  murder 
victim  out  of  his  miseries. 

It  has  also  been  our  conviction  that 
there  are  few  tougher  star  gentlemen  in 
town  than  Brian  Donlevy.  We  arrive 
on  the  "Down  Went  McGinty"  set  at 
Paramount,  then,  quite  naturally  ex- 
pecting some  rough  stuff.  We  know  it's 
a  rowdy  travesty  on  municipal  corrup- 
tion in  a  big  American  city.  We  know 
that  Brian  has  plenty  of  battles  with 
Akim  Tamiroff,  a  vicious  political  dic- 
tator, until  good  wife  Muriel  Angelus 
gets  to  work  on  his  conscience.  Frank- 
ly, we  expect  some  fireworks. 

But  when  we  step  inside  the  heavy, 
soundproof  door,  we  find  Brian  and 
Muriel  knee-deep  in  a  nursery  scene. 
And  Brian  is  down  on  his  hands  and 
knees  playing  with  an  electric  train! 

Poor  Preston  Sturges,  the  playwright, 
is  on  his  very  first  directing  assignment 
with  "Down  Went  McGinty."  He's  tear- 
ing his  scalp  lock  out  by  the  roots, 
trying  to  get  his  scenes  shot  on  sched- 
ule. But  he  made  a  mistake  when  he 
let  Donlevy  get  near  that  electric  train. 

"Hurry  up,  Brian,"  pleads  Sturges. 

"Just  a  minute,"  Brian  beams.  "Now 
if  I  can  route  the  track  over  that 
bridge — " 

OVER  at  RKO,  too,  a  couple  of  darling 
kids,  Scotty  Beckett  and  Mary  Lou 
Harrington,  have  considerably  softened 
the  hard  bachelor  crust  of  a  chap  we'd 
never  tag  as  a  home  man.  Cary  Grant 
is  having  the  time  of  his  life,  we  dis- 
cover, playing  papa  in  "My  Favorite 
Wife,"  with  Irene  Dunne. 

"It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  been  a 
father,"  grins  Cary,  "and  believe  me, 
it's  swell!"     Cary  is  sitting  back  in  an 


(Continued  from  page  51) 

easy  chair  wrapped  up  in  an  atrocious 
leopard  skin  bathrobe  and  puffing  a 
pipe  peacefully,  while  Scotty  and  Mary 
Lou  climb  all  over  his  knees  and  muss 
up  his  thick  hair. 

"My  Favorite  Wife"  is  another  of 
those  insane  comedies  to  out-awful 
"The  Awful  Truth."  Leo  McCarey  is 
again  producing  it,  but  this  time  Gar- 
son  Kanin,  RKO's  wonder  boy,  has  the 
director's  load  on  his  young  shoulders. 

The  plot  parallels  "Too  Many  Hus- 
bands" for  its  general  idea,  only  in  this 
one,  Cary  has  too  many  wives.  Briefly, 
Irene,  an  exploress,  disappears,  to  be 
declared  legally  dead.  Whereupon  Cary 
marries  Gail  Patrick.  Whereupon  Irene 
returns  out  of  the  nowhere  just  as  Cary 
and  Gail  set  off  for  a  honeymoon  in 
Yosemite  Valley.  Whereupon  Irene  sets 
out  after  them.  Whereupon — it's  a  case 
of  hellzapoppin!  You  can  bet  on  Dunne 
to  win  in  the  end. 

We  watch  Garson  Kanin  guide  Cary 
through  a  scene  with  the  kids.  They 
get  along  so  well,  it's  over  before  we 
know  it,  and  Cary  is  being  dragged 
over  to  the  set  piano  to  play  tunes  for 
his  picture  progeny.  It  happens  be- 
tween every  scene,  he  admits.  "This  is 
what  I  get  for  being  a  family  man,"  he 
complains,  but  we  know  he's  loving  it. 

We  can't  help  wondering,  though,  how 
Cary  would  feel  about  fatherhood  if 
he  had  someone  like  Little  Orvie  to 
handle.  If  you've  ever  read  Booth 
Tarkington's  sagas  of  that  young  Hoo- 
sier  holy  terror,  you'll  have  a  good 
idea  about  the  problems  of  film  par- 
ents Ernest  Truex  and  Dorothy  Tree. 

"Little  Orvie"  has  been  narrowed ' 
down  to  the  story  of  Orvie's  terrific  de- 
sire for  a  Great  Dane.  Johnny  Sheffield 
(Tarzan's  son)  is  playing  Orvie,  and  the 
Great  Dane  is  one  of  the  biggest,  lion- 
like  dogs  in  Hollywood.  It  frightens  us 
just  to  look  at  him.  And  Daisy  Mother- 
shed  and  Ray  Turner,  the  two  Negro 
actors  who  have  to  lead  him  by  the 
collar,  are  a  good  two  shades  lighter 
than  usual.  Johnny  Sheffield  is  about 
the  only  principal  who  seems  to  enjoy 
this  scene.    And  that  includes  the  dog. 

For  the  take  they  lead  him  into  a  tiny 
shack  set,  the  kitchen  of  Daisy's  cot- 


With  Paul  himself  dividing  his  time 
between  stage  and  screen,  Edward  G. 
Robinson  gets  his  first  "Muni"  role 
with    "Dr.    Ehrlich's    Magic    Bullet" 


tage.  She's  supposed  to  be  hiding  the 
mutt  for  Orvie.  It's  so  cluttered  up 
with  props  that  the  Dane  hasn't  room 
to  budge.  He  suddenly  and  suspiciously 
tries  it  anyway,  swipes  his  tail  on  the 
red-hot  kitchen  stove,  and  in  a  couple 
of  seconds  there  isn't  much  left  of  the 
"Little  Orvie"  set.  The  fire  extinguish- 
ers come  out  and  pandemonium  reigns, 
as  they  say.  The  Dane  is  long  gone  at 
once,  but  Johnny  Sheffield  is  grinning 
broadly.  Now,  we  wonder  just  what 
Little  Orvie  had  to  do  with  this?  Any- 
way, Johnny's  a  pretty  cute  kid. 

But  for  a  couple  of  the  cutest  kiddies 
of  the  month,  we'll  be  forced  to  pick 
Busby  Berkeley's  dual  discoveries  at 
Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,  Barbara  and 
Beverly,  who  are  doing  their  eight- 
months-old  best  to  steal  "Forty  Little 
Mothers"  from  veteran  Eddie  Cantor. 

Barbara  and  Beverly  are  two  separate 
babies — twins,  in  fact  But  in  this  pic- 
ture, they're  the  same  baby!  You  see, 
small  babies  can  work  only  a  very  lim- 
ited time  on  Hollywood  sets,  according 
to  rigid  California  law.  Barbara  works 
in  the  morning;  Beverly  works  in  the 
afternoon.    And  try  to  tell  them  apart! 

Beverly  is  on  the  afternoon  shift 
when  we  catch  Eddie  Cantor  in  grease 
paint  for  the  first  time  in  two  long 
years.  He's  singing  "Little  Curly  Hair" 
to  Beverly.  As  for  Beverly,  she  can 
take  Cantor's  songs  or  leave  them.  She 
yawns  two  or  three  times  to  break  up 
the  scene.  Then  she  wails.  "She's  cut- 
ting teeth!"  declares  Eddie. 

"How  do  you  know?"  asks  Berkeley. 

"How  do  I  know,"  bristles  Eddie. 
"And  me  with  five  daughters?" 

"Forty  Little  Mothers"  sounds  like 
good  fun  to  us.  It's  the  story  of  a 
teacher  who  isn't  at  all  welcome  in  a 
fancy  girls'  school.  The  good-looking 
professor  whose  place  Eddie  takes,  got 
bounced  for  making  love  to  the  pupils. 
So  the  girls  give  Eddie  the  love  treat- 
ment, hoping  results  will  be  the  same. 
They  aren't  at  all — but  it's  a  spring- 
board for  Cantoresque  chuckles. 

Bonita  Granville  (so  grown  up  now!) 
and  Rita  Johnson  are  sitting  around 
raptly  watching  Eddie's  maneuvers 
with  Beverly.  Just  then  Diana  Lewis 
walks  on  the  set — her  first  day  in  her 
first  choice  M-G-M  part.  Diana,  of 
course,  is  the  brand  new  Mrs.  William 
Powell,  and  don't  think  the  gang  doesn't 
know  it.  Just  for  a  second,  Eddie  hesi- 
tates on  the  set  with  Beverly  still  in  his 
arms.  Then  he  steps  across  and  places 
her  on  Diana's  lap. 

"Rockabye-Baby"  he  sings,  in  his 
best  mammy  manner.  The  whole  set 
joins  in.  Poor  Diana — such  blushes! 
But  that's  what  you  get  around  Holly- 
wood sets — and  you've  got  to  take  it. 

liNE  star  we  know  who  is  certainly 
learning  to  take  it,  too,  but  in  a  little 
different  way,  is  Tyrone  Power. 

Ty  had  told  us  "Dance  with  the  Dev- 
il" was  a  sock  part  for  him,  but  we 
didn't  take  him  literally.  Now  when 
we  walk  on  the  big  Movietone  City 
stage,  we  know  what  Ty  meant.  It's 
a  prison  scene  and  Ty  and  tough  Lloyd 
Nolan  are  about  to  square  off  for  a  bat- 
tle. Director  Henry  Hathaway  stands 
by,  watching  keenly  with  level  blue 
eyes.  Ty's  in  grey  prison  cloth,  mussed 
up  and  mean  looking.  They're  about  to 
go. 

"Dance  with  the  Devil"  isn't  sophis- 
ticated high  life  drama,  as  you  might 
think  from  the  rather  naughty  title.  It's 
a  picture  about  a  vastly  wealthy  and 
socially  prominent  stockbroker,  (Ed- 
ward Arnold)  who  fails  and  goes  to  the 


86 


PHOTOPLAY 


penitentiary.  (Could  this  be  a  Holly- 
wood echo  of  Richard  Whitney?)  Ty- 
rone plays  his  son,  a  soft-living  but 
smart  youngster  who  falls  in  bad  hands, 
becomes  the  brains  of  a  gang  and  plots 
his  father's  release.  But  the  old  man 
has  some  ideals  left.  He'll  have  none  of 
it,  and  Ty  ends  up  in  the  Big  House 
himself.  The  only  feminine  thing  about 
it  is  Dorothy  Lamour,  Nolan's  girl 
friend,  who  likes  Ty's  looks.  You  can 
see  the  plot  doesn't  pull  punches. 
Neither  does  Ty. 

The  scheduled  knock-'em-down  and 
drag-'em-out  between  Ty  and  Lloyd  is 
booked  to  go  just  for  a  couple  of  pow- 
der-puff punches.  "Then  I'll  cut,"  ex- 
plains Hathaway.  "These  stunt  men 
will  carry  on  and  really  mix  it  up  in 
a  long  shot.  All  right,  let's  do  it!"  The 
stunt  men  grin  to  themselves,  and  Ty 
and  Nolan  start  swinging. 

But  the  stunters  soon  stop  grinning, 
and  so  do  we.  You've  never  seen  such 
a  set-to  as  Ty  and  Lloyd  work  up. 

"Print  it,"  orders  Hathaway.  We're 
glad  to  learn  the  stunt  fellows  get  their 
checks  just  the  same.  Also  that  Tyrone 
isn't  just  a  name  with  Power.  There's 
some  real  Irish  in  him,  too. 

IT'S  a  wonder,  in  fact,  that  Warners 
haven't  corraled  Ty  and  all  other  even 
faintly  Hibernian  heroes  around  Holly- 
wood for  their  all -Erin  epic,  "Three 
Cheers  for  the  Irish"!  Even  without 
Cagney  and  O'Brien,  the  Warner  sham- 
rock twins,  there  are  enough  Irishmen 
on  the  set  to  start  a  Sinn  Fein  rebellion 
when  we  visit  it  one  morning. 

Thomas  Mitchell,  his  thatch  dyed  car- 
rot red,  Alan  Hale,  Pat  Lane,  Irene 
Hervey,  Dennis  Morgan,  Virginia  Grey 
— even  Lloyd  Bacon,  the  director,  all 
trace  their  family  trees  to  the  Ould  Sod. 
Bacon  is  the  fellow  who  thought  up  the 
first  Warner  all-Irish  movie,  "The  Irish 
in  Us,"  with  Cagney  and  Pat  O'Brien. 

We  find  almost  the  entire  cast  circling 
a  big  dining-room  table,  for  the  key 
scene  in  the  picture.  It's  where  Thomas 
Mitchell,  kicked  off  the  police  force 
after  twenty-five  years  of  faithful  pave- 


ment pounding,  resolves  to  run  for  al- 
derman and  show  the  department  a 
thing  or  two.  The  picture's  whole  plot 
depends  on  this  scene,  so  it's  plenty 
long.  While  all  the  six  cast  members 
chime  in  at  their  cues,  Tom  Mitchell 
slices  a  big  ham  energetically — a  little 
too  energetically,  it  turns  out,  because 
glib  Alan  Hale,  of  all  people,  fumbles 
his  lines  time  after  time. 

Alan's  terribly  embarrassed,  because 
it  means  everyone  else  has  to  go 
through  the  long  business  again. 
Finally,  almost  through,  Alan  blows  up 
again.  This  time,  Tom  Mitchell  has 
sliced  all  the  big  ham  to  shreds.  He 
signals  a  prop  man.  "We  need  more 
ham,"  he  explains. 

"More  ham!"  explodes  Alan,  remorse- 
fully. "We've  got  too  much  already. 
Just  put  me  on  the  table  and  carve  me 
up!"  Everybody  howls  and  the  next 
take  is  perfect.  That's  what  a  little  re- 
laxation does  to  a  set  sometimes,  when 
the  hard  luck  sign  is  up. 

Hard  luck  is  rank  understatement, 
however,  for  "Saturday's  Children," 
which  we  find  under  way  at  last  after 
a  double  star  rebellion  on  the  Warner 
lot.  Olivia  de  Havilland  is  still  under 
suspension  as  we  write  because  she  said 
absolutely  nothing  doing  after  "Gone 
with  the  Wind."  Jane  Bryan  flew  off 
and  married,  even  announced  that  she 
would  retire  from  the  screen.  Marilyn 
Merrick,  a  new  Warner  stock  actress, 
was  booked  for  it  then — but  she  just 
wasn't  ready  for  that  much  acting.  All 
in  all,  "Saturday's  Children"  is  starting 
off  with  a  leap-year  jinx — even  though 
Anne  Shirley  did  finally  rally  to  play 
with  John  Garfield,  Dennie  Moore  and 
Claude  Rains.  To  top  all  the  ill  omens, 
John  announces  that  "Saturday's  Chil- 
dren" is  his  last  Hollywood  picture  for 
some  time.  The  minute  it's  over  he 
leaves  for  Broadway  and  the  old  famil- 
iar footlights,  and  Warners'  will  get 
Garfield  back  when  they  can  catch  him, 
which  will  probably  be  not  until  late 
summer  at  least.  By  then,  Hollywood 
will  be  so  busy  that  John  may  have  to 
fight  his  way  back  in! 


Boos  and  Bouquets 


(Continued  from  page  5) 


pictures  in  the  Philippines  is  fifth  lead- 
ing in  the  world  market,  you  could 
arrange  to  print  these  in  your  maga- 
zine. 

Alfred  B.  Murillo, 

Manila,  P.  I. 
UNDYING  GIFT 

I  HE  Film  Society  was  showing  the  old 
silent  version  of  "Robin  Hood"  and,  al- 
though I  was  still  shocked  and  unhappy 
over  the  news  of  Douglas  Fairbanks' 
death,  I  decided  to  attend.  The  early 
scenes  were  slow,  full  of  subtitles,  and 
the  student  audience  giggled.  When 
Fairbanks,  poised  on  the  edge  of  the 
cliff  whence  he  believes  his  sweetheart 
has  thrown  herself,  draws  his  sword, 
kisses  the  hilt  and,  raising  it  like  a 
crucifix,  cries:  "For  God,  for  Richard, 
and  for  Her!"  the  audience  became 
hysterical  and  the  senior  beside  me 
shifted  his  feet  (which  he  was  resting 
on  the  neck  of  the  girl  in  front  of  him) 
and  guffawed.  But  something  was 
alive  in  that  room;  the  slight,  swarthy, 
grinning  man  with  the  incredible  acro- 
batic grace  was  real  and  magnetized 
even  that  audience  into  reluctant  ad- 
miration. Not  the  years,  not  the  pre- 
posterous subtitles,  not  even  the  cyni- 
cal, jeering  students,  could  prevail 
against  the  vitality  and  charm  of  the 
man  who  was  Robin  Hood  and  D'Ar- 
tagnan  and  the  Thief  of  Bagdad.  It's 
too  bad  for  the  young  in  heart  to  have 
Robin   Hood  and  D'Artagnan  and  the 


Thief  die  all  at  once.  Or  are  they 
dead?  Robin  Hood  lived  the  other 
night,  against  tremendous  odds,  as 
Fairbanks  heroes  always  did.  "That 
vibrant  and  gay  spirit"  was  a  gift  to 
all  of  us.  A  gift  which  can  never  be 
taken  back. 

Ruth  Elspeth  Raymond, 

Lexington,  Mass. 

BATTING  FOR  BRENDA 

HERE'S  my  biggest  BOO  of  the  year, 
and  it's  going  straight  across  the  plains 
of  Kansas,  the  Rockies  of  Colorado,  the 
salt  flats  of  Utah,  through  scenic  Ne- 
vada, to  Julia  Smith  in  California.  My, 
what  a  traverse — but  it's  worth  it! 

You  see,  I  don't  like  Miss  Smith's 
criticism  of  Brenda  Joyce.  I  wonder  if 
she  realizes  "The  Rains  Came"  was 
Brenda's  first  introduction  to  those 
huge,  hot  lights,  a  staring  camera,  a 
host  of  stars,  and  then — Royalty  visited 
the  set  during  one  of  Brenda's  most 
difficult  scenes,  which  undoubtedly  be- 
came doubly  difficult. 

Nevertheless,  Miss  Joyce  came  through 
beautifully.  She  possesses  a  speaking 
voice  of  perfect  pronunciation,  and  per- 
sonally I  think  Myrna  Loy  groped 
hither  and  yon  with  a  covered-up  look 
because  of  Brenda's  superb  acting. 
Please — put  yourself  in  Brenda's  slip- 
pers, then  go  see  the  picture  again! 
Josephine  Myers, 
Kansas  City,  Mo. 


Why  Hollywood  demands  screen  tests 


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beautifully.  So  your  foundation  must  give  you 
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APPROVED     BY     SCHIAPARELLI 
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APRIL,     1940 


87 


**!  it? 


Nobody  can  blame  you  for  looking  sad, 
tired  —  or  feeling  cross  —  when  you're 
troubled  with  eliminative  sluggishness. 
But  someone  should  blame  you  if  you  don't 
hurry  up  and  do  something  about  it! 

You  Can  Be  a  Different  Person 

Free  yourself  from  those  distressing  symp- 
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weariness,  that  dragged-out  feeling  and 
even  to  growing  old.  Get  enough  of  nature's 
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SWISS  KRISS  Brand  Herbal  Laxative. 

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Round-Up  of  Familiar  Faces 


Copyright  1940.  Modem  Diet  Products,  Inc. 


EXERCISE    AND    LIKE    IT! 

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won't  let  her  eat  what  she  wants  and  as 
much  as  she  wants. 

Ann's  been  a  chorus  girl,  gangster's 
moll,  nurse,  and  everything  else  on  the 
screen  she  never  could  be  in  real  life. 
So  watch  her  go  places. 

How  old  is  Ann?  Just  twenty.  That 
should  settle  that  riddle  for  all  time. 

Here  Comes  the  Groom 

"Now,  Mr.  Raft,  would  you  mind  tell- 
ing the  radio  audience  which  team,  in 
your  opinion,  will  walk  off  with  the 
pennant  this  year?" 

And  the  sports  broadcast  between 
Actor  George  Raft  and  Radio  Broad- 
caster Ronald  Reagan  proceeded.  For 
away  back  there  three  years  ago,  Ron- 
ald Reagan  never  dreamed  that  one  day 
he,  too,  would  be  an  actor  who  would 
be  interviewed  over  the  air. 

Middle  West  to  his  eyebrows,  Ronald 
was  born  in  Tampico,  Illinois,  and  was 
graduated  from  Dixon  High  School 
when  the  family  moved  to  that  town. 
Eureka  College  in  Eureka,  Illinois, 
found  him  working  hard  for  an  A.B. 
degree  in  Sociology  and  Economics.  It 
found  him  on  the  football  field,  too. 
Nothing,  not  even  his  movie  career,  has 
given  him  the  thrill  that  receiving  his 
football  letter  did. 

Perhaps  I  should  amend  that  to  say 
that  nothing  had  thrilled  him  so  much 
until  Janey  Wyman  said,  "Yes."  Or 
no,  wait.  Ronald  says  it  wasn't  one  of 
those  "will  you  be  mine?"  proposals  at 
all.  He  said  they  just  kinda'  drifted 
into  matrimony,  he  and  Janey,  and  he 
thinks  it's  really  the  only  way  to  be 
sure  of  the  right  girl. 

They  met,  a  year  and  a  half  ago  on 
the  "Brother  Rat"  set,  and  liked  each 
other  in  a  mild,  congenial  sort  of  way. 
They  had  a  few  dates  and  then  a  few 
more,  and  found  they  liked  being  to- 
gether a  lot,  and  one  day  they  dis- 
covered they  liked  the  idea  of  being 
together  well  enough  to  make  it  per- 
manent and — well — they  did. 

Joy  Hodges  got  Ronnie  into  movies, 
believe  it  or  not.  Ronald  had  known 
Joy  back  home  in  Illinois  and  each  year 
when  he  came  West  with  the  Chicago 
Cubs  for  their  spring  training  (Ronnie 
was  their  sports  announcer),  he'd  look 
up  Joy.  Deep  in  his  heart  he'd  always 
wanted  to  be  an  actor,  but  he'd  never 
had  the  nerve  to  speak  of  it  until  he 
mentioned  it  to  Joy  one  time.  Next 
day  (Thursday,  to  be  exact)  she  had 
an  agent  around  to  see  him  and  the 
next  day  (Friday)  the  agent  had  him 
testing  at  Warners,  and  Saturday  morn- 
ing he  was  on  his  way  back  to  his  Des 
Moines,  Iowa,  radio  job.  The  next  week 
the  telegram  came  from  Warners  to 
come  to  Hollywood  immediately  for  a 
role  in  "Love  Is  on  the  Air."  He's  made 
twenty-five  pictures  in  the  two  and 
one -half  years  since  that,  and  finished 
"Brother  Rat  and  a  Baby"  just  in  time 
for  his  Parsons'  tour. 

He  brought  his  father  and  mother  to 
Hollywood  and  lived  with  them  until  he 
married  Jane.  His  one  wild,  uncon- 
trollable love  is  spaghetti.  In  every  city 
they  toured,  he  and  Jane  would  seek 
out  Italian  restaurants,  but  they  never 
found  one  that  could  surpass  Jack 
LaRue's  spaghetti  place  out  in  the  Val- 
ley. You  can  find  the  two  of  them 
there,  at  least  twice  every  week. 

Double  for  Dietrich 

A  strange  woman,  is  Italian-born 
Isa  Miranda,  star  of  "Adventure  in 
Diamonds."  Known  as  one  of  the  great 
stars  of  Europe,  she  is  yet  shy  and 
frightened.      Her    brown    eyes    flecked 


(Continued  from  page  25) 

with  gold,  widen  with  alarm  when  new 
faces  surround  her.  "Please  take  me 
away  from  here,"  she'll  whisper. 

In  both  her  first  film,  "Hotel  Imperial," 
and  in  her  "Adventure  in  Diamonds," 
her  resemblance  to  Dietrich  in  looks, 
accent  and  allure  was  noted.  But  it  was 
no  imitation.  Miranda  of  Italy  and 
Dietrich  of  Germany,  by  some  strange 
coincidence,  could  pass  for  sisters. 

In  Hollywood  she  remained  secluded. 
The  studio  commissary,  the  Hollywood 
night  spots,  never  saw  her.  While  here 
she  quietly  married  Alfredo  Guarini, 
her  Italian  manager. 

Her  spare  time  was  given  to  answering 
personally  the  thousands  of  letters  that 
poured  in  from  European  fans  begging 
her  to  come  back  home. 

And  she  went,  too.  When  the  war  at 
sea  raged  at  its  heaviest,  Miranda  sailed 
quietly  for  home,  determined  against  all 
arguments  to  see  the  little  mother  whose 
photographs  adorn  her  dressing-room 
and  living-room  walls. 

Five-feet-five,  blessed  with  a  natural 
grace,  she  carries  herself  with  distinc- 
tion. Her  large  Hungarian  sheep  dog 
followed  her  meekly  about,  the  two 
creating  quite  a  picture.  At  one-thirty 
every  morning,  she'd  awake,  and,  un- 
able to  sleep,  would  walk  through  her 
garden,  her  dog  by  her  side. 

"I'm  glad  I  have  this  insomnia,"  she'd 
say,  "for  otherwise  I  could  not  enjoy  the 
quietness  of  the  garden,  the  flowers  and 
soft  sky  of  this  California  of  yours." 

Hers  is  a  strange  story.  She  had  to 
be  fairly  thrust  into  the  glamour  spot 
she  now  holds  in  Europe.  As  a  slip  of 
a  girl,  she  haunted  the  Palace  of  Fine 
Arts  in  Milan,  her  native  city.  A  long- 
ing for  beauty  in  her  own  life  led  her 
to  become  a  dress  model.  But  oddly 
enough,  the  money  earned  at  modeling 
went  into  a  stenographic  course  (she 
was  graduated  with  top  honors),  and 
soon  this  beautiful  woman  who  could 
type  a  hundred  words  a  minute  was 
superintending  the  work  of  twenty  typ- 
ists and  drawing  a  salary  of  1,500  lira 
($75)  a  month. 

But  the  theater  called,  despite  her 
business  capabilities.  Soon  she  was  at- 
tending the  Academy  of  Dramatic  Arts 
at  Milan,  and  again  she  was  graduated 
with  honors — an  achievement  that  won 
her  the  leading  role  in  Pirandello's 
"Tonight  We  Improvise."  Movies  came 
next — in  Rome,  Paris,  Vienna  and  Ber- 
lin— with  Isa  picking  up  the  languages 
as  she  went.  In  fact  she  gathered  to- 
gether her  English,  or  most  of  it,  after 
she   arrived  in  Hollywood. 

Yes,  she's  the  dream  queen  of  Eu- 
rope, no  mistake  about  that.  She's  a 
good  scout  to  those  of  us  who  met  her 
in  Hollywood  and  who  are  anxiously 
awaiting  her  return.  We  know  one 
thing.  When  she  does  come  back  we're 
in  for  the  biggest,  heartiest  handshake 
you   can   imagine. 

He- Man— With  a  Sense  of  Humor 

Broderick  Crawford  wouldn't  be  Helen 
Broderick's  son  if  he  didn't  possess  a 
sense  of  the  ridiculous  beyond  all  scope. 
In  fact,  it's  like  mother,  like  son,  in 
more  ways  than  one.  Helen  never 
wanted  to  be  an  actress.  She  even  ran 
away  from  home  at  fourteen  because 
her  mother,  a  former  opera  singer, 
talked  theater  morning,  noon,  and 
night.  But  the  only  place  she  could 
find  a  job  was,  ironically  enough,  on  the 
stage  in  the  chorus. 

And  never  in  this  world  did  Broder- 
ick want  to  be  an  actor.  "I'm  not  going 
to  be  an  actor,"  he  would  say  to  his 
father.  "And  that's  final."  To  which 
his    father   would   reply,    "I'll   not   put 


up  with  a  son  in  business.  You're  going 
to  be  an  actor,  and  that's  final." 

Well,  all  right,  he  told  his  family  he'd 
concede  this  much;  he'd  get  a  job  in  a 
producer's  office  with  a  view  to  working 
up  to  be  a  director  or  something.  He'd 
show  actors  in  and  out  of  an  office,  but 
he  wouldn't  be  one. 

He  opened  in  London  in  "She  Loves 
Me  Not"  and  was  terrific  as  an  actor. 
He  doesn't  know  how  it  happened. 
Everything  just  went  black  and  there 
he  was — an  actor.  He  came  home  to 
find  no  job,  so  he  went  on  to  a  stock 
company  at  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts, 
as  sort  of  an  extra  handy  man.  How- 
ever, in  London,  Brod  had  met  Alfred 
Lunt  and  Lynn  Fontanne,  and  one  day 
while  he  was  at  Stockbridge  a  wire 
came  from  the  Lunts  for  Brod  to  be 
ready  to  begin  rehearsal  that  fall  in 
"Point  Valaine." 

He  was  good  in  "Point  Valaine,"  but 
from  that  point  Brod  hit  one  wonderful 
flop  after  another.  He  came  to  Holly- 
wood and  made  two  comedies,  "Woman 
Chases  Man"  and  "Start  Cheering."  And 
all  the  time  out  on  the  Westside  golf 
links,  he  wondered  why  Bing  Crosby 
and  all  the  guys  would  greet  him  with, 
"Hi,  Lennie,  how  are  the  rabbits?"  On 
his  way  back  to  New  York  he  decided  to 
read  Steinbeck's  "Of  Mice  and  Men" 
to  discover  what  all  this  Lennie  busi- 
ness was  about.  When  he  arrived  in 
New  York,  he  knew.  He  raced  to  his 
friend,  Moss  Hart.  "Moss,  I've  got  to 
play  Lennie,"  he  said. 

Moss  understood.  "George  Kauf- 
man's in  Hollywood  casting  now,"  Moss 
told  him.    Brod  got  back  in  a  hurry. 

He  made  history  as  Lennie  on  the 
New  York  stage,  and  he's  spent  all  the 
time  since  dodging  the  same  kind  of 
role  in  movies.  Brod  is  a  smart  young 
man.  He  knows  the  danger  of  being 
typed.  So  he  held  out  and  waited.  One 
day  at  a  party,  Director  Tay  Garnett 
said  to  him,  "Why  do  I  think  you're 
funny?  I  never  saw  you  act.  Come 
over  tomorrow.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about  a  part." 

Tay  saw  in  Brod  the  latent  humor, 
the  clumsily  appealing  Babbitt  of 
"Eternally  Yours,"  the  amazing  attor- 
ney of  "Slightly  Honorable";  and  Brod- 
Crawford,  under  contract  to  Garnett,  is 
now  on  his  way. 

He  still  likes  New  York  best.  He 
can't  quite  make  up  his  mind  to  plunge 
into  Hollywood  head-on.  But  it's  given 
him  some  awfully  good  times,  this  Hol- 
lywood, and  vice  versa,  I  may  say. 

Although  he  maintains  an  apartment 
in  Hollywood,  he  spends  most  of  his 
time  at  his  parents'  San  Fernando  Val- 
ley home. 

At  nine  of  a  morning,  Helen  will  go 
into  his  room.  "All  right,  Barrymore, 
get  up,"  she'll  say. 

They're  wonderful  together.  Only 
Brod  has  the  longer,  curlier,  eyelashes. 
Because  of  them  he  calls  himself  the 
male  Marie  Wilson.    I  call  him  Tops. 

Her  Heart  Belongs  to  Daddy 

"Yeah,  well  what's  she  done  in  pic- 
tures?" Pat  O'Brien  and  Broderick 
Crawford,  preparing  to  step  into  the 
leads  of  "Slightly  Honorable,"  de- 
manded of  Director  Tay  Garnett. 

"Not  much,  I'll  admit,"  said  Tay,  "but 
when  you  see  Ruth  Terry,  you  won't 
worry  a  minute." 

Not  more  than  five  scenes  had  been 
shot  when  Pat  and  Brod  began  casting 
slightly  puzzled  glances  at  each  other. 
Far  from  the  bungling  little  amateur 
they  had  expected,  "ittle  bittie  Woofie" 
was  in  there  like  a  veteran. 

It's  a  funny  thing,  in  Hollywood,  how 


PHOTOPLAY 


one  studio's  poison  can  be  another 
studio's  meat.  For  here  was  Ruth,  at 
20th  Century-Fox,  doing  occasional  lit- 
tle bits  and  getting  nowhere.  The  day  her 
contract  expired,  her  agent  sent  her  to 
Walter  Wanger,  who  was  looking  for  a 
pert  girl,  who  could  put  over  a  song 
as  it  should  be  put  over.  When  Ruth's 
try-out  flashed  on  the  screen  the  other 
contestants  just  oozed  away. 

Ruth's  father,  Milton  McMahon,  a 
huge  six-feet-three  Irishman,  thought 
she  was  wonderful. 

Ruth  has  been  entertaining  the  pub- 
lic since  she  was  a  child,  and  doing  it 
well.  At  fourteen,  she  "doubled"  be- 
tween Loew's  State  Theater  and  the 
Hollywood  Restaurant  in  New  York, 
singing  four  times  nightly. 

Daddy  thought  she  was  wonderful. 

At  fifteen,  Ruth  had  moved  on  to 
singing  at  the  Royal  Palms  Hotel  in 
Miami,  Florida,  and  when  on  the  fol- 
lowing New  Year's  Eve  at  the  famous 
Chez  Paree  cafe  in  Chicago,  as  she  was 
putting  over  her  songs  with  her  usual 
zip,  a  note  came  back  from  Joe  Schenck 
(that  man  gets  everywhere)  asking 
Ruth  how  she  would  like  to  try  pic- 
tures. Daddy  thought  it  would  be  won- 
derful, so  off  she  went  to  20th  Century- 
Fox. 

After  "Slightly  Honorable,"  Ruth 
went  back  to  New  York  to  sing  at  the 
famous  Casa  Manana  before  resuming 
her  movie  career. 

She  was  born,  October  21st  in  Benton 
Harbor,  Michigan,  and  finds  the  modest 
little  Hollywood  bungalow  quite  a 
haven  of  rest  after  her  hectic  travels 
about  the  country.  Her  brother  Stew- 
art, another  six  footer,  is  a  student  at 
the  University  of  Southern  California. 

Ruth  herself  is  a  bookworm,  the  cut- 
est of  all  worms. 

She  never  studied  voice  and  some- 
how just  naturally  knew  how  to  put 
over  the  torchiest,  hottest  love  songs. 

Her  nose  must  have  rammed  on  the 
brakes  for  the  red  light  and  then  for- 
got to  go  on,  for  it  just  stops  there  on 
her  face  much  too  soon.  Her  brown 
eyes  twinkle.  She's  five-feet-four,  and 
her  legs  are  something,  her  shoe  size 
4J2B%  her  hose  size  9  (well-filled),  her 
bust  34,  waist  24,  hips  34%  inches. 

And  Daddy  thinks  she's  wonderful. 

All  Hale  Broke  Loose: 

Hale,  currently  of  Warner's  "Irene" 
even  after  thirty  years  in  movies  will 
be  the  first  to  tell  you  he's  kid- 
ding when  it  comes  to  his  roman- 
tic sounding  name.  In  Washington, 
D.  C,  where  Alan  was  born  on  a 
cold  February  10th,  he  was  named  by 
his  doting  Scottish  parents,  Rufus  Alan 
MacKahan.  At  eighteen,  when  his 
family  had  moved  to  Philadelphia  and 
he'd  had  a  go  at  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  Alan  decided  to  become 
a  newspaper  man,  but  try  as  he  would, 
he  could  get  no  drama,  love  in- 
terest, or  suspense  into  his  obituary  re- 
porting so  he  became  an  osteopath.  He 
rubbed  osteopathy  .right  into  the  ground 
in  no  time  and,  changing  the  MacKahan 
to  Hale,  he  went  on  the  stage. 

In  Philadelphia  the  old  Lubin  Movie 
Company  was  next  to  his  favorite  bak- 
ery; because  it  was  so  convenient  to 
his  favorite  scones,  Scotch  Alan  become 
a  movie  actor.  That  was  in  1911.  Since 
then  he  has  acquired  a  wife,  a  home  in 
Hollywood,  two  children,  many  silver 
threads  among  the  gold,  and  a  lot  of 
gold  among  the  silver. 

He's  the  most  incongruous  person  in 
Hollywood.  For  instance,  when  a  di- 
rector wants  a  good,  tough  he-man 
fight,  he  thinks  of  Hale,  and  if  lucky 
enough  to  get  him  (for  Alan  works  all 
the  time) ,  the  director  would  get  a 
knockdown,  drag-out  sequence.  But 
that  night  he  might  wish  he  were  going 
out  with  the  boys,  and  when  he'd  call 
Mrs.  Hale  to  say,  "Look,  Gretchen,  111 


be  late,"  a  voice  from  the  extension  up- 
stairs would  say,  "What's  the  matter, 
Pop,  going  to  be  late?  Well,  I  think 
you'd  better  get  home  early." 

And  that  would  be  Jeanne  who,  as 
Mr.  Hale  says,  rules  them  with  an  iron 
hand.  Jeanne  came  to  the  Hales  when 
their  boy  and  girl  were  babies.  The 
Hales  advertised  for  a  nurse,  and  this 
French  girl  was  the  first  to  answer. 
Jeanne's  official  title  is  now  roost-ruler, 
and  the  Hales  adore  her. 

Another  astonishing  incongruity  about 
our  hero  is  his  straightforward  he-man 
adventures  into  business,  and  his  utter 
submission  to  his  horoscope.  If  the 
stars  say  yes,  he  goes  ahead.  If  not, 
you  could  build  fires  under  him  and 
he  wouldn't  budge. 

From  his  father,  who  was  a  manu- 
facturer of  patent  medicines,  Alan  in- 
herited the  urge  to  find  new  ways  to 
help  humanity;  not  by  the  "pink  pills 
for  pale  people"  route  exactly,  but  by 
the  inventing,  or  backing  the  inven- 
tions, of  helpful  commodities.  Hence 
his  flyers  into  the  promotion  of  grease- 
less  potato  chips,  sliding  theater  seats, 
automatic  car  brakes  and,  lately,  min- 
iature fire  extinguishers. 

"I'll  probably  make  a  million  dollars 
on  the  extinguishers,"  Mr.  Hale  says, 
"and  I  don't  want  it  or  need  it." 

His  home  is  an  easy,  natural  habita- 
tion with  each  member  of  the  Hale 
group  maintaining  his  own  room  fur- 
nished exactly  as  he  wants  it.  Eight- 
een-year-old Bud  usually  has  all  Alan's 
ties  in  his  room  and  Alan  is  lucky  to 
get  one  wear  out  of  the  blue  polka  dot. 

Several  months  ago  he  and  Mrs.  Hale 
celebrated  twenty-five  years  of  mar- 
riage. Right  here  in  Hollywood.  Mrs. 
Hale  was  overcome  when  Alan  pre- 
sented her  with  a  legal  document  that 
read: 

"I  hereby  take  up  your  option  for 
another  twenty-five  years." 

A  Trouper  Who  "Kept  A-Comin' " 

"Rich  fellas  come  up  an'  they  die. 
An'  their  kids  ain't  no  good  an'  they 
die  out.  But  we  keep  a-comin'.  We're 
the  people  that  live.  Can't  nobody  wipe 
us  out.  Can't  nobody  lick  us.  We'll 
go  on  forever.  We're  the  people." — 
Ma  Joad. 

Everyone  in  Hollywood  is  pretty  well 
agreed  that  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of 
character  delineation  the  screen  has 
seen  for  many  years  is  the  compelling 
portrait  of  Ma  Joad,  the  uncomplain- 
ing, courageous  "Okie"  matriarch  of 
"The  Grapes  of  Wrath." 

And  everyone,  particularly  the  old 
timers  who  have  seen  several  genera- 
tions of  film  stars  born  in  a  blaze  of 
ballyhoo  and  die  out  with  the  fading 
of  public  fancy,  is  pleased  that  at  last 
Jane  Darwell  is  having  her  day. 

For  twenty-five  years  Jane  Darwell 
has  been  plodding  along  in  pictures,  one 
of  that  little  army  of  dependable  char- 
acter actors  and  actresses  who  supply 
the  unspectacular  background  against 
which  are  silhouetted  in  bold  relief  the 
more  richly  rewarded  performances  of 
the  stars.  The  names  of  these  dramatic 
dray  horses  seldom  reach  the  headlines 
devoted  to  the  leaders  in  the  cinematic 
steeplechase.  A  line  among  the  screen 
credits  of  the  cast,  an  occasional  men- 
tion in  a  buried  phrase  in  a  review, 
are  their  only  recognition. 

But  behind  the  scenes  they're  known 
for  the  all-important  mood  and  tempo 
they  set  in  a  film,  and  their  steadiness 
often  saves  many  a  more  elaborately 
spotlighted  star  from  disaster. 

"Troupers"  they  call  them  in  the  show 
business,  and  for  a  quarter  of  a  century 
Jane  Darwell  has  been  proving  her 
right  to  that  brave  badge. 

She  won  it  quite  young,  that  actors' 
accolade  of  trouper.  For  Jane  Darwell 
was  never  an  ingenue  who  aged  into 
character  roles,  a  star  who  slipped  back 


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to  supporting  roles.  She's  been  playing 
character  parts  from  the  very  start,  and 
playing  them  in  preference  to  leads. 

Her  career  started  in  Chicago  in  the 
stock  company  of  the  old  Chicago  Opera 
House,  in  the  days  when  Bessie  Barris- 
cale  and  Howard  Hickman  were  the 
matinee  idols  of  the  Mid-West.  She 
had  come  around  to  the  stage  door, 
fresh  out  of  Dana  Hall,  the  finishing 
school  in  Boston,  and  her  eagerness  and 
quickly  demonstrated  ability  won  her  a 
berth  for  a  two  years'  apprenticeship  in 
the  famous  old  repertory  company. 

She  was,  at  the  time,  one  of  the  first 
society  girls  to  desert  debutante  party 
dresses  for  the  secondhand  costumes 
of  a  stock  company  actress.  Born  in 
Palmyra,  Missouri,  the  daughter  of  W. 
R.  Woodward,  a  railroad  tycoon  of  the 
80's,  Jane  Darwell  had  spent  her  girl- 
hood in  St.  Louis,  Chicago  and  Louis- 
ville, where  her  father  was  president 
of  the  Louisville  Southern  Railroad,  be- 


fore completing  her  education  at  the 
exclusive  Dana  Hall  in  Boston. 

Patti  Woodward  was  her  christened 
name  which  she  changed  to  that  of  a 
favorite  fictional  character  for  her  stage 
career,  and  among  her  other  forbears 
in  a  long  line  of  American  ancestors, 
was  Andrew  Jackson. 

After  two  years  with  the  Chicago 
company,  Jane  Darwell  went  to  Europe 
to  study  dramatics  in  Paris  and  London 
and  add  to  her  experience  with  minor 
roles  in  productions  in  both  capitals. 

The  death  of  her  father  cut  short  her 
European  stay  and  in  1915,  returning 
to  America  to  live  with  her  brother, 
W.  C.  Woodward,  in  Los  Angeles,  Miss 
Darwell  first  entered  pictures  in  a  small 
part  in  "Brewster's  Millions."  She  has 
been  on  the  Coast  ever  since,  except  for 
two  seasons  on  the  Broadway  stage, 
and  a  summer  with  the  Keith  Albee 
stock  company  at  Providence.  Alternat- 
ing with  her  picture  work,  she  played 


several  years  with  the  Henry  Duffy  Play- 
ers in  Los  Angeles  and  San  Francisco. 

A  long  career,  and,  as  the  casting  di- 
rectors would  reckon  it,  a  successful 
one,  Jane  Darwell's,  yet  it  has  been 
only  in  the  past  few  years  that  her  as- 
signments have  measured  up  to  her  ex- 
perience and  her  talent,  with  substantial 
roles  in  such  pictures  as  "Jesse  James," 
"The  Rains  Came"  and  "Gone  with  the 
Wind,"  in  which  she  has  the  memora- 
ble bit  as  Mrs.  Merriweather. 

And  after  twenty-five  years  of  troup- 
ing,  Jane  Darwell  is  still  looking  for- 
ward to  years  more  of  acting.  With  the 
critical  acclaim  she  has  received  for 
her  magnificent  job  in  "Grapes  of 
Wrath,"  the  character  actress  is  hoping 
for  a  whole  new  lease  on  her  profes- 
sional life.  Here's  hoping  she  has  it. 
She  deserves  her  share  of  the  sweets  of 
success.  For,  like  Ma  Joad,  she  has 
"kept  a-comin'." 


We  Have  a  Wonderful  Time  Together" 


Theater,  the  next  night,  none  drew  as 
many  appreciative  glances  from  the 
first  night  crowd  as  the  dainty  Olivia 
and  her  rangy  escort. 

As  the  house  lights  went  on  for  the 
intermission  of  the  screen's  longest 
saga,  Olivia  was  startled  to  hear  Jim 
say:  "Hello,  shoes!"  She  turned  and 
saw  him  looking  down  at  his  shiny 
black  evening  pumps. 

"Just  getting  acquainted  with  them," 
explained  Jim  with  a  grin.  "Bought 
'em  this  afternoon."  The  lanky  young 
man  looked  at  his  feet  again.  "Hello, 
shoes!"  he  repeated.  "I'm  just  breaking 
the  ice,  we'll  get  on  a  more  personal 
basis  later." 

Jim  Stewart  kept  Olivia  laughing  the 
whole  five  days  they  were  together  in 
New  York,  laughing  and  delighted. 

There  was  a  bit  of  behavior  that  par- 
ticularly delighted  her.  Whenever  she 
made  a  remark  that  bordered  on  the 
bromidical,  such  as:  "Travel  broadens 
one,  doesn't  it?"  Jim  would  suddenly 
look  at  her  with  feigned  wide-eyed  ad- 
miration and  say: 

"You  know,  that's  good.  .  .  You've  got 
something  there.  'Travel  broadens  one.' 
Say,  do  you  mind  if  I  use  that?" 

It  became  a  game  between  them,  that 
phrase.  Jim  might  make  some  trite 
comment  about  the  weather  and  Olivia, 
parroting  his  manner  would  cry,  "That's 
good!  You've  got  something  there.  Do 
you  mind  if  I  use  that?" 

They  were  together  constantly  for 
those  five  days  of  the  week  before 
Christmas.  New  York  was  wearing  its 
holiday  ribbons  in  its  hair  and  Olivia 
and  Jim  were  like  two  college  young- 
sters snatching  at  precious  vacation. 
Olivia  had  planned  to  stay  only  two 
days  but  each  morning  when  she  an- 
nounced she  was  taking  that  afternoon's 
plane  back  to  the  Coast,  Jim  had  a 
tempting   new   adventure   planned. 

It  was  the  evening  they  went  to  see 
"The  Man  Who  Came  to  Dinner,"  that 
Jim  and  Olivia  decided  to  make  a  night 
of  it  and  tour  the  supper  clubs. 

They  went  to  Jack  White's  "Club  18" 
where  blase  New  Yorkers  congregate. 
Typical  of  the  effect  Jim  Stewart  has  on 
his  surroundings,  the  revelers  in  the 
little  night  club  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning  were  singing  Christmas  carols 
with  the  lanky,  former  Princeton  cheer 
leader  directing  the  cocktail  choir. 

From  the  "Club  18,"  they  went  on  to 
another  night  club  and  then  they  fol- 
lowed the  night  owls  to  Harlem.  And 
it  was  in  Harlem  that  one  of  their  most 
amusing  experiences  occurred. 

About  half  an  hour  after  they  entered 
the  Negro  night  club,  the  round-faced 
little  master  of  ceremonies  halted  the 


(Continued  from  page  64) 

floor  show  and,  as  a  spotlight  began  to 
wander  around  the  dimly-lit  tables, 
started  a  speech  of  introduction. 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  he  began. 
"We  are  indeed  fortunate  to  have  with 
us  tonight  a  young  couple  who  have 
distinguished  themselves  in  the  enter- 
tainment world  by  their  outstanding 
artistry.  I  am  sure  you  will  all  recog- 
nize them."  Jim  and  Olivia  began  to 
wear  that  self-conscious  look. 

"And  now,"  droned  the  master  of 
ceremonies.  "It  gives  me  great  pleasure 
to  present  the  two  best-known  figures 
from  the  entertainment  field  this  club 
has  been  honored  by  having  for  a  long, 
long  time."  The  spotlight,  darted  across 
the  room  to  a  table  at  the  far  side,  as  a 
pale  little  figure  in  a  pink  dress  rose, 
clutching  at  the  hand  of  her  table  mate. 

"Miss  Sadie  Gluckheimer,  of  the 
Bronx,"  shouted  the  master  of  cere- 
monies in  conclusion,  "who  has  just 
completed  a  sensational  tour  with  the 
Ice  Frolics  of  1939,  and  her  equally 
well-known  partner,  Mr.  Joe  Manner- 
heim,  of  Brooklyn,  former  world's 
champion  barrel  jumper!"  Jim  and  Oliv- 
ia collapsed  in  hysterical  guffaws. 

There  was  another  time  when  a 
celebrity  hunter's  failure  at  recognition 
provided  an  ironical  twist. 

Outside  the  entrance  to  a  smart 
luncheon  spot,  the  usual  band  of  auto- 
graph hounds  lined  the  curb  when  Jim, 
with  Olivia  on  his  arm,  started  toward 
a  taxi  cab.  The  pair  were  surrounded 
in  an  instant  by  a  clamoring  group  of 
teen  age  boys  and  girls.  Among 
them  was  a  slightly  older  man  who 
shouldered  his  way  up  to  Jim  and 
shoved  a  folded  card  at  the  actor. 

Jim,  as  he  had  done  with  the  younger 
fans'  books,  passed  the  card  to  Olivia  to 
sign  too.  But  brusquely  the  man 
snatched  his  souvenir  from  the  girl. 
"Never  mind  yours,"  he  mumbled  to  the 
puzzled  Olivia.  "I  just  want  the  names 
of  movie  stars."  Then  he  turned  and 
moved  away. 

An  amused  smile  lit  Olivia's  eyes  as 
Jim,  embarrassed  and  incensed,  began  to 
rant  at  the  stupidity  of  the  man. 

"Did  you  notice  what  it  was  you 
signed  for  him?"  asked  Olivia  as  they 
got  into  the  cab  and  she  cut  short  Jim's 
explanation  of  why  her  quiet  charm 
was  not  recognized  off  screen. 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"It  was  a  souvenir  program  of  'Gone 
with  the  Wind!' "  said  the  Melanie  of 
the  famous  cast. 

Well,  there  it  was,  we  thought  as  the 
telephone  jingled  a  signal  that  our  call 
to  Hollywood  was  completed.  Two  at- 
tractive youngsters  had  met,  and  for 
five  gay  days  in  Manhattan  had  been 


inseparable.  And  now,  their  vivid, 
bright  vacation  over,  were  they  still  as 
much  in  love  as  they  had  appeared  in 
New  York?    We'd  soon  know. 

"Hello?"  came  Jim's  drawl  across  the 
continent. 

"Hello,  there,"  we  greeted.  "We're 
just  going  to  press  with  Photoplay  and 
the  hottest  story  of  the  month  is  your 
romance  with  Olivia  de  Havilland. 
What's  the  status,  Jim?" 

"Well,  there  isn't  any  exact  status." 
The  young  man  at  the  other  end  of  the 
wire  was  reaching  for  just  the  right 
answer. 

"Are  you  still  seeing  a  lot  of  each 
other?" 

"Yes.  Yes,  indeed!"  There  was  a 
note  of  eager  pleasure  on  this. 

"Often?" 

"Quite  often!" 

"How  serious   is   it,  Jim?" 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  it  was  serious," 
he  parried.  "But  we  have  a  wonderful 
time  together." 

"Have  you  proposed,  Jim?"  we 
queried  and  kicked  ourselves  for  a 
busybody.  There  was  a  moment's  si- 
lence and  then: 

"No,  no.    I  haven't  proposed." 

"Well,  tell  us  about  it.  '  What  are  you 
doing,  where  are  you  going  together?" 

"We've  been  out  dancing  frequently, 
and  to  lunch  several  times  since  we  got 
back  to  Hollywood.  And  I've  taken  her 
flying.  She's  keen  on  flying.  Right 
now,  though,  she's  out  of  town.  Went  to 
Washington  for  the  President's  Birth- 
day Ball." 

"You  working?"  we  suggested,  won-* 
dering  why,  if  all  that  Hollywood  gos- 
sip had  reported  was  true,  Jim  had  not 
followed  his  favorite  actress  East. 

"Yes,  I  start  Monday  on  a  new  pic- 
ture  with   Margaret   Sullavan." 

"And  Olivia  is  due  back  soon?" 

"I  hope  so.  It  can't  be  too  soon!" 
Ah!  There  we  were  getting  something. 
But  our  next  question,  as  to  when  he 
expected  to  see  her  again  was  met  with 
another  pause  that  hinted  we  were 
pushing  the  cross-examination  a  little 
too  far. 

"Well,  thanks,  Jim,  for  putting  us  up 
to  date.    And  Jim.  ..." 

"Yes?" 

"Look.  We're  going  to  press  Satur- 
day morning.  If  you  should  get  en- 
gaged before  then,  will  you  give  us  a 
call?" 

There  was  an  amused  chuckle  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire  and  then: 

"Let  me  know  your  deadlines  next 
month,"  laughed  Jim  Stewart  as  he  said 
good-by. 

Now,  what  do  you  think  he  meant  by 
that? 


90 


PHOTOPLAY 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


(Cont i nurd  from  page  J) 


11.  DICKYS  ARE  IN  AGAIN ! 

With  "Little  girl"  fashions  came  round  white 
baby  collars.  Then  suddenly  a  bright  idea 
popped  into  a  bright  young  mind  and  the 
"Florence  Walsh  Dicky"  was  born!  College 
girls  took  to  these  dickys  like  ducks  to  water 
because  they  cut  laundry  problems  in  half! 
Then  the  rest  of  the  feminine  world  awoke  to 
their  crisp  white  charm,  and  now  women  of 
all  ages  wear  dickys  under  their  sweaters, 
collegiate-like,  and  to  fill  in  the  neckline  of 
new  spring  suits.    $1.00  each. 


12.  APRIL  SHOWERS 

Start  your  day  with  a  flying  leap  into  a  tub 
floating  with  April  Showers  Bath  Crystals, 
(85c  the  bottle);  follow  with  stimulating  Eau 
de  Cologne  (28c  for  1  ounce);  and  finish  off 
in  a  cloud  of  April  Showers  dusting  powder 
(85c  a  box)  or  talcum  (28c  a  can),  with  a  drop 
of  April  Showers  perfume  behind  your  ears 
(28c  for  1/6  ounce).   Some  fun! 


13.  YOUR  SPRING  "SMOOTHIES" 

Having  chassis  trouble  with  your  new  spring 
suit?  Let  Strouse,  Adler  iron  out  your  bumps 
and  bulges  with  their  new  spring  Controleurs. 
This  $5  girdle  has  what  it  takes  to  give  you 
a  flat  tummy,  a  pancake-derriere  and  liter- 
ally no  diaphragm  at  all!  What  it  takes 
are  fabric  panels  front  and  back — brocaded 
for  beauty — and  Lastex  sides  and  gussets. 
Feather-boning  and  the  higher-than-normal 
waistline  do  the  rest,  along  with  the 
"Smoothie"  bandeau  of  satin  and  lace  with 
Cordtex  cup-supports.    $1.50. 


Remember — for    the    name    of    the 
store    nearest    you    that    carries    fhe 
items  you  want,  please  write  to: 
Fashion   Secretary,   Photoplay, 
122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  City 


14.  HOW'S  YOUR  SENSE  OF  SOCIAL  SECUR- 
ITY? 

Use  L'Orle's  "Parfum  L'Odorant,"  and  you'll 
never  have  a  moment's  worry.  Pat  this  per- 
fume essence  under  your  arms  and  you'll 
smell  like  a  little  flower  all  day  long  There's 
a  scent  to  match  all  the  better  perfumes. 
$1.00  a  bottle — and  little  enough  for  such  po- 
tent  perfume   magic. 


15.  "NIMBLE-NEES,  PLEASE" 

Statistics  show  that  you  can  cut  down  on 
stocking  casualties  by  calling  for  Kayser's 
"Nimble-Nees,"  and  who  are  we — or  you — 
to  ignore  statistics?  It's  the  lacy  Lastex  top 
that  does  it — gives  all  its  got  when  you  bend 
your  knees,  then  snaps  right  back,  repulsing 
"runs."  Your  seam  troubles  are  over  too,  be- 
cause the  Lastex  top  anchors  the  stocking  so 
firmly  that  seams  don't  twist  There  are 
"Debs"  (shorties)  for  half-pints  and  regular 
lengths  for  long-legged  American  beauties,  at 
$1.25  a  pair.    How  many,  please? 


*"  "  "^  I..T.IU 


TOMORROW  I  SHALL  APPEAR  15  YEARS  YOUNGER 

This  morning  at  eleven,  I  have  an  appointment  at  my  beauty  salon. 
While  I  relax  in  a  soft  chair,  gentle  fingers  will  hide  my  drab,  lustre- 
less hair  in  a  soft  foam  of  soapy  bubbles.  I  shall  close  my  eyes,  rest 
easily.. .and  when  I  open  my  eyes,  I  shall  stare  gratefully  at  new,  glori- 
ous, bronze-lit  hair.  I  shall  forget  my  37th  birthday.  My  hair,  my  new 
youthful  looking  hair,  will  affect  my  whole  being.  My  eyes  will  sparkle, 
my  back  straighten.  I  shall  walk  out  feeling  1  5  years  younger,  for  I 
shall  have  given  myself  the  birthday  present  of  an  Eternol  Treatment. 

"YOUR  BEAUTY  OPERATOR  KNOWS  BEST" 


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91 


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Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 


(Continued  from  page  67) 


A  Break  for  Carminati 

IILMING  of  Paramount's  "Safari,"  in 
which  Tullio  Carminati  makes  his  first 
Hollywood  appearance  in  much  too  long 
a  time,  reminds  us  once  again  of  that 
unpredictable  quality  in  screen  careers 
which  is  the  only  thing  a  sensible  scribe 
is  ever  safe  in  predicting!  Remember 
what  an  utterly  gay  success  Carminati 
was  as  the  temperamental  impresario 
with  Grace  Moore  in  "One  Night  of 
Love"?  It  certainly  looked  as  though 
the  one-time  idol  of  Broadway  was  all 
set  to  repeat  on  the  screen. 

What  happened?  Somehow,  in  typi- 
cally Hollywood  fashion,  he  got  lost  in 
the  shuffle  in  succeeding  film  assign- 
ments. Disappointed,  he  went  to  Eng- 
land, where  great  plans  were  afoot  to 
team  him  with  popular  Anna  Neagle  in 
Herbert  Wilcox  productions.  The 
Neagle-Carminati  combination  made  a 
couple  of  light,  frothy  pictures  which 
never  got  a  chance  to  make  a  splash  in 
this  country,  and  Carminati  slipped 
still  further  into  oblivion,  as  far  as  cast- 
ing offices  were  concerned.  Subsequent 
Broadway  ventures  were  none  too  suc- 
cessful, either,  despite  Carminati's  usual 
excellent  personal  notices. 

In  the  meantime,  Anna  Neagle  has  be- 
come the  toast  of  Hollywood,  by  virtue 
of  "Nurse  Edith  Cavell"  and  "Irene."  It 
remains  to  be  seen  whether  "Safari"  will 
do  the  same,  for  her  former  co-star, 
Tullio  Carminati.  Cal  isn't  predicting 
anything — but  he  does  want  to  go  on 
record  as  saying  that  the  breaks  (when, 
as  and  if)  couldn't  go  to  a  nicer  guy! 

The  New  Garbo 

LVER  since  Garbo  became  interested  in 
Dr.  Hauser  and  tried  out  his  famous 
diet,  she  has  been  like  a  new  woman. 
During  her  fittings  for  "Ninotchka,"  she 
announced  that  she  was  tired  of  wear- 
ing black.  She  wanted  clothes  with  life, 
with  color.  She  wanted  to  look  gay! 
So  Designer  Adrian  ordered  from  the 
stock  room  dozens  of  bolts  of  materials 
for  her  to  choose  from.  After  long  de- 
liberation, the  great  one  made  her 
choice.    She  selected — slate  grey! 

For  her  personal  wardrobe,  Garbo  is 
shopping  in  the  Sub-Deb  department  of 
Saks'  Wilshire  Boulevard  store.  A 
group  of  Beverly  Hills  High  School  girls 
almost  froze  in  their  tracks  when  they 
discovered   the  shopper  in  their  midst 


"At  home":  William   Powell  and   his  bride  (until  very  recently   Diana 
Lewis)   welcome    Fink,    on   a   first   camera   visit   to   the    new   household 


Tullio  Carminati  returns  to  Hollywood 
by     way     of     Paramount's     "Safari" 


was  Greta  the  Great.  Fascinated,  they 
watched  her  select  a  navy  blue  print, 
size  15.  The  price  was  $12.95,  and 
Garbo  was  as  pleased  with  her  pur- 
chase as  if  she  had  been  a  Beverly  Hills 
High  School  girl  herself. 

Recently,  just  as  the  whole  town  was 
discussing  the  Garbo-Hauser  romance, 
she  was  discovered  lunching  in  a  local 
smart  spot  with  Leopold  Stokowski 
(and,  incidentally,  a  touch  of  humor 
was  added  to  the  rendezvous,  when 
Garbo  adhered  strictly  to  the  diet  en- 
dorsed by  Dr.  Hauser) . 

Now  Hollywood  wants  to  know  two 
things: 

1:  Was  the  luncheon  a  renewal  of 
Garbo's  old  romance  with  the  famous 
conductor? 

2:  Was  she  breaking  the  news  that 
she  might  become  Mrs.  Hauser? 

Only  two  people  can  tell,  and  neither 
Garbo  nor  Stokowski  is  talking. 

This  reticence  of  Garbo's  recalls  the 
story  of  how  she  became  the  mystery 
woman  of  the  decade.  She  had  just  com- 
pleted her  second  picture,  "The  Tempt- 
ress," when  she  complained  to  the  late 
Lon  Chaney  about  having  been  dragged 
to  the  studio  that  day  to  pose  with  some 
prize  fighters. 

"When  I  am  as  big  as  Lillian  Gish," 
she  said,  "I  won't  have  to  pose  with 
prize  fighters!" 

"You're  big  enough  now  not  to  have 
to  do  it,"  Lon  told  her.  "Listen,  Greta, 
when  I'm  on  the  set  my  time  belongs  to 
the  studio.  When  I  am  not,  it  is  my 
time.  My  private  life  belongs  to  me. 
If  you  are  a  little  mysterious,  the  public 
likes  you  better." 

Whereupon  Lon  sat  down  and  mapped 
out  a  routine  for  her.  She  followed  it 
and  became  the  least-known  famous 
woman  in  the  world.  She  never  posed 
for  another  picture,  never  gave  an  in- 
terview. When  the  studio  found  out 
how  this  sort  of  "suppress  agentry" 
worked,  it  fell  over  backward  collabo- 
rating with  her. 

Oh,  the  Futility  of  It  All! 

IN  heaven's  name,  how  or  why  would 
you  like  to  be  a  Hollywood  beau?  Es- 
pecially if  you  had  to  face  the  experi- 


ence recently  faced  by  Cesar  Romero. 

It  seems  Cesar  had  a  date  with  the 
girl  of  his  dreams,  Ann  Sheridan,  to  at- 
tend a  swanky  opening.  But  on  the  day 
of  the  affair,  an  official  of  Cesar's  studio 
announced  that  the  actor  would  have  to 
take  a  starlet  from  their  own  lot  for 
publicity  purposes. 

Cesar  raved.  The  executive  remained 
adamant.  Finally  Cesar  agreed  to  do  so 
if  the  executive  would  phone  Ann  and 
explain  the  situation.  Readily  he 
agreed.  Ann  was  furious.  She  has 
since  refused  to  speak  to  Cesar.  But 
the  eligible  executive  has  been  courting 
"Miss  Oomph"  ever  since. 

Now  put  that  situation  in  a  play  some- 
time and  watch  the  laughs  pour  in. 

Poor  Cesar! 

Cal  Sympathizes 

Ann  SOTHERN  bears  more  than  one 
scar  these  days — one  from  a  recent  ap- 
pendectomy, and  one  from  the  loss  of 
her  beloved  David,  the  child  whom  Ann 
and  Roger  Pryor  took  into  their  lives, 
who  recently  departed. 

David's  parents  (we  have  been  in-' 
formed),  who  were  struggling  to  sup- 
port their  large  family,  came  one  day 
suddenly  and  took  away  the  unusually 
sensitive  and  brilliant  little  boy.  All 
the  comforts,  advantages  and  Ann's  love 
were  left  behind. 

We  know,  first  hand,  of  this  love,  for 
in  Ann's  home  one  day  we  listened  to 
her  talk  of  "my  David."  What  he'd 
done  that  day  at  school.  His  music  les- 
sons. The  camp  he  was  going  to  that 
summer. 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  was  gone  and 
Ann,  leaving  immediately  afterward  for 
the  hospital  and  operation,  faced  a  dou- 
ble suffering.  Here's  hoping  Maisie 
finds  comfort  in  her  new  screen  success. 

When  Irish  Eyes  Are  Pleading 

GUESTS  of  the  several  Saint  Patrick 
Day  balls  given  this  year  are  probably 
guests  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  as  well. 
For  the  1940  Saint  Patrick  Day  charity 
balls  are  benefits  for  the  Irish  Emergen- 
cy Fund,  which  is  headed  by  the  attrac- 
tive Irish  actress  and  her  husband,  Sir 


92 


PHOTOPLAY 


Edward  Lindsay-Hogg,  wealthy  Anglo- 
Irish  sportsman. 

When  Geraldine  and  Lindsay-Hogg, 
who  some  years  ago  became  a  natural- 
ized citizen  of  the  Eire  Republic,  left 
Dublin  for  Hollywood,  several  weeks 
after  war  broke  out,  they  were  asked  to 
head  the  American  drive  for  funds  to 
be  administered  by  the  Irish  Red 
Cross  in  caring  for  the  fast  growing 
ranks  of  war  refugees  in  neutral  Ire- 
land. 

"Since  the  Aihenia  disaster,"  Lind- 
say-Hogg explained,  "there  has  been 
an  average  of  two  sinkings  a  week  off 
the  Irish  Coast.  The  survivors  of  these 
wrecks  have  swelled  the  already  large 
number  of  unemployed  and  destitute, 
many  of  them  refugees  evacuated  from 
England.  The  ordinary  channels  of 
charity  have  not  been  able  to  care  prop- 
erly for  these  people  and  accordingly 
this  special  Emergency  Fund  was  cre- 
ated." 

James  Cagney,  Dudley  Digges  and 
Maureen  O'Hara  are  among  the  actors 
active  in  support  of  the  drive,  which 
has  been  aided  by  a  short  reel  produced 
by  Warner  Brothers,  collection  boxes  in 
a  number  of  theaters  and  Hollywood 
and  New  York  night  clubs,  and  private 
subscriptions. 

"Infilmation,  Please" 

lOR  years  we  have  been  tiptoeing  onto 
sound  stages  and,  when  the  warning 
bell  rang  for  quiet,  refraining  from  even 
taking  a  deep  breath  for  fear  it  would 
register  as  an  offstage  gasp.  It  was 
something  of  a  shock,  then,  albeit  a 
pleasant  one,  to  visit  the  New  York 
studio  of  Fox  Movietone  News  one  af- 
ternoon recently. 

The  production  was  the  sixth  in 
RKO's  series  of  "Information,  Please" 
film  shorts,  featuring  the  omniscient 
stars  of  radio's  number  one  quiz  pro- 
gram; and  the  method  of  its  production 
was  as  unique  as  its  subject  matter. 
To  begin  with,  the  entire  stage,  except 
for  one  end  where  the  experts'  table 
faced  the  cameras  and  sound  recorders, 
was  fitted  out  like  a  small  theater. 
Next,  Clifton  Fadiman,  the  interlocutor 
of  the  radio  show,  explained  to  the  sev- 
eral hundred  invited  guests  that  they 
were  welcome  to  laugh  at  the  questions 
and  answering  quips  with  just  as  much 
freedom  as  if  they  were  listening  to  the 
show  on  their  radios.  There  was  only 
one  restriction:   NO  promptings,  please! 

The  film  short,  like  the  air  show,  he 
pointed  out,  was  completely  unprepared 
and  unrehearsed  and  the  action  of  the 
ensuing  two  hours  proved  his  point. 
With  Christopher  Morley,  as  their  guest 
guesser,  "Information  Please"  experts 
John  Kieran,  Franklin  P.  Adams,  and 


Oscar  Levant,  extemporized  versatilely 
in  answer  to  Fadiman's  barrage  of  ques- 
tions. There  was  no  "Cut,"  or  "Let's 
take  that  again."  Six  reels  of  film  were 
shot;  the  best  (not  necessarily  the  most 
correctly  answered)  scenes  will  be  cut 
into  one  reel. 

The  film  quiz  was  much  like  its  radio 
parent,  and  the  experts'  knowledge  of 
everything  from  geography  to  cheese 
was  tested.  The  innovation  not  possible 
on  the  air  was  the  acting  out  of  panto- 
mime skits  before  the  experts,  who 
were  asked  to  identify  such  fancies  as 
an  armor  clad  extra,  parading  by  in  an 
empty  flour  barrel,  as  representative  of 
the  title  "When  Knighthood  Was  In 
Flower." 

As  on  the  air  show,  there  is  a  penalty 
in  the  film  for  muffed  questions — RKO 
pays  twenty-five  dollars  to  the  Will 
Rogers  Memorial  Fund  for  every  quiz 
that  stumps  the  experts  and  their  guest. 
Unlike  the  air  show,  however,  the  film 
production  does  not  accept  suggestions 
from  the  public,  the  question  being  pre- 
pared by  Dan  Gollenpaul,  the  originator, 
and  Fred  Ullman,  Jr.,  the  producer  of 
the  program,  and  a  board  of  advisors. 

Oh,  Nurse,  Are  You  Beautiful? 

I  HERE  never  has  been  such  a  contagion 
of  hospitalization  among  the  celebrities 
of  Hollywood  as  there  has  been  re- 
cently. Envious  eyes  are  turned  toward 
the  nurses  who  care  for  these  famous 
bruised  and  injured. 

"It's  all  in  a  day's  work,"  one  pretty 
nurse  told  Cal,  "but  movie  people  (es- 
pecially the  men)  are  harder  to  nurse 
than  other  patients  because  they  never 
relax  from  their  work  and  worries  for 
one  minute.  Joe  E.  Brown's  nurse  had 
almost  to  hold  him  in  bed  during  a  big 
football  game.  Joe  wanted  to  get  out  of 
bed  to  lead  cheers. 

"Director  Leo  McCarey  is  the  worst 
of  all.  He  starts  at  six  every  morning 
yelling  commands  either  by  phone  or  by 
dictating  to  stenographers.  He's  super- 
vising the  picture,  'My  Favorite  Wife,' 
you  know,  and  doing  it  right  from  his 
bed.  Every  night,  temperature  time  or 
no  temperature  time,  his  room  has  to  be 
darkened  and  a  white  screen  put  up 
where  he  can  view  that  day's  rushes. 
What  with  all  the  nurses  in  the  hospital 
finding  some  excuse  or  other  to  be  in 
Mr.  McCarey's  room  at  'preview'  time, 
it's  awful." 

"And  what  of  Clark  Gable?"  we  asked 
another  nurse,  when  Gable  was  under 
treatment  for  laryngitis. 

"Oh,"  she  said  with  a  pout.  "All  he 
demands  is  a  plain,  middle-aged  nurse 
who  doesn't  care  a  darn  for  movie  stars. 
And  the  rest  of  us  can  go  hang  as  far 
as  he's  concerned.    But  he  is  wonderful, 


At  a  Troc  party  in  her  honor,  Paul  Hesse  (our  cover  photographer)  con- 
gratulates Bette  Davis  on  winning  a  national  magazine  award  as 
the    person    who    did    most   for    motion    pictures    during    the    past    year 


Hyman  Fink  records  the  happy  ending 
to  the  love  story  of  Ronald  Reagan 
and  Jane  Wyman,  who  ruled  out  the 
usual  film  elopement  and  had  their 
wedding   quite   publicly  in  a   church! 

just  the  same,  isn't  he?"  she  asked. 

You  can't  beat  the  Gable  charm;  even 
when  he  spurns  'em,  they  go  for  him. 

On  the  Record 

DIG  news  of  the  movie  music  month  is, 
of  course,  wizardous  Walt  Disney's 
"Pinocchio."  You'll  be  hearing  the 
tunes  from  it  all  season.  First  to  bat  is 
Buddy  Clark  who  does  six  of  the  seven 
songs:  "When  You  Wish  Upon  a  Star," 
"Turn  on  the  Old  Music  Box,"  "Give  a 
Little  Whistle,"  "I've  Got  No  Strings," 
"Hi-Diddle-Dee-Dee,"  "Three  Cheers 
for  Anything."  (Varsity  8156-7-8.) 
You  can't  go  wrong  on  any  of  them. 
Sammy  Kaye,  too,  swings  and  sways 
his  way  through  what  he  has  picked  as 
the  two  hit  songs  from  the  picture: 
"Turn  On  Your  Old  Music  Box"  and 
the  star  wishing  piece.     (Victor  26455.) 

M-G-M's  and  Nelson  Eddy's  "Bala- 
laika" overflows  with  solid,  lusty  bari- 
toning.  If  you  like  Eddy,  "Ride,  Cos- 
sack, Ride,"  "The  Volga  Boatmen"  and 
"At  the  Balalaika,"  with  Nelson  boom- 
ing out  in  the  grand  style,  are  necessi- 
ties.    (Columbia  17172-D,  17173-D.) 

The  Astaire-Powell  "Broadway  Mel- 
ody of  1940"  has  Cole  Porter,  one  of  the 
nation's  cleverest  tunesmiths,  at  work. 
"I  Concentrate  on  You"  is  a  swingy  little 
ditty,  while  "I've  Got  My  Eyes  on  You" 
sounds  like  one  of  those  typical  Porter 
ballads  which  ends  up  on  the  Hit  Pa- 
rade. Les  Brown  does  very  nicely — in  a 
semi-swing  way — by  both  of  them. 
(Bluebird  10551.) 

Tony  Martin  sings  "It's  a  Blue  World" 
from  his  Columbia  starrer,  "Music  in  My 
Heart,"  and  "All  the  Things  You  Are." 
(Decca  2932.)  The  latter  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  things  Jerome  Kern  ever  wrote 
and  Tony  skillfully  realizes  that  fact. 
"Oh,  What  a  Lovely  Dream"  is  the  other 
interesting  musical  item  from  "Music  in 
My  Heart."  Freddy  Martin,  in  that 
smooth  sleek  way  of  his,  couples  it  with 
"Am  I  Proud"  from  Paramount's  "Sweet 
Moments."     (Bluebird  10562.). 

As  a  gesture  to  Zanuck's  film  "Swanee 
River,"  the  Plantation  Singers  sing  four 
of  Stephen  Foster's  best  known  songs. 
Heading  the  list  is  Photoplay's  "Jeanie 
with  the  Light  Brown  Hair."  Jeanie's 
companion  piece  is  "My  Old  Kentucky 
Home."  Then,  back  to  back,  are 
"Swanee  River"  and  "Oh!  Susannah." 
(Varsity  8141-42.) 


2tf 


r&tL 


m\  HAIR 

KILLS 
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ous dyes,  afraid  that  it  is  too 
difficult,  afraid  that  the  dye  will  de- 
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—  afraid,  most  of  all.  that  everyone 
will  know  your  hair  is  "dyed." 

These  fears  are  so  needless!  Today 
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can  buy  Mary  T.  Goldman  Gray  Hair 
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Send  for  the  free  trial  kit  —  so  that 
you  may  see  for  yourself  the  beautiful 
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GRAY   HAIR  COLORING 

PREPARATION 

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SliV.e. 


KILL  THE  HAIR  ROOT 


inary  care  and 

Tin-  Mahler  Me 1  positively  prevents 

nwnifc  aKain    l>v    killing   the 
delightful   relief   will    l.rine 


5  SelndS6cf 
Illustrated    Booklet.    "How    to    Re- 

Dcpt.57D,  Proridence,  R.I. 


TRY   OUR    NEW 

SITROUX 

BEAUTY  CREAMS 


COID  CREAM  for  thorough,  pleasant 

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long-lasting  make-up. 


BUY  SITROUX  CREAMS  WHERE 
YOU  BUY  SITROUX  TISSUES 


APRIL,      1940 


93 


Don,  Alice  and  Ty 


setups  —  sometimes  Don  and  Alice 
against  Ty  or  Ty  and  Alice  against  Don, 
or  Alice  against  the  two  of  them — and 
the  fun  never  ceased.  It  raged  during 
the  making  of  "In  Old  Chicago"  and 
"Alexander's  Ragtime  Band."  It  was 
all  childish  but  that  very  factor  de- 
lighted them.  Alice  planted  garlic  in 
Ty's  dressing  room  but  he,  getting  a 
whiff  of  it  as  he  was  walking  that  way 
with  her,  pushed  Alice  in  the  room  first, 
locked  her  in  and  left  her  to  nearly 
smother. 

Another  occasion  was  the  day  that 
Don  was  to  die  in  "In  Old  Chicago." 
Alice  and  Ty  sent  him  dead  flowers  all 
day  long,  to  get  him  in  the  mood.  He 
returned  that  compliment  by  sending 
Alice  a  necklace  made  of  empty  gin 
bottles  when  she  had  to  do  her  hysteri- 
cal lost-in-the-fire  scene.  When  Ty 
had  to  do  his  big  regeneration  scene, 
they  prepared  him  for  it  by  planting  a 
pail  of  garbage  in  his  car.  (You  may 
have  gathered  the  idea  that  they'd  dis- 
covered Mr.  Power  doesn't  care  for  un- 
pleasant odors.)  In  case  you  think  all 
this  is  pretty  juvenile,  remember  that 
despite  their  always  inventing  tele- 
phones, or  writing  Stephen  Foster's 
songs,  or  building  the  Suez  Canal  or 
trying  to  stop  on  screen  the  French 
Revolution,  Ty  and  Alice  are  still  in 
their  twenties,  and  Don  not  long  out  of 


HINT  from  HOLLYWOOD! 


geraldine  Fitzgerald,  featured  in  Warner 
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Your  Best  Beauty  Moments 
Can  Last  All  Day! 


WESTMORE      FOUNDATION 

cream   instantly   gives   that 

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Guide  — has  measuring  wheel  to  tell 
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Dept.  E-4,  730  Fifth  Ave.,  N.  Y.  C. 


^VESTMORIk 

HOLLYWOOD 


(Continued  jrom  page  15) 

them,  and  if  your  work  forces  you  to 
take  everything  seriously  all  the  while, 
you've  got  to  relax  somewhere. 

Not  that  they  always  goofed  around. 
They  waited  to  see  one  another  morn- 
ings with  their  eyes  sparkling  with  mis- 
chief. But  if  they  had  to  they  could  see 
deeper  into  one  another's  feelings. 
There  was  the  day  when  Alice  was 
playing  in  "Sally,  Irene  and  Mary"  and 
Don  was  making  "Happy  Landing." 
Don  walked  on  her  set,  just  to  call. 
Alice  was  feeling  miserable.  She  is  a 
truly  nervous  girl  and  she  drives  her- 
self too  hard,  but  this  day  she  was  too 
pale.     Don  said,  "Alice,  you're  sick." 

"Oh,  no,  I'm  not,"  retorted  Alice. 
"I've  just  got  a  lousy  cold  and  I'm  tired. 
Don't  worry  about  me." 

Don  did,  however,  and  Don  is  always 
a  man  of  action.  He  went  to  the  tele- 
phone and  told  his  doctor  to  come  out 
and  check  up  on  Alice.  The  doctor  took 
one  look  and  ordered  her  to  bed.  She 
was  straight  on  the  edge  of  pneumonia 
and  without  such  prompt  action  she 
might  well  have  died. 

Underneath  all  this  clambake,  how- 
ever, they  are  serious  about  their  work, 
so  the  one  thing  they  do  seriously  to- 
gether is  discuss  roles  and  how  to  play 
them  Tyrone,  the  most  talented,  knits 
his  handsome  brows  and  suggests  they 
play  such  and  such  a  scene  this  way. 


Don  and  Alice  listen  respectfully.  Alice, 
the  magical  song  plugger,  tells  Don 
she'd  sell  the  tune  in  such  a  manner  and 
he  gives  it  a  try.  Then  they  go  into  the 
scene  and  all  three  try  to  steal  it. 

Love  had  its  effect  on  them,  too.  Don 
was  the  old  rock  in  that  department,  of 
course,  but  the  other  two  were  always 
bringing  him  the  sad  news  about  each 
romantic  upset  they  would  go  through. 
The  Ameche,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  a 
rabid  matchmaker,  so  he  was  forever 
trying  to  push  the  two  of  them  into 
marriages  that  he  was  persuaded  would 
be  as  happy  as  his  own.  Thus  he  was 
very  much  among  those  present,  beam- 
ing like  a  sunset,  when  Alice  and  Tony 
Martin  did  finally,  after  their  many 
quarrels,  unite,  and  he  was  the  joyous 
best  man  at  the  Power-Annabella  nup- 
tials. 

But  what  Hollywood  is  waiting  for  is 
the  day  when  the  first  Power  or  the 
first  Faye-Martin  heir  arrives.  For  just 
as  much  as  Don  slaved  to  get  his  pals 
married,  just  so  much  double  he  wants 
them  to  know  parenthood. 

When  that  day  comes,  Twentieth  Cen- 
tury-Fox, if  it's  smart,  will  padlock  the 
whole  studio.  If  they  don't,  Don  will 
probably  burn  up  the  executive  build- 
ing for  the  sheer  joy  of  it,  and  Alice 
and  Ty  will  wreck  the  rest  of  the  joint 
just  to  get  even. 


Shadow  Stage 


I  TAKE  THIS  WOMAN-M-G-M 

IT  is  not  surprising  that  Metro  shelved 
this  picture  months  ago  as  hopeless;  the 
wonder  is  that  the  piece  was  ever  fin- 
ished and  offered  the  public.  With  any 
other  stars  it  would  be  simply  another 
second-rate  film.  But  as  Hedy  Lamarr's 
first  offering  after  the  not-too-suc- 
cessful "Lady  of  the  Tropics,"  and  with 
Spencer  Tracy  cast  in  a  waste  role,  the 
whole  thing  is  cause  for  bewilderment. 
If  you  would  take  "The  Citadel"  and 
change  the  background  to  New  York, 
you'd  have  the  basic  story — that  of  a 
doctor  who  works  for  the  poor,  accepts 
a  swank  practice  in  order  to  give  his 
wife  more  luxury,  and  finally  regains 
his  professional  integrity.  This  is  all 
mixed  up  with  the  slowly  told  account 
of  a  neurotic  woman's  efforts  to  forget 
a  great  first  love  by  marrying  the  kind- 
ly physician.  Oh  well,  Tracy  plays  the 
doctor,  Hedy  the  woman,  and  Verree 
Teasdale  contributes  the  only  bright- 
ness with  her  fast  portrayal  and  blue 
cracks. 

*  THE  BAKER'S  WIFE-Marcel  Pagnol 

HERE  is  a  worthy  successor  to  the 
French  "Harvest."  Once  more,  Monsieur 
Pagnol  has  used  his  beloved  Provence 
countryside  and  a  group  of  gifted  char- 
acter actors  to  produce  a  delightfully 
entertaining  film.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  the  picture  is  not  actually  a  piece 
of  every  day  French  village  life — so 
true  to  type  are  those  who  make  up  the 
cast.  The  distinguished  French  come- 
dian, Raimu,  is  the  rotund  baker  whose 
pretty  wife,  Ginette  Leclerc,  causes  a 
village  scandal  by  running  off  with  a 
handsome  shepherd,  Charles  Moulin. 
The  resultant  uproar  is  not  so  much 
due  to  moral  transgression,  as  to  the 
fact  that  worthy  baker  cannot  concen- 


(Continued  jrom  page  69) 

trate  on  baking  his  delicious  bread 
while  his  wife  is  gone.  So  the  hungry 
citizens  rally  to  the  betrayed  husband's 
aid  to  devise  a  plan  of  getting  his  wife 
back.  The  village  priest,  the  marquis, 
the  schoolmaster,  the  town  gossip  all 
have  a  hand  in  it — and  there  is  a  happy 
solution.  Highlighted  by  the  English 
subtitles  of  John  Erskine,  the  sly  humor 
of  the  film  is  memorable;  and  the  pho- 
tography is  outstanding. 

HE  MARRIED  HIS  WIFE-20th  Century-Fox 

IT  took  four  screen  writers,  including 
John  O'Hara,  rewriting  from  an  original 
by  two  other  authors,  to  turn  out  this 
strange  and  fearful  story  of  the  mad- 
mad-fun  school.  Quantities  of  people, 
including  Joel  McCrea  and  Nancy  Kelly, 
ride  around  in  fabulous  custom-built 
cars,  and  week-end  at  the  country  estate 
of  Mary  Boland,  vaguest  of  all  vague 
matrons.  Joel  has  been  divorced  by 
Nancy  because  of  his  penchant  for  buy- 
ing race  horses  which  don't  win,  and 
tries  to  marry  her  off  to  an  old  school 
friend  to  get  out  of  the  $1500  per  month 
alimony.  The  friend,  Lyle  Talbot,  is 
only  too  willing  but  Nancy  takes 
up  with  a  Latin  charmer,  Cesar  Ro- 
mero. This  rouses  Joel's  latent  jeal- 
ousy, with  gay  results.  Miss  Kelly,  cast 
as  a  cynical  divorcee,  mugs  somewhat 
but  looks  attractive,  despite  her  hats; 
the  McCrea  plugs  along  and  loses  scene 
after  scene  to  Romero,  who  gags  a  char- 
acter obviously  overdrawn.  Boland  is 
wonderful.  Everyone  has  just  pots  of 
money  and  is  neurotic  as  anything — 
the  wonderful  thing  is,  this  film,  calcu- 
lated to  send  every  Liberal  in  America 
into  hysterics,  was  made  by  the  same 
company  who  simultaneously  produced 
"The  Grapes  of  Wrath."  What  balance, 
what  relief,  if  the  two  should  happen 
to  play  on  the  same  bill! 


THE  LION  HAS  WINGS-Korda-U.A. 

OOON  after  the  start  of  the  second 
World  War,  Merle  Oberon,  Ralph 
Richardson  and  sundry  other  patriotic 
Britishers  offered  their  services  to  make 
this  war-time  propaganda  picture.  And 
well  done  propaganda  it  is,  too.  Han- 
dled in  the  March  of  Time  style,  with 
Lowell  Thomas  as  narrator,  the  film's 
purpose  is  to  assure  jittery  English  sub- 
jects that  the  Royal  Air  Force  has  the 
Nazi  air  menace  well  in  hand.  There  is 
a  fine  re-enactment  of  the  Kiel  Canal 
raid  by  British  air  men;  also  an  imag- 
inary attempt  by  the  Germans  to  bomb 
London  that  is  easily'  repelled  by  Brit- 
ain's defense  units.  This  portion  of  the 
picture  seemed  to  be  wishful  thinking 
on  the  part  of  the  producers,  but,  even 
so,  the  glimpse  of  England's  prepared- 
ness should  make  all  Englishmen  sleep 
easier  at  night.  Don't  expect  to  see 
much  of  the  stars — their  roles  are  minor 
compared  to  those  of  man's  latest  gifts 
to  Mars — the  modern  bomber  and  pur- 
suit plane. 

THE  LONE  WOLF  STRIKES-Columbia 

THERE'S  a  girl  in  trouble  and  Warren 
William,  whose  feelings  about  the  law 
are  not  always  so  friendly,  turns  de- 
tective to  help  her  out.  A  string  of 
pearls  is  involved,  a  man  is  murdered, 
and  the  usual  comic-strip  chases  and 
near-escapes  build  to  the  finish  you  ex- 
pect. William  is  the  same  old  smoothie, 
and  he  has  Joan  Perry  to  work  with. 

THE  SAINT'S  DOUBLE  TROUBLE— RKO-Radio 

lOU  get  three  murders  in  this  and 
George  Sanders,  playing  that  modern 
Robin  Hood,  the  Saint,  in  a  dual  role. 
You  see  the  Saint  discovers  there's  an- 
other man,  a  murderous  diamond  smug- 


94 


PHOTOPLAY 


gler,  who  is  his  perfect  double.  Nat- 
urally the  Saint  can't  have  such  a  thing, 
so  he  sets  out  to  rectify  the  situation. 
It's  all  a  bit  confusing,  since  Sanders 
looks  so  much  like  Sanders  you  some- 
times forget  which  man  he's  supposed 
to  be,  but  there's  plenty  of  suspense 
and  the  pace  holds  throughout.  Helene 
Whitney,  Jonathan  Hale  and  the  rest 
are  good. 

SOUTH  OF  THE  BORDER-Republic 

CASHING  in,  a  little  late  perhaps,  on 
that  song  you  heard  umphty-'leven 
times  a  day  recently,  Republic  offers 
Gene  Autry,  the  fabulous  cowboy  suc- 
cess, in  a  film  intended  for  top  billing 
at  big  theaters.  It's  the  best  picture  he 
has  made  and  adequate  entertainment 
even  for  city -feller  audiences.  Gene 
plays  a  secret  Federal  agent  in  South 
America  to  foil  a  revolution — he  knows, 
you  see,  the  whole  ruckus  is  just  to  es- 
tablish a  submarine  base  for  a  foreign 
power.    Autry 's  voice  is  as  good  as  ever. 

MUSIC  IN  MY  HEART-Columbia 

lONY  MARTIN,  having  emerged  from 
his  practical  seclusion  at  his  own  studio 
to  make  a  great  success  on  radio,  now 
stars  for  Columbia  in  an  unpretentious 
but  acceptable  musical,  which  has  good 
music  and  Andre  Kostelanetz  to  play  it. 
Martin  plays  an  understudy  in  a  Broad- 
way show  who  gets  a  chance  to  act  just 
before  he's  supposed  to  be  deported. 
He  meets  love  interest,  Rita  Hayworth, 
by  crashing  into  a  taxi  in  which  she  is 
riding — an  extreme  measure,  but  effec- 
tive, as  the  story  turns  out. 

THE  MAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  TALK— 
20th  Century-Fox 

REMEMBER  "The  Valiant?"  Here  it  is 
again,  with  a  new  title  and  with  Lloyd 
Nolan  cast  as  the  confessed  murderer 
who  refuses  to  say  what  his  name  is  or 
why  he  committed  his  crime.  Opposite 
him,  as  the  sister  who  tries  to  make  him 
talk,  is  Jean  Rogers.  She  gives  a  sym- 
pathetic performance.  Nolan's  work  is 
better  than  he  has  done  in  many 
months.  Onslow  Stevens,  Eric  Blore  and 
Elizabeth  Risdon  have  supporting  roles. 

•  THE  FIGHT  FOR  LIFE-United  States  Him 

TARE  LORENTZ,  supreme  master  of 
the   documentary   film,   again   pulls  no 

,      punches  in  showing  us  the  world  we 

i  live  in.  Inspired  by  Paul  de  Kruif's 
best  seller,  "The  Fight  For  Life,"  he 
has  used  the  heroic  work  of  the  Chi- 

I  cago  Maternity  Center  to  demonstrate 
the  crying  need  for  more  obstetricians 

,  and  better  trained  ones.  This  cannot 
be  termed,  in  any  sense,  an  entertaining 
film,  yet  in  its  unsparing  realism,  it  is 
definitely  astringent.  Doctors  and  pa- 
tients at  the  Center  have  co-operated 
liberally  in  offering  authentic  case  ma- 
terial for  the  story  of  the  young  doctor, 
Myron  McCormick,  who,  after  losing  a 
hospital  maternity  case,   comes  to  the 


Center  to  serve  his  apprenticeship.  Here 
there  are  not  the  refinements  of  a 
wealthy  medical  center;  here  the  earn- 
est, hard-working  doctors  and  nurses 
must  go  out  into  the  homes  of  their  slum 
patients  to  deliver  their  babies.  They 
must  cope  with  the  most  sordid  sur- 
roundings— and  yet  they  have  estab- 
lished an  amazing  maternity  record. 
The  relentless  camera  of  Lorentz  shows 
the  actual  conditions  under  which  the 
Center  doctors  work;  the  actual  meth- 
ods they  use  in  their  child  birth  cases. 
There  is  much  here  to  make  you  wince 
and  perhaps  shock  you,  but  you  cannot 
deny  the  power  of  the  film  to  stir  you 
immeasurably.  It  may  even  serve  to 
recruit  new  medical  crusaders  and  slum 
clearance  advocates. 

•  THE  OUTSIDER-ALLIANCE 

I  HERE  is  natural  appeal  in  a  story  of 
the  struggle  to  overcome  a  physical 
handicap.  And  when  it  deals  with  a 
very  beautiful  cripple  in  the  person  of 
Mary  Maguire,  assisted  by  a  handsome 
doctor  in  the  person  of  that  superlative 
actor,  George  Sanders— the  result  is 
bound  to  be  good.  These  two  English 
stars  in  their  respective  roles  turn  in  a 
duet  of  excellent  performances.  The 
former — as  a  frail,  lovely  girl,  brilliant, 
talented,  but  a  miserable  outsider  in  the 
world  of  love  and  sport.  The  latter — as 
a  precocious,  cocksure  bone  specialist — 
a  modern  miracle  man,  whose  skill  has 
healed  hundreds,  but  who  is,  neverthe- 
less, labeled  an  outsider  by  his  col- 
leagues. The  girl,  Lalage  Sturdee, 
goes  to  Doctor  Ragatzy  as  a  last  resort 
when  she  has  been  given  up  as  a  hope- 
less case.  He  agrees  to  treat  her  for  the 
publicity.  His  method  of  cure  is  long, 
and  during  it,  the  girl's  spiritual  qual- 
ities have  a  humanizing  effect  on  the 
arrogant,  insufferable  egotist  the  doctor 
is.  The  climax,  of  course,  is  the  day 
the  Doubting  Thomases  come  to  witness 
the  results  of  the  treatment.  The  young 
man  for  whom  the  lame  girl  wishes  to 
get  well  is  Peter  Murray  Hill;  the  other 
woman,  Barbara  Blair.  They  are 
shadowy  figures  compared  to  the  clear 
strength  of  the  two  main  characters. 
You  can't  go  wrong  on  this  one — but 
come  prepared  to  shed  a  tear  or  two. 

MY  LITTLE  CHICKADEE— Universal 

W  ELL,  just  what  you  might  expect  from 
the  combined  efforts  of  la  Belle  West 
and  that  master  of  comic  chicanery,  W. 
C.  Fields,  you  get,  in  this  lurid  meller- 
drammer  of  frontier  life  in  Greasewood 
City.  It  is  as  ribald  a  piece  of  hi-jinks 
as  has  skidded  by  the  Hays  Office  in 
many  a  moon.  The  team  of  West  and 
Fields  don't  miss  a  chance,  in  this  tale 
of  a  fair  lady  named  Flower  Belle  Lee 
and  her  partner  in  crime,  Cuthbert  J. 
Twillie,  to  use  the  double  entendre  and 
innuendo  supreme.  The  two  rate  some 
honest  laughs  besides.  It's  a  "Destry 
Rides  Again"  story,  with  Mr.  Fields 
sporting  the  dummy  sheriff's  badge, 
while  the  town  boss  and  saloon  keeper, 


Joseph  Calleia,  makes  love  to  his  ful- 
some wife.  There  is  also  a  Masked 
Bandit  who  visits  the  West  boudoir  by 
moonlight,  and  when  Mr.  Fields  adopts 
the  bandit's  intriguing  disguise,  a  case 
of  mistaken  identity  arises  and  plenty 
of  trouble.  Somehow  the  setting  of  a 
raw  Western  town,  with  its  gun-in-hol- 
ster  props,  is  a  perfect  set-up  for  the 
talents  of  the  co-stars  who,  by  the  way, 
don't  quite  succeed  in  stealing  the  pic- 
ture from  the  other.  You'll  see  Dick 
Foran,  Margaret  Hamilton,  Fuzzy 
Knight  in  supporting  roles.  Typical 
shots:  W.  C.  Fields  shooting  Indians 
with  a  sling  shot;  Mae  West  beguiling 
a  grizzled  guard  to  let  her  out  of  jail. 

LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK— 20th  Century-Fox 

IT  may  be  that  Don  Ameche  missed  out 
on  being  Robert  Fulton  because  of  his 
recent  illness.  Richard  Greene  plays 
the  inventor  of  the  steamboat  instead, 
and  if  you  don't  think  they  had  some 
difficulties  getting  that  contraption  in 
the  water,  just  see  the  picture.  Every- 
one from  a  very  heavy  boatbuilder  with 
a  grudge  against  Fulton  to  Thomas  Jef- 
ferson himself  gets  in  the  way.  Finally, 
of  course,  off  it  goes  to  revolutionize  the 
transportation  industry  and  Mr.  Greene 
embraces  Brenda  Joyce,  and  everyone  is 
happy  except  the  aforementioned  villain. 
Fred  MacMurray  is  at  his  best  as  the 
rough  and  ready  shipwright  who  builds 
the  Clermont  on  money  raised  partly 
by  Alice  Faye.  He  not  only  makes  time 
with  the  boat,  but  with  Alice  too.  She's 
a  tavern  keeper  without  much  refine- 
ment but  with  plenty  of  what  MacMur- 
ray wants.  These  great  troupers  strug- 
gle valiantly  with  a  story  cast  from  a 
convenient  and  ancient  mold.  The 
situations  are  masterpieces  of  banality 
and  supporting  performances  are  rou- 
tine. The  picture  probably  will  make 
a  fortune  as  Darryl  Zanuck's  epics  do, 
but  nevertheless  "Little  Old  New  York" 
is  a  little  old  bore  of  a  box-office  hit. 

•  VIGIL  IN  THE  NIGHT— RKO-Radio 

I  HIS  is  reminiscent  of  "Nurse  Edith 
Cavell"  except  that  Carole  Lombard 
plays  the  leading  character.  The  pro- 
duction has  the  stamp  of  authenticity 
on  it,  dealing  as  it  does  in  a  solemn 
and  sincere  manner  with  such  enormi- 
ties as  life  and  death  and  integrity  and 
loyalty  to  one's  job.  It  must  be  said 
that  the  picture  is  magnificent  cinema, 
as  emotional  and  gripping  as  anything 
you  have  seen  this  year.  It  is  also 
without  one  moment  of  lightness  and 
unless  you  are  in  a  mood  for  tragedy 
you  will  find  it  inexpressibly  dreary. 
Miss  Lombard  is  the  nurse  assigned  to 
the  less  glamorous  floors  of  the  hos- 
pital whose  job  is  everything  to  her. 
Anne  Shirley  plays  her  sister  and  Brian 
Aherne  is  the  doctor  who  fights  des- 
perately against  disease,  common  en- 
emy of  all  three.  The  performances 
are  superb,  especially  that  of  Lombard 
who  here  proves  again  how  versatile 
an  actress  she  is. 


Casts  of  Current  Pictures 


"ABE  LINCOLN  IN  ILLINOIS"  —  RKO- 
Radio. — Screen  play  by  Robert  E.  Sherwood. 
Based  upon  the  Pulitzer  Prize  play  by  Robert  E. 
Sherwood.  Directed  by  John  Cromwell.  Cast: 
Abraham  Lincoln,  Raymond  Massey;  Stephen 
Douglas,  Gene  Lockhart;  Mary  Todd  Lincoln,  Ruth 
Gordon;  Ann  Rutledge,  Mary  Howard;  Elizabeth 
Edwards,  Dorothy  Tree;  Ninian  Edwards,  Harvey 
Stephens;  Joshua  Speed,  Minor  Watson,  Billy 
Herndon,  Alan  Baxter;  Jack  Armstrong,  Howard 
da  Silva;  Judge  Bowling  Green,  Aldrich  Bowker; 
John  McNeil,  Maurice  Murphy;  Mentor  Graham, 
Louis  Jean  Hevdt;  Ben  Mottling,  Clem  Bevans; 
Denton  Offut,  Harlan  Briggs;  Seth  Gale,  Herbert 
Rudley;  Stage  Driver,  Andy  Clyde;  Mr.  Crimmin, 
Roger  Imhof;  Mrs.  Rutledge,  Leona  Roberts;  Mr. 
Rutledge,  Edmund  Elton;  Mrs.  Bowling  Green, 
Florence  Roberts;  Dr.  Chandler,  George  Rosener; 
Mrs.  Seth  Gale,  Fay  Helm;  John  Hanks,  Trevor 


"ADVENTURE  IN  DIAMONDS"  —  Par- 
amount.— Screen  play  by  Leonard  Lee  and  Franz 
Schulz.  Based  on  a  story  by  Frank  O'Connor. 
Directed  by  George  Fitzmaurice.  Cast:  Capt. 
Stephen  Dennett,  George  Brent;  Felice  Falcon,  Isa 
Miranda;  Michael  Barclay,  John  Loder;  Col.  J.  W. 
Lansfield,  Nigel  Bruce;  Nellie,  Elizabeth  Patterson; 
Lloyd,  Matthew  Boulton;  Piano  Player,  Rex 
Evans;  Bartender,  David  Clyde;  Pageboy  "Buttons," 
Rex  Downing;  Steward,  Douglas  Gordon;  Stout 
Man  on  Boat,  Harry  Stubbs;  1st  Immigration 
Officer,  Guy  Bellis;_2H<i  Immigration  Officer, 
Norman  Ainsley;  Mr.  Perrins,  Ralph  Forbes;  Mrs. 
Perrins,  Nikolayeva,  Mr.  MacPherson,  E.  E.  Clive; 
Mrs.  MacPherson, „Vera  Lewis;   Lou,   Ed   Gargan. 


"BAKER'S  WIFE,  THE"— Marcel  Pagxol 
Production. — Adaptation  and  dialogue  by  Marcel 
Pagnol.  From  the  story  by  Jean  Giono.  Directed 
by  Marcel  PaKnoI.  Cast:  The  liaker,  Raimu;  The 
Baker's  Wife,  Ginette  Leclerc;  The  Handsome  Shep- 
herd, Charles  Moulin;  The  Priest,  Robert  Vattier; 
The  School  Teacher,  Robert  Bassac;  The  Marquis, 
Charpin. 

"BLUE  BIRD,  THE"— 20th  Century-Fox.— 
Screen  play  by  Ernest  Pascal.  Based  upon  the  play 
by  Maurice  Maeterlinck.  Directed  by  Walter  Lang. 
Cast:  Mytyl,  Shirley  Temple;  Mummy  Tyl,  Spring 
Byingion;  Mr.  Luxury,  Nigel  Bruce;  Tylette,  Gale 
Sondergaard;  Tylo,  Eddie  Collins;  Angela  Ber- 
lingot,  Sybil  Jason;  Fairy  Berylune,  Jessie  Ralph; 
Light,  Helen  Ericson;  Tvllvt.  Johnny  Russell;  Mrs. 
Luxury,  Laura  Hope  Crews;  Daddv  Tvl,  Russell 
Hicks;  Granny    Tyl,    Cecilia    Loftus;  Grandpa  Tyl, 


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CONVINCE  yourself  how  quickly 
its  analgesic  action,  aided  by 
alkaline  buffers,  relieves  the  discom- 
fort and  makes  you  feel  better. 

Pain  and  misery  seem  to  be  eased 
away  with  its  pleasant,  speedy  action. 

Try  it  Yourself!  Your  druggist  has 
Alka-Seltzer.  Enjoy  a  glass  at  the 
fountain  or  ask  for  the  convenient,  30- 
cent  or  economical  60-cent  packages. 

Ask  Your  Druggist 
for  Alka-Seltzer 


GRAY 
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WHEN  colds  cause  sniffling,  sneezing, 
soreness,  and  stuffiness  In  the  nos- 
trils use  Mentholatum.  It  gives  quick 
relief  from  these  discomforts  and  pro- 
motes healing  of  the  irritated  mem- 
branes in  the  nostrils.  Its  vapors  also 
reach  deep  Into  the  air  passages, 
bringing  grateful  comfort. 

Also  rub  some  Mentholatum  on  your 
chest  and  back  to  improve  the  local 
blood  circulation.  Rub  it  on  your  fore- 
head and  temples  to  allay  headache 
and  neuralgia  due  to  colds. 


APRIL,      I  940 


95 


Every  comfort  cleverly  contrived 
to  make  your  visit  to  New  York  a 
success.  Overlooking  Central  Park 
the  Savoy-Plaza  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  city.  Fine  shops  and  theatres 
nearby  .  .  .  subway  direct  to 
World's  Fair  at  the  door. 

Special  Summer  Rates 
during  the  World's  Fair 

Single  from  $5  ■  Double  from  $7 

Henry  A.  Rost,  Managing  Director 
George  S'jter,   Residerr   Manager 

SAVOY-PLAZA 

FIFTH  AVE..  58th  to  59th  STS..  NEW  YORK 


,\1  Shean;  Studious  Boy,  Gene  Reynolds,  Mrs. 
eons  Roberts;  II  ilhelm,  Stanley  An- 
drews; Cypress,  Dorothy  Dearing;  CaUer  oi  Roll, 
Frank  Dawson;  Nurse.  Claire  DuHrey;  Wild  Plum. 
Sterling  Hollowav;  Father  rime.  Thurston  Hall; 
Oak.  Edwin  Maxwell;  Fool  men,  Herbert  Evans 
ami  Brandon  Hurst;  Royal  Forester.  Dewey  Robin- 
son; Major  Porno.  Keith  Hitchcock;  Boy  Invenlor, 
Buster  Phelps;  Lovers.  Tommy  Baker  and  Dorothy 
Joyce;  Boy  Chemist.  Billy  Cook;  Children.  Scott y 
>tt,  Juanita  Quigley  and  Payne  Johnson; 
Utile  Sister.  Ann  Todd;  Little  Girl,  Diane  Fisher. 

"  BROADWAY  MELODY  OF  1940"— M-G-M. 
— Screen  play  by  Leon  Gordon  and  George  Op- 
penheimer.  Original  story  by  Jack  McGowan  and 
Dore  Senary.  Directed  by  Norman  Taurog.  Cast: 
Johnny  Brett,  Fred  Astaire;  Clare  Bennett,  Eleanor 
Powell;  King  Shaw,  George  Murphy;  Bob  Casey, 
Frank  Morgan;  Bert  C.  Matthews,  Ian  Hunter; 
Amy  Blake,  Florence  Rice;  limmy  Lou  Lee,  Lynne 
Carver;  Pearl,  Ann  Morriss;  Juggler,  Trixie 
Firschke;  Masked  Singer,  Douglas  McPhail. 

"DR.  EHRLICH'S  MAGIC  BULLET'  — 
Warners. — Screen  play  by  John  Huston,  Heinz 
Herald  and  Norman  Burnside.  Based  upon  original 
biographical  material  in  the  possession  of  Dr. 
Ehrlich's  family.  Directed  by  William  Dieterle. 
Cast:  Dr.  Ehrlich,  Edward  G.  Robinson;  Hedi 
Ehrlich,  Ruth  Gordon;  Dr.  Emit  Von  Behring, 
Otto  Kruger;  Minister  Althoff,  Donald  Crisp;  Pro- 
fessor Hartman,  Montagu  Love;  Franziska  Speyer, 
Maria  Ouspenskaya;  Dr.  Hans  Wolfert,  Sig  Ru- 
mann;  Dr.  Morgenroth,  Edward  Norris;  Dr.  Lents, 
Henry  O'Neill;  Dr.  Robert  Koch,  Albert  Basserman; 
Millelmeyer,  Donald  Meek;  Dr.  Brockdorf,  Louis 
Calhern;  Sensenbrenner,  Charles  Halton;  Speidler, 
Douglas  Wood;  Judge,  Harry  Davenport;  Dr. 
Kunze,  Louis  Jean  Heydt;  Becker,  Irving  Bacon; 
Dr.  Krauss,  Theodor  Von  Eltz;  Miss  Marquardl, 
Hermine  Sterler. 

"FIGHT  FOR  LIFE,  THE"— United  States 
Film. — Written  and  directed  by  Pare  Lorentz. 
From  the  book  by  Paul  de  Kruif.  Cast:  The  Young 
Intern,  Myron  McCormick;  Teachers,  Storrs 
Haynes  and  Will  Geer;  The  Head  Doctor,  Dudley 
Digges;  Young  Woman,  Dorothy  Adams;  Grand- 
mother, Dorothy  Urban;  Receptionist,  Effie  Ander- 
son, doctors  and  nurses  from  Chicago  Maternity 
Center,  Chicago  Lying-in  Hospital,  Cedars  of 
Lebanon  Hospital,  medical  students  and  women  'of 
the  city. 

"GRAPES  OF  WRATH,  THE"— 20th  Ce 
tury-Fox. — Screen  play  by  Nunnally  Johnso 
Based  on  the  novel  by  John  Steinbeck.  Directed  by 
John  Ford.  Cast:  Tom  Joad,  Henry  Fonda;  Ma 
Joad,  Jane  Darwell;  Casy,  John  Carradine;  Grampa, 
Charley  Grapewin;  Rosasharn,  Dorris  Bowdon;  Pa 
Joad,  Russell  Simpson;  Al,  O.  Z.  Whitehead; 
Muley,  John  Qualen;  Connie,  Eddie  Quillan; 
Granma.  Jeffie  Tilbury;  Noah,  Frank  Sully;  Uncle 
John,  Frank  Darien;  Winfield,  Darryl  Hickman; 
Ruth  Joad,  Shirley  Mills;  Thomas,  Roger  Imhof; 
Caretaker,  Grant  Mitchell;  Wilkie,  Charles  D. 
Brown;  Davis,  John  Arledge;  Policeman,  Ward 
Bond;  Bert,  Harry  Tyler;  Bill,  William  Pawley; 
Father,  Arthur  Aylesworth;  Joe,  Charles  Tannen; 
lw-peilion  Officer,  Selmar  Jackson;  Leader,  Charles 
Middleton;  Proprietor.  Eddie  Waller;  Floyd,  Paul 
Guilfoyle;  Frank,  David  Hughes;  City  Man,  Cliff 
Clark;  Bookkeeper,  Joseph  Sawyer;  Tim,  Frank 
Faylen;  Agent,  Adrian  Morris;  Muley's  Son,  Hollis 
Jewell;  Spencer,  Robert  Homans;  Driver,  Irving 
Bacon;  Mae,  Kitty  McHugh. 

"HE  MARRIED  HIS  WIFE"— 20th  CentuRY- 
Fox. — Screen  play  by  Sam  Hellman,  Darrell  Ware, 
Lynn  Starling  and  John  O'Hara.  Original  story  by 
Erna  Lazarus  and  Scott  Darling.  Directed  by  Roy 
Del  Ruth.  Cast:  T.  H.  Randall,  Joel  McCrea; 
Valerie,  Nancy  Kelly;  Bill  Carter,  Roland  Young; 
Ethel,  Mary  Boland;  Freddie,  Cesar  Romero; 
Doris,  Mary  Healy;  Paul  Hunter,  Lyle  Talbot; 
Dicky  Brown.  Elisha  Cook,  Jr.;  Huggins,  Barnett 
Parker;  Prisoner.  Harry  Hayden;  Warden,  Charles 
Wilson;  Detective,  Charles  D.  Brown;  Mayor, 
Spencer  Charters;  Waiters,  Leyland  Hodgson, 
William  Edmunds. 

"HOUSE    ACROSS    THE    BAY,    THE"    — 

Walter  Wanger-United  Artists. — Screen  play 
by  Kathryn  Scola.  From  an  original  story  by 
Myles  Connolly.  Directed  by  Archie  Mayo.  Cast: 
Brenda  Benlle v,  Joan  Bennett;  Steve Larwitt,  George 
Raft;  Slant  Kolma,  Lloyd  Nolan;  Tim  Nolan. 
Walter  Pidgeon;  Mary  Bogales,  Gladys  George; 
Babe,  June  Knight. 

"INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE"— 
Universal. — Screen  play  by  Kurt  Siodmak,  Lester 
Cole  and  Cedric  Belfrage.  From  the  original  story 
by  Joe  May,  and  Kurt  Siodmak.  Directed  by  Joe 
May.  Cast:  Richard  Cobb,  Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke; 
Geoffrey  Radcliffe,  Vincent  Price;  Helen  Manson, 
Nan  Grey;  Dr.  Frank  Griffin,  John  Sutton;  In- 
spector Sampson,  Cecil  Kellaway;  Spears,  Alan 
Napier. 

"I  TAKE  THIS  WOMAN"— M-G-M.— Screen 

play  by  James  Kevin  McGuinness.  Original  story 
by  Charles  MacArthur.  Directed  by  W.  S.  Van 
Dyke  II.  Cast:  Karl  Decker,  Spencer  Tracy; 
(,<■>*■./  Gragore,  Hedy  Lamarr;  Madame  Mancsca, 
Verree  Teasdale;  Phil  Mayberry,  Kent  Taylor; 
Linda  Rodgers,  Laraine  Day;  Sandra  Mayberry, 
Mona  Barrie;  Joe,  Jack  Carson;  Bill  Rodgers,  Paul 
Cavanagh;  Dr.  Duveen,  Louis  Calhern;  Lola  Esler- 
monl,  Frances  Drake;  Gertie,  Marjorie  Main;  Sid, 
George  E.  Stone;  Sambo,  Willie  Best;  Ted  Fenton, 
Don  Castle;  Joe  Barnes,  Dalies  Frantz;  Bob 
Hampton,  Reed  Hadley. 

"LION  HAS  WINGS,  THE  "—Alexander 
Kokda-United  Ariists.  —  Screen  play  by  Ian 
Dalrymple.  Directed  by  Michael  Powell,  Brian 
Desmond  Hurst  and  Adrian  Brunei.  Commentator, 
E.  V.  H.  Emmett  (By  courtesy  of  Gaumont  British 
News) .  Cast :  Merle Oberon,  Ralph  Richardson,  June 
Duprez,  Flora  Robson.  Robert  Douglas,  Anthony 
Bushell,  Derrick  De  Marney,  Austin  Trevor,  Mil- 
ton Rosmer,  John  Longden,  Ian  Fleming. 

"LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK"— 20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox. — Screen  play  by  Harry  Tugend.  Story 
by  John  Balderston.  Based  upon  a  play  by  Rida 
John-on  Young.  Directed  by  Henry  King.  Cast: 
Pat  O'Day,  Alice  Faye;  Charles  Brownne,  Fred  Mac- 
Murray;  Robert  Fulton,  Richard  Greene;  Harriet 
Livingston,  Brenda  Joyce;  "Commodore,"  Andy 
Devine;  Robert  R.  Livingston,  Henry  Stephens,,,!; 
Tavern   Keeper,   Fritz   Feld;   Regan,   Ward    Bond; 


V 


/ 


girdles! 

PANTIES 
in  Tea  Rose 

and  White 
Sizes  26  to  38 


m    L«tcx  and  Bembcro 

;•»•!  'wist  or'W! 

uli    °n'run-  At  all 
'eadmg  store$ 


REAL-FORM  GIRDLE  CO.,  358-5tt  Aw.,  Hew  York 


Willie  Stout,  Clarence  Hummel  Wilson;  Nicholas 
Roosevelt,  Robert  Middlemass;  John  Jacob  Astor 
Roger  Imhof;  Washington  Irving,  Theodore  Von 
Kltz;  Sea  Captain,  Arthur  Aylesworth;  Mrs. 
Brevoorl,  Virginia  Brissac;  Patrol  Captain,  Stanley 
Andrews;  Noah,  Ben  Carter;  Blackie,  O.  G. 
Hendrian;  Helmsman,  Harry  Tyler;  De  Will,  Victor 
Kilian;  Wolf,  Paul  Sutton;  Singer,  Tyler  Brooke; 
Ticket  Taker,  Herbert  Ashley;  Hilda,  Jody  Gilbert; 
Horace,  Herbert  Heywood. 

"LONE  WOLF  STRIKES,  THE"— Columma. 
■ — Screen  play  by  Harry  Segall  and  Albert  Duffy. 
From  the  story  by  Dalton  Trumbo.  Based  upon  a 
work  by  Louis  Joseph  Vance.  Directed  by  Sidney 
Salkow.  Cast:  Michael  Lanyard,  Warren  William; 
Delia  Jordan,  Joan  Perry;  Jamison,  Eric  Blore; 
Jim  Ryder,  Alan  Baxter;  Binnie  Weldon,  Astrid 
Allwyn;  EmilGorlick,  Montagu  Love;  Ralph  Bolton, 
Robert  W.  Wilcox;  Conroy,  Don  Beddoe;  Dickens, 
Fred  A.  Kelsey;  Stanley  Young,  Addison  Richards; 
Phillip  Jordan,  Roy  Gordon;  Alberts,  Harland 
Tucker;  Dorgan,  Peter  Lynn. 

"MAN  FROM  DAKOTA.  THE"— M-G-M.— 
Screen  play  by  Laurence  Stallings.  Based  on  a  book 
by  MacKinlay  Kantor.  Directed  by  Leslie  Fenton. 
Cast:  Sergeant  Barstow,  Wallace  Beery;  Oliver 
Clark,  John  Howard;  Jenny,  Dolores  Del  Rio; 
\eslry,  Donald  Meek;  Parson  Summers,  Robert 
Barrat;  I'rovosl  Marshal,  Addison  Richards;  Camp- 
bellilc,  Frederick  Burton;  Union  Soldier,  William 
Haade;  Mr.  Carpenter,  John  Wray. 

"MAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  TALK,   THE"— 

20; ii  Century-Fox. — Screen  play  by  Robert  Ellis, 
Helen  Logan,  Lester  Ziffren  and  Edward  Ettinger. 
Based  upon  the  play  "The  Valiant,"  by  Hol- 
worthy  Hall  and  Robert  M.  Middlemass.  Directed 
by  David  Burton.  Cast:  Joe  Monday,  Lloyd  Nolan; 
Alice  Stetson.  Jean  Rogers;  Steve  Phillips.  Richard 
Clarke;  Frederick  Keller,  Onslow  Stevens;  Horace 
Parker,  Eric  Blore;  Miss  Norton,  Joan  Valerie; 
Mrs.  Stetson,  Mae  Marsh;  Attorney  Cluelt,  Paul 
Stanton;  Walker,  Douglas  Wood;  Paul  Gilli.  Irving 
Bacon;  Henri  Phot,  Lester  Scharff;  Foreman  of  the 
Jury,  Harlan  Briggs;  Woman  Juror,  Elizabeth  Ris- 


i;  Lilly  Wight 


Re  i 


"MUSIC  IN  MY 
Original  story  and  sere. 
Grant.  Directed  by  Jo 


KIRKEBU 
HOTELS 


Riano. 

HEART" — Columbia. — 
n  play  by  James  Edward 
;ph  Santley.  Cast:  Robert 
Gregory,  Tony  Martin;  Patricia  O'Malley,  Rita 
II, i\  worth;  Mary,  Edith  Fellows;  Charles  Gardner, 
Alan  .Mowbray;  Griggi,  Eric  Blore;  Sastha,  George 
Tobias;  Mark  G.  Gilman,  Joseph  Crehan;  Luigi, 
George  Humbert;  Miller,  Joey  Ray;  Taxi  Driver, 
Don  Brodie;  Leading  Lady,  Julieta  Novis;  Blake, 
Eddie  Kane;  Marshall,  Phil  Tead;  Barrett,  Marten 
Lament.  Music  by  Andre  Kostelanetz  and  his 
Orchestra. 


"MY  LITTLE  CHICKADEE"— Universal.— 
Original  screen  play  by  Mae  West  and  W.  C. 
Fields.  Directed  bv  Edward  Cline.  Cast:  Flower 
Belle  Lee.  Mae  West;  Culhbert  J.  Twill te,  W.  C. 
Fields;  Jeff  Badger,  Joseph  Calleia;  The  Masked 
Bandit,  Joseph  Calleia;  Wayne  Carter,  Dick  Foran; 
Amos  Budge,  Donald  Meek;  Ermingarde  Foster, 
Anne  Nagel;  Mrs.  Gideon,  Margaret  Hamilton; 
Cousin  Zeb,  Fuzzy  Knight;  Aunt  Lou,  Ruth 
Donnelly. 

"OUTSIDER,  THE"— Alliance  Films  Cor- 
poration.— Screen  play  by  Dudley  Leslie.  From 
the  novel  by  Dorothy  Brandon.  Directed  by  Paul 
L.  Stein.  Cast:  Lalage  Sturdee,  .Mary  Maguire; 
Kagatzy,  George  Sanders;  Wendy,  Barbara  Blair; 
Basil  Owen,  Peter  Murray  Hill;  Joseph  Sturdee, 
Frederick  Leister;  Sir  Montague  Tollemeche,  P. 
Kynaston  Reeves;  Dr.  Ladd,  Edmund  Breon;  Sir 
Nathan  Isreal,  Ralph  Truman,  Dr.  Hellmore, 
Walter  Hudd;  Mrs.  Coales,  Kathleen  Harrison. 


"PINOCCHIO"  —  RKO-Radio.  —  A  Walt 
Disney  Production.  Based  on  Collodi's  Immortal 
Story.  Story  Adaptations  by  Ted  Sears,  Webb 
Smith,  Joseph  Sabo,  Otto  Englander,  William 
Cottrell,  Erdman  Penner  and  Aurelius  Battaglia. 
Supervising  Directors,  Ben  Sharpsteen  and  Hamil- 
ton Luske.  Sequence  Directors,  Bill  Roberts,  Jack 
Kinney,  Morman  Ferguson,  Wilfred  Jackson,  T. 
Hee.  Animation  Directors,  Fred  Moore,  Milton 
Kahl,  Ward  Kimball,  Eric  Larson,  Franklin 
Thomas,  Vladimar  Tytla,  Arthur  Babbitt,  Wollie 
Reitherman.  Music,  Leigh  Harline,  Ned  Washing- 
ton, Paul  J.  Smith. 

"SAINT'S  DOUBLE  TROUBLE.  THE"— 
RKO-Radio. — Screen  play  by  Ben  Holmes.  From 
the  story  by  Leslie  Charteris.  Directed  by  Jack 
Hively.  Cast:  The  Saint,  George  Sanders;  Anne, 
Helene  Whitnev;  Ft  mack,  Jonathan  Hale;  Partner, 
Bela  Lugosi;  Behlen,  Donald  MacBride;  Limpy, 
John  F.  Hamilton;  Professor  Bills,  Thomas  W. 
Ross;  Monk,  Elliott  Sullivan. 

"SOUTH  OF  THE  BORDER"— Republic— 
Screen  play  by  Betty  Burbridge  and  Gerry 
C.eraghty.  Original  story  by  Dorrell  and  Stuart 
McGowan.  Directed  by  George  Sherman.  Cast: 
Gene,  Gene  Autry;  Frog,  Smiley  Burnette;  Lois, 
June  Storey;  Dolores,  Lupita  Tovar;  Patsy,  Mary 
Lee;  Andreo,  Duncan  Renaldo;  Don  Diego,  Frank 
Reicher;  Saunders,  Alan  Edwards;  Duenna,  Claire 
Du  Brey;  Pablo,  Dick  Botiller;  Consul,  Selmar 
Jackson;  Rosila,  Sheila  Darcy;  Flint,  Rex  Lease; 
Parde,  William  Farnum. 

"SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON"  —  RKO- 
Radio. — Screen  play  by  Walter  Ferris,  Gene 
Towne  and  Graham  Baker.  From  the  novel  by 
Johann  David  Wyss.  Directed  by  Edward  Lud- 
wig.  Cast:  William  Robinson,  Thomas  Mitchell; 
Elizabeth  Robinson,  Edna  Best;  Jack  Robinson, 
Freddie  Bartholomew;  Ernest  Robinson,  Terry  Kil- 
burn;  Fritz  Robinson,  Tim  Holt;  Francis  Robinson; 
Baby  Bobby  Quillan;  Thoren,  Christian  Rub, 
Ramsay,  John  Wray;  Captain,  Herbert  Rawlinson 

"VIGIL  IN  THE  NIGHT"— RKO-Radio.— 
Screen  play  by  Fred  Guiol,  P.  J.  Wolfson  and 
Rowland  Leigh.  From  the  novel  by  A.  J.  Cronin. 
Directed  by  George  Stevens.  Cast:  Anne  Lee, 
Carole  Lombard;  Dr.  Prescolt,  Brian  Aherne;  Lucy 
Lee,  Anne  Shirley;  Matthew  Bowley,  Julien  Mitchell; 
Dr.  Caley,  Robert  Coote;  Nora,  Brenda  Forbes; 
Glennie,  Rita  Page;  Joe  Shand,  Peter  Cashing; 
Matron  East,  Ethel  Griffies;  Mrs.  Bowley,  Doris 
Lloyd;  Sister  Gilson,  Emily  Fitzroy. 


96 


.  PRINTING  CO. 


PHOTOPLAY 


Mow  You  Can  Improve 


your  looks 


your  figure 


your  popularity 


NO  MORE  ALIBIS 

By  Sylvia  of  Hollywood 

rhe  very  same  procedure  which  many  famous 
tars  of  the  screen  and  stage  use  to  acquire  and 
naintain  their  beauty  are  revealed  to  you  by  Sylvia 
)f  Hollywood  in  her  famous  book,  No  More  Alibis. 
A  beautiful  body,  sparkling  eyes,  clear  skin  and 
eal  vitality— every  woman  has  a  right  to  these  and 
iyh  ia  tells  you  how  you  may  attain  them.  For  just 
i  few  of  the  subjects  covered  in  No  More  Alibis 
ire:  A  Firm  Lovely  Face,  Double  Chins,  Refining 
four  Nose,  Skin  Beauty,  Beautiful  Hands  and 
•Vet.  Overcome  Nervousness,  During  and  After 
*regnancy,  The  Woman  Past  Forty,  Too  Much 
lips,  Reducing  the  Abdomen,  Smoothing  Out  a 
rhin,  Crepey  Neck,  Slenderizing  the  Legs  and 
Vnklcs,  Squeezing  Off  Fat,  Gain  Fifteen  or  More 
Pounds  a  Month,  Slimming 
Thighs  and  Upper  Legs. 

In  No  More  Alibis  Sylvia 
names  names.  She  tells  the  very 
treatments  she  has  given  your 
favorite  screen  stars— she  gives 
information  for  which  the 
screen  stars  have  paid  fabulous 
sums.  Yet  this  book  costs  you 
only  $1 .00.  Get  your  copy  now! 


STREAMLINE  YOUR  FIGURE 

By  Sylvia  of  Hollywood 

Excess  fat  spells  age  in  any  language.  Any  spread- 
ing of  hips  puts  you  in  the  matron's  class  regard- 
less of  your  years.  In  her  splendid  book,  Shea  in- 
line Your  Figure,  Sylvia  of  Hollywood  tells  you 
how  to  take  off  fat  and  put  it  on  where  you  want  it. 
There's  nothing  impossible  about  it.  In  fact,  you'll 
enjoy  reducing  this  modern  Hollywood  way. 

By  following  Madame  Sylvia's  suggestions  you 
will  be  surprised  how  quickly  you  can  normalize 
your  system  and  acquire  the  alluring  proportions 
you  so  much  admire  in  others.  And  it  can  be  done 
in  the  privacy  of  your  own  boudoir. 

Streamline  Your  Figure  is  more  than  a  reducing 
book.  It  tells  you  how  to  acquire  beautiful  legs  .  .  . 
^  how  to  get  rid  of  bulges  on  the 
sides  of  your  hips  .  .  .  how  to 
have  a  lovely  neck  ...  a  beau- 
tiful back  and  a  well-propor- 
tioned face.  The  pages  of  this 
great  book  are  packed  to  the 
brim  with  practical  instruc- 
tions illustrated  by  32  full  page 
photographs.  The  price  is  only 
Si. 00  postpaid.  Order  direct  or 
from  your  local  bookstore. 


r*c**> 


PULL  YOURSELF  TOGETHER,  BABY! 

By  Sylvia  of  Hollywood 

Pull  Yourself  Together,  Baby!,  by  Sylvia  of  Holly- 
wood, is  about  personality— that  magic  touch  which 
makes  an  ugly  person  charming,  a  pretty  woman 
fascinating,  a  beautiful  girl  simply  irresistible. 

Make  no  mistake  about  personality  .  .  .  you  can 
acquire  it  .  .  .  you  can  develop  it.  If  you  are  labor- 
ing under  the  false  notion  that  you  must  be  as 
beautiful  as  the  Hollywood  stars  or  you  can't  catch 
the  admiration  of  others— forget  it!  You  can  build 
up  charm  as  surely  as  you  can  build  up  a  thin 
body.  You  can  acquire  personality! 

If  you  are  one  of  those  women  who  in  a  blunder- 
ing, sell-conscious  manner  shrivel  up  into  knots 
when  in  the  company  of  strangers,  Sylvia  of  Holly- 
wood has  plenty  of  tips  for  you. 
You've  got  all  the  makings  for 
a  magnetic  personality  if  you 
will  only  use  them.  If  vou  wish 
to  acquire  self-assurance,  poise 
and  charm,  read  the  sugges- 
tions Madame  Sylvia  has  lor 
you  in  Pull  Yourself  Together, 
Baby!  The  price  of  this  mar- 
velous book  is  only  Si. 00  post- 
paid. Order  unit  copy  today! 


ONLY  $1.00  EACH  FOR  THESE  THREE  GREAT  BOOKS 

by 

Sylvia  of  Hollywood 

AT  ALL  BOOKSTORES  OR  FROM  PUBLISHERS 


MacfaDDF.N  Rook  COMPANY,  Inc..  Dept.  1'- 1 

805  East  42nd  Street,  New  York,  N.  V. 

Send  inc.  postage  prepaid,  the  book  (s)   by  Sylvia  of  Hollywood  checked 

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DURBIN 
By  Paul   Hesse 


OICH  STAR  ROMANCES  ARE  FAKES? 

MY  SON,  MY  SON!  By  HOWARD  SPRINC 


amous  best  seller 
Aplete  in  this  issue 


An  unvarnisheu  ieport  on  all  the  latest  love  affairs 

By  ruth  watebbuby 

condensed  to  2  hours 
i  .I  d  i  n  a. 


WAS  THIS  THE  MAN  SHE  HAD  MARRIED  ? 


Only  a  few  short  months  ago  the 
excitement,  the  wonder,  the  surg- 
ing happiness  of  walking  beside  him 
down  the  aisle  .  .  .  his  bride!  Weeks 
of  glorious  honeymooning  .  .  .  all 
music  and  laughter,  dancing  and 
gaiety.  Then,  at  last,  home  to  the 
shining  new  apartment  they  had 
planned  and  furnished  together. 

And  now,  so  soon,  this  puzzling  change.  The  pre- 
cious words,  the  tiny  acts  of  thoughtfulness,  were 
becoming  less  and  less  frequent.  Somehow,  even  the 
way  he  looked  at  her  seemed  different  lately. 

Tonight ...  or  rather  in  the  small,  lonely  hours  of  this 
morning. .  .he  was  coming  home  after  an  evening  without 
her.  It  was  not  the  first  time.  There  had  been  other  such 


nights    recently,    vaguely    explained 
away  as  "necessary  for  business." 

Could  he  really  be  growing  in- 
different .  .  .  this  man  she  loved  so 
much?  What  had  she  done?  What 
could  she  do  to  hold  him? 

Why  Risk  Unhappiness? 

Probably  nothing  can  wreck  romance  so  quickly  as 
halitosis  (bad  breath).  And  the  insidious  thing  about 
this  offensive  condition  is  that  you  yourself  seldom 
know  when  you  have  it  ...  or   realize  that  you   are 


offending.  Why  run  that  risk?  Sometimes  halitosi 
may  be  due  to  systemic  conditions,  but  usually  anc 
fortunately  it  is  caused,  say  some  authorities,  by  th< 
fermentation  of  tiny  food  particles  in  the  mouth 
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Get  in  the  habit  of  gargling  Listerine  Antiseptic  be 
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USE   LISTERINE  MORNING   AND    NIGHT   FOR    HALITOSIS   (BAD   BREATH 


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DARKENED  THEIR  LOVE! 


A  man,  a  young  girl . . .  gloriously  in  love !  But  even 
as  they  kissed,  a  shadow  fell  across  their  lips... 
across  their  lives... the  hidden  mystery  of  an  un- 
forgotten  sorrow,  returning  to  haunt  their  love. 
In  beautiful  Manderley  they  lived . . .  house  of  a 


hundred  rooms  and  a  hundred  secrets... with  one 
all-challenging  suspicion  brooding  over  many  lives, 
as  drama  closes  in  on  two  hearts  armed  only  with 
courage  and  hope.  A  great  dramatic  romance  — 
one  of  the  triumphant  achievements  of  the  screen! 


Selznick  International 


^M0^  kJl  l^niLh  lnitr  nUllUrlUl  presents 

Rebecca 


starring 


LAURENCE  OLIVIER- JOAN  FONTAINE 

hero  of  "Wuthering  Heights"  in  her  sensational  starring  debut 

with  GEORGE  SANDERS  •   JUDITH  ANDERSON  •  Directed  by  ALFRED  HITCHCOCK 

From  the  best-selling  novel  by  DAPHNE  DU  MAURIER  •  Released  thru  UNITED  ARTISTS 

PRODUCED  BY  DAVID  0.  SELZNICK 
WHO  MADE  "GONE  WITH  THE  WIND" 


1AY,     \  940 


A  GREAT  AMERICAN 


7&  Jjd  tf '  7t*»uu>  <?&  £&*>» 


PROJECT 


MICKEY  ROONEY  as  "YOUNG  TOM  EDISON" 

with  Fay  Bainter,  George  Bancroft,  Virginia  Weidler,  Eugene  Pallette 

Original  Screen  Play  by  Bradbury  Foote,  Dore  Schary  and  Hugo  Butler 

Directed  by  Norman  Taurog    •    Produced  by  John  W.  Considine,  Jr. 

A  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  Picture 


SPENCER  TRACY  as   "EDISON   THE   MAN" 


A    CLARENCE    BROWN    Production    with    Rita    Johnson 

Lynne  Overman  •   Charles  Coburn  •  Gene  Lockhart 

Directed  by  CLARENCE  BROWN 

Produced  by  John  W.  Considine,  Jr.  A  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  Picture 


PHOTOPLAY 


°*  MOT.OH  *** 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN             HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL             RUTH  WATERBURY           FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

EXECUTIVE    EDITOR                                     ART   EDITOR  EDITOR                                ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 

On  ihe  Cover — Deanna  Durbin,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse  /X /^^^^^^/^/J,  —  ^is^flj 

HIGHLIGHTS   OF    THIS    ISSUE  ' 

„  „             ,/    w,,-       .     .     u                                                                . .    .     _.                   ,n  I    WISH  the  Academy  could   afford   an  extra  series  of 

Hollywood  s     Extra  Racket Morton  Thompson        19  I    ^             ...                r    '  .  L                            •                 i     x  n 

Whispers  of  beatings-blackmail-bribery-that  finally  woke  echoes'  I    Os"?  th.is  year  for  the   runners-up   in   severa    of  the 

tt          o        .  u  11           j                                                                          ..    „„,.       ..  ■    classifications.      If  the  famous  statuette  which    Bette 

Home  Sweet  Hollywood Elsa  Maxwell        20  p.     .              ,     .xl       ,   .  .         ,      ...    .,, \ 

Society  doctor  diagnoses  film  colony  epidemic-with  startling  results  Dav,s  so,  f  dro.tly  christened   W.th  that   name   some  years 

Which  Romance  Rumors  Are  Fakes? Ruth  Waterbury       22  ago  could  be  cut  in  half,  this  year  s  awards  would  have 

How  to  tell  lovelight  from  flashlights,  in  easy-to-take  lessons  Deen  more  satisfying. 

MemoonMelvyn Claude  Binyon       24  No  one  will  doubt  that  Vivien   Leigh  deserved  ample 

—which  reveals  why  the  Mad  Hatter  had  nothing  on  our  Mr.  Douglas.'  recognition  tor  tooling  the   skeptics  in   her  portrayal   ot 

u„ ..  _  tt u ujiu.       „,  Scarlett  O'Hara.     But  from  the  standpoint  of  technical 

Hawaiian  Honeymoon Hagar  Wilde        26  ....         ,     .                                                       ~   .  ,          t 

Two' s  company ,  three's  a  mob  scene  in  a  gay  novel  of  movie  people  skl"   and    sheer   acting    genius,    bette    Davis     pertormance 

Round-Up  of  Familiar  Faces Sara  Hamilton       28  j_n  Dark  VictorV  '"  m,Y  °Pini°n  ^  ney*r  beer,  equaled  by 

Footnotes  on  eight  personalities  on  their  way  to  the  headlines  h*r.  °.r  anX  °+her  HoHywood  actress.    Her  Judith  Traherne 

....,.,                                                                                               -.*..*  still  lives  in  my  mind — and  I  daresay  in  yours — not  as  a 

^"TL^rJ^.^^S.i^ke^H.cH^y.n^^nJ^r,         "  ^™«"    ■"£-    *    «-"-"•      ™»    simple    dkU    b   the 

„.„..„.                                                                                                  .  .    .  greatest  possible  compliment  to  an  actress. 

My  Son,  My  Son! Howard  Spring        31  *  T              •  j  xl                  n         •     d   l     x  r»       x'    l.  »h«     x 

The  original  best-selling  novel,  condensed  for  busy  readers  To  my  mind  there  were  flaws  in  Robert  Donat  s  brilliant 

D       ,         ■    ,     -v                                                                                   _.    ,     „    ..  portrayal   of  the   schoolmaster   in   Goodbye,   Mr.  Chips 

Broadway,  the  Dog Charles  Hopkins       52  /              x  l-                    -i                                 jx           j.     l     j 

How  Hollywood  has  turned  the  tables  on  Manhattan  (some  °]  his,  more  senile  moments  seemed  to  me  to  border 

D,    .     ,       r    ,  .                                                                                           „  on  the  burlesque),  but  I  don  t  begrudge  Mr.  Donat  the 

Photoplay  Fashions Gwenn  Walters        57  j   x       l     x       x              x                      d  x           •      i     l      ij 

Casualness  and  color  go  hand  in  hand  to  smarten  your  new  ensembles  fWard    for    best-actor    performance       But    again    I    should 

r,,.        r\   .  i          t    ii  u                                                                            ,.,.,.      ..         ,         „.  have    awarded    that    mythica     half-an-Oscar    to    James 

Time  Out  for  a  Lullaby Wilbur  Morse,  Jr.       74  c,          ,   ,      ,.    r             x         i     x             i   a        •         •     u 

Motherhood  means  more  than  stardom  to  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  f tewart  for  his  fine  portrayal  of  a  real  American  in  Mr. 

Smith  Goes  to  Washington. 

The  Camera  Speaks: —  In  this  column  I  have  previously  raised  an  enthusiastic 

Double  Headers 46  voice  for  Olivia  de  Havilland's  portrayal  of  Melanie  in  this 

Proving— four  times  over— that  two  heads  are  better  than  one  year's  outstanding-picture  winner.    Hattie  McDaniel  defi- 

The  Life  and  Loves  of  Lillian  Russell 48  ni+e|y  deserved  the  award  for  best  supporting  actress,  but 

Checking  up  on  a  few  tantalizing  scenes  that  the  movies  forgot.'  I  wish  there  were  some  way  that  she  could  have  divided 

The  Lyrical  "Road  to  Singapore" 50  i+  with  Miss  de  Havilland. 

The  words  of  the  Crosby -Lamour -Hope  songs— and  the  story,  too  Nor  are  the  almost-Academy  winners  the  only  deserv- 

Love  1,000,000  B.  C 54  !ng  runners-up. 

Showing  that  caveman  courtship  wasn't  really  all  it's  cracked  up  to  be  One  of  the    most  startling   examples   is  John    Beal,   who 

DCUICUJC  appeared  in  an  experimental  film  called  The  Great  Com- 

NEWS,    VIEWS     AND     REVIEWS  mandment.      The   picture   was   made   on   a    "shoestring," 

Boos  and  Bouquets 4  and    so    impressed    Twentieth    Century-Fox    that    it    was 

Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures .         6  bought  by  Mr  Zanuck  as  a  vehicle  for  Tyrone  Power     So 

,      Tr            .    ,      „  despite  what  I  understand  is  a  superb  performance,  Mr. 

Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars Frances  Hughes          8  Beal  is  not  included  in  the  remake.    Many  a  great  film  has 

How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood?   ........        ll  been  made  successful  by  runners-up. 

PHOTOPLAY'S  Own  Beauty  Shop Carolyn  Van  Wyck        12  Not  every  horse  can  win  the  race,  but  there  are  many 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury        15  fine   horses   "in   the   money." 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade        56  A  no+e  of  explanation  on  "Exposing  Hollywood's  Red 

Team  Mates  (PHOTOPLAY-McCall  Patterns) 65  Menace"  by  Morton  Thompson,  which  appeared  in  March 

Announcing  PHOTOPLAY'S  Gold  Medal  Winner! 68  Photoplay   appears  on   page  4,   to  which   your  attention 

Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 69  is  directed. 

The  Shadow  Stage 72  /""*                        fL 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 102  / «         <b6^^^(\ 

VOL  LIV.,  No.  5,  MAY,  1940 

Published  Monthly  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.,  333  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  111.  •  Bernarr  Macfadden  President  •  Irene  T.  Kennedy,  Treasurer  •  Wesley  F.  Pape,  Secretary  •  General  Offices, 
205  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.  •  Editorial  and  Advertising  Offices.  Chamn  Building,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Curtis  Harrison,  Advertising  Manager  •  Charles  H.  Shattuck,  Manager,  Chicago 
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manuscripts,  photographs  and  drawings  are  submitted  at  the  owner's  risk,  every  effort  will  be  made  by  this  organization  to  return  those  found  unavailable  if  accompanied  by  sufficient  1st  class  postage,  and 
explicit  name  and  address.  But  we  will  not  be  responsible  for  any  losses  of  such  matter.  Entered  as  second-class  matter  April  24,   1912,  at  the  post-office  at  Chicago,  111.,  under  the  act  of  March3,  1879. 

Copyright.  1940,  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  de  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


For  the  Girl  of  Your  Choice 
the  Ring  of  HER  Choice 

C\     ~T     T~  GENUINE    REGISTERED   "| 

fteejDsake 

DIAMOND  ENGAGEMENT  RING 


*T'S  a  grand  way  to  start  life  to 
gether  .  .  .  with  the  traditional  symbol 
of  the  engagement  ...  a  lovely,  genuine 
registered  Keepsake  Diamond  Ring.  How 
she  loves  its  glorious  color,  its  dis' 
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You  can  select  your  Keepsake  with 
confidence  because  with  every  ring  comes 
the  Certificate  of  Quality  and  Registra- 
tion .  .  .  your  protection  against  an  un- 
wise choice.  Authorized  Keepsake  Jewel- 
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made  possible  only  by  expert  selection 
and  appraisal.  Extended  payments  can 
usually  be  arranged.  Ask  your  jeweler 
to  show  you  the  newest  Keepsake 
matched  sets  for  every  taste  and  purse — 
or  write  for  the  name  of  the  nearest 
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Romance  Ahead? 
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Coming  brides  and  bride- 
grooms! Send  coupon  or 
write  for  helpful  book. 


Keepsake  Diamond  Rin?s, 
A.  H.  Pond  Co.,  Inc.,  214  S.  Warren  St.,  Syracuse,  N.  Y . 
Please  send  valuable  book,  "Etiquette  of  the  Engagement 
and  Wedding."  I  enclose  10  cents  to  cover  mailing  ex- 
pense. 

Street  and  No 

City 

P-5-40 


STAR  REPORTING 

SPEAKING  for  myself,  I  have  often 
wondered  why  the  fan  magazines  don't 
devote  more  thought  and  space  to  the 
production  of  motion  pictures. 

We  who  are  close  to  Hollywood  are 
constantly  concerned  with  personalities, 
because  it  is  such  a  highly  personalized 
business.  We  forget  that  there  are  mil- 
lions of  people  all  over  the  world  who 
have  never  seen  the  inside  of  a  studio. 
A  prop  room  or  a  make-up  department 
may  appear  to  be  a  commonplace  thing 
to  the  average  writer  who  visits  the 
studios  daily.  Yet,  there  is  just  as  much 
drama  that  goes  on  here  every  day,  as 
there  is  on  a  sound  stage  where  pictures 
are  shooting. 

Your  readers  are  naturally  concerned 
with  everything  pertaining  to  the 
movies  and  movie  stars.  Therefore, 
why  not  divide  your  copy  and  space? 
Or,  at  least,  devote  a  little  more  effort 
toward  covering  the  Hollywood  scene 
from  every  point  of  interest.  Wouldn't 
this  give  fan  magazines  an  even  wider 
reading  appeal? 

George  Brent, 
Hollywood,  Cal 


A  rootin'-tootin'  saga  of 
the  West:  With  he-man 
Jack  Benny  to  protect  her, 
Ellen  Drew's  safe  from  any 
danger  in  Paramount's 
"Buck  Benny  Rides  Again" 


SLIGHT  CASE  OF  DISAGREEMENT 

I  AM  writing  you  in  reference  to  your 
book-length  movie  novel.  I  dislike 
having  my  favorite  magazine  half-filled 
with  a  story  that  I  could  easily  get  from 
the  shelves  of  any  public  library. 

I  pay  a  hard-earned  quarter  for 
Photoplay,  which  I  would  expect  to  see 
filled  with  pictures  and  stories  of  the 
stars.  I  think  many  people  will  agree 
with  me,  so  -please — more  pictures  and 
NO  novels. 

Anna  Burbano, 
Detroit,  Mich. 

I'VE  been  taking  Photoplay  regularly 
for  years  and  was  just  about  to  change 
to  something  else  when  your  "movie 
book"  made  its  debut  and  changed  my 
mind.  It's  a  grand  idea,  and  now  I 
wouldn't  think  of  changing.  Do  you 
suppose  you  could  possibly  get  the  fol- 
lowing books  which  are  being  made  into 
pictures: 

"Vigil  in  the  Night." 

"Escape." 

"My  Son,  My  Son!" 

M.  Morrissey, 
Bronx,  N.  Y. 


EXPLANATION 

I  HE  allusion  to  Ernest  Hemingway 
in  the  article  "Exposing  Hollywood's 
Red  Menace,"  by  Morton  Thompson, 
which  appeared  in  March  Photoplay, 
was  not  intended  either  by  the 
author  or  the  editors  of  this  publica- 
tion to  question  Mr.  Hemingway's 
motives  or  integrity.  If  any  other 
impression  was  given  it  is  to  be 
greatly  regretted.  It  was  the  pur- 
pose, rather,  to  contrast  a  general 
situation  with  a  specific  case — Mr. 
Hemingway's — which  was  above  re- 
proach. 

Mr.  Hemingway  reports  that  his 
Emergency  Ambulance  Committee, 
"which  functioned  by  authority  of 
the  State  Department,  managed  to 
raise  $19,923.71  in  voluntary  contri- 
butions to  the  Spanish  Loyalist 
cause.  Of  this  sum  $18,482.15  was 
used  in  the  purchase  of  ambulances, 
twenty-two  in  all,  which  were  sent 
to  Spain;  $1,396.33  was  turned  over 
to  the  Medical  Bureau  and  North 
American  Committee  to  Aid  Spanish 
Democracy  to  be  used  for  the  same 
purpose;  and  $45.23  was  the  whole 
sum  used  in  administering  this  fund 
and  paying  its  incidental  expenses." 

The  editors  are  most  pleased  to 
give  this  explanation  of  any  seeming 
charge  of  irregularity  as  to  Mr.  Hem- 
ingway's collection  of  the  fund  or  its 
distribution  and  feel  that  his  Com- 
mittee is  to  be  commended  for  ac- 
complishing its  work  at  such  trifling 
expense. 

These  then  are  the  facts  behind  the 
scene.  They  tell  their  own  story  and 
we  are  happy  to  present  them  to  our 
readers. 


TEAM!  TEAM!  TEAM! 

I'VE  just  seen  "Broadway  Melody  of 
1940,"  and  I  think  you'll  agree  that 
M-G-M  has  something  there — good 
story,  good  cast,  good  direction,  fair 
music,  and  superb  dancing.  Eleanor 
Powell  is  far  better  suited  to  Fred 
Astaire,  though  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart 
to  say  it,  than  Ginger  Rogers  was. 
Powell  and  Astaire  are  the  best  dancers 
on  the  screen,  and  they  make  a  perfect 
team — their  personalities  fit. 

But,  and  here's  my  point,  so  do 
George  Murphy's  and  Ginger  Rogers'. 
Why  doesn't  someone  team  them?  I'm 
sure  a  lot  of  Ginger's  fans  would  like 
to  see  her  dance  again.  Leave  Eleanor 
and  Fred  their  laurels,  but  we'd  kinda 
like  to  see  the  other  two  together,  just 
once. 

Virginia  Hunt, 
San  Francisco,  Cal.  , 

MAYBE  SHE  DIDN'T  LIKE  IT 

RECENTLY,  I  had  the  misfortune  to 
see  "Destry  Rides  Again."  I  think  Joe 
Pasternak  ought  to  produce  one  more 
picture  like  that  and  call  it  quits.  As 
for  the  cast,  although  Jimmy  Stewart 
was  good,  it  was  a  terrible  and  ridicu- 
lous part;  he  should  leave  Hollywood 
and  take  up  knitting.  Marlene  Dietrich 
might  have  made  a  comeback  in  this 
picture,  but  she  would  have  done  better 
by  not  coming  back.  As  a  singer,  she 
is  a  better  hawg-caller,  and  as  an 
actress,  she  is  a  better  anything.  Uni- 
versal should  be  ashamed  of  such  a 
picture.  Considering  all  the  other  pic- 
tures credited  to  that  company,  I  be- 
lieve they  must  have  been  on  a  spree 
or  something  of  the  like.  Even  though 
Charles  Winninger  and  Mischa  Auer 
did  their  best  to  carry  the  picture,  I  am 
afraid  it  was  past  saving.  Better  luck 
next  time — and  stick  to  pictures  such  as 
"Tower  of  London"  or  "First  Love." 
Ruth  Kinsey, 
Chalfont,  Pa. 
(Continued  on  page  80) 


PHOTOPLAY 


„,  c    <HE'S  RONi^tWltl 
SHfS  EHlHHCtWLt\...  , 


&yi 


Gfc 


M^ 


0S\C^ 


Featuring  a  galaxy  of  stars 
. . .  the  most  singable,  swing- 
able  of  melodies.  .  .  the 
latest  of  springtime  fashions 
and  a  love  story  that'll  sing 
its  way  into  your  heart! 


AS«r/M£„0M„ 

RENE 


Roland  toiing-Alan  Marshal 
May  Robson- Billie  Burke 


ED   BY   HERBERT   WILCOX 


MAY.      I  940 


*    INDICATES   PICTURE   WAS   ONE   OF  THE   BEST   OF   THE    MONTH    WHEN    REVIEWED 


•  ABE  LINCOLN  IN  ILLINOIS-RKO-Radio 

It  would  be  hard  to  improve,  technically  or  artistically,  on  this 
exceptional  motion  picture  from  Robert  Sherwood's  Pulitzer  Prize 
play.  Raymond  Massey  is  extraordinary  as  the  Lincoln  of  pre- 
presidential  days,  ably  supported  by  Gene  Lockhart  as  Stephen 
Douglas,  Ruth  Gordon  as  Mary  Todd,  Mary  Howard  as  Ann  Rut- 
ledge.    (Apr.) 

ADVENTURE  IN  DIAMONDS-Paramount 

Superior  jewel-thief  story  with  South  African  mining  background, 
in  which  the  ingratiating  George  Brent  and  John  Loder  appear  to 
advantage,  but  which  doesn't  offer  much  opportunity  to  Isa  Mi- 
randa as  the  lady  crook  who  goes  straight  against  her  will.    (.Apr.) 

*  BAKER'S  WIFE,  THE-Marcel  Pagnol 

She  ran  away  with  a  handsome  shepherd,  and  the  baker  (Raimu) 
was  so  upset  the  villagers  had  to  combine  efforts  to  bring  her  back. 
It's  farcical,  but  so  true  to  type  it  seems  a  real  slice  of  Provencal 
village  life.  It's  French,  with  John  Erskine's  English  subtitles.  (Apr.) 


BARRICADE-20th  Century-Fox 


Priscilla  Lane,  Jane  Wyman.  Ronald  Reagan  and  young  Peter  B. 
Good  will  have  you  yelling  for  more.  (March) 

CAFE  HOSTESS— Columbia 

There's  a  lot  of  action  (including  a  fine  brawl)  in  this  rather 
sordid  story,  which  presents  Ann  Dvorak  as  "hostess"  who  picks 
the  pockets  of  her  partners — until  sailor  Preston  Foster  catches  her 
at  it.  Then  the  fun  begins.  (Feb.) 

CALLING  PHILO  VANCE-Warners 

Philo  Vance's  patriotism  is  surpassed  only  by  his  ingenuity 
in  this  mystery  which  has  to  do  with  selling  secret  airplane  plans 
to  foreign  powers.  Henry  Stephenson  lacks  the  suavity  we've  come 
to  expect  of  Vance.  Henry  O'Neill,  Margot  Stevenson  and  Edward 
Brophy  carry  on  in  hackneyed  roles.  (March) 

CHARLIE  MCCARTHY,  DETECTIVE-Universal 

You'll  overlook  this  weak  murder-mystery  plot  if  you're  a 
devotee  of  Charlie  McCarthy.  Edgar  Bergen  has  his  hands  full 
with  both  Charlie  and  Mortimer  Snerd  going  whimsical.  (March) 


A  hodge-podge — but  Alice  Faye.  Warner  Baxter  and  Charles 
Winninger  do  beautiful  jobs  with  their  material.  It's  about  a  for- 
gotten American  consul  in  China  whose  station  is  used  by  brigands, 
a  reporter  and  a  girl  evading  a  murder  charge.  (March) 


CHILD  IS  BORN,  A-Warners 


BIG  GUY,  THE— Universal 


Jackie  Cooper,  working  on  his  inventions  in  a  garage,  manages 
to  stay  out  of  trouble  until  he  gets  involved  in  a  jail  break  which 
uses  warden  Victor  McLaglen  as  a  shield.  Power,  emotional 
appeal  and  the  Cooper-McLaglen  teamwork  raise  this  above  the 
average  prison  picture.  (Feb.) 

•  BLUE  BIRD,  THE-20th  Century-Fox 

Shirley  Temple  reveals  her  maturing  art  in  a  genuine  characteri- 
zation, as  the  rather  naughty  Maeterlinck  heroine  who  sets  out  on 
a  search  for  the  fabled  bird  of  happiness.  Little  brother  Johnny 
Ru--ell  accompanies  her  through  a  Technicolor  dreamland  which 
is,  on  the  whole,  conceived  with  imagination  and  taste.    (Apr.) 

•  BROADWAY  MELODY  OF  1940-M-G-M 

It's  a  dancing  field  day  for  Fred  Astaire.  Eleanor  Powell  and 
George  Murphy — and  it  makes  the  best  screen  musical  in  some  two 
years.  Fred  and  George  are  a  dance-hall  team,  until  George  gets  a 
Broadway  bid  to  co-star  with  Eleanor,  and  the  fun — lots  of  it — 
begins.    Frank  Morgan  provides  much  of  the  humor.    (Apr.) 

•  BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY-Warners 

This  rib-cracker  makes  for  delicious  comedy.  Wayne  Morris,  the 
"fixer,"  gets  Eddie  Albert  a  coaching  job,  but  the  baby  (remember 
Eddie  was  secretly  married  to  Jane  Bryan)  gums  up  everything. 


A  re-make  of  that  maternity-ward  drama,  "Life  Begins,"  with 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  portraying  the  prospective  mother  win.  i-  re- 
leased from  prison  to  have  her  baby.  Spring  Byington,  Jeffrey 
Lynn,  Gladys  George  and  many  others  are  well  cast.   (March) 

CISCO  KID  AND  THE  LADY,  THE— 20th  Century-Fox 

Cesar  Romero  fills  Warner  Baxter's  boots  as  the  Cisco  Kid  with 
grace  and  humor,  Virginia  Field  is  fine  as  a  dance-hall  girl,  and 
Gloria  Ann  White  is  a  pleasant  child.  But  they  didn't  have  much 
to  work  with  in  this  story  of  how  the  Kid  and  his  band  save  a 
mine  for  a  little  orphan.  (Feb.) 

CITY  IN  DARKNESS— 20th  Century-Fox 

Just  another  Charlie  Chan  picture,  with  Sidney  Toler  solving 
mysteries  in  Paris  during  the  blackouts.  Lynn  Bari  is  in  it,  too, 
but  the  result  is  only  fairish.  (Feb.) 


■k  CONGO  MAISIE-M-G-M 


Gorgeous  comedy,  with  stars  Ann  Sothern  and  John  Carroll 
capably  backed  up  by  Rita  Johnson  and  Shepperd  Strudwick. 
The  scene  is  laid  at  the  medical  post  of  a  rubber  plantation,  where 
a  former  surgeon  gets  mixed  up  with  a  stranded  show  girl  who 
helps  him  subdue  witch  doctors.  You'll  like  this.  (March). 

COVERED  TRAILER,  THE-Republic 

The   best   Higgins   Family   film   to   date.    Pa    (James   Gleason) 

wants  to  vacation  in  South   America,  but   Ma    (Lucile   Gleason) 

bungles  everything,  as  usual,   and  they  have  to  sneak  off  in  a  trailer 

for  their  holiday,  witli  exciting  results.  (Feb.) 

(Continued  on  page  100) 


This    Movie    Shopping     Guide    and 


PICTURES   REVIEWED   IN 

SHADOW    STAGE 

THIS  ISSUE 

BUCK  FRIDAY-Universal 

BLONDIE  ON  A  BUDGET-Columbia  .     .     . 

BULLET  CODE-RKO-Radio 

DR.  CYCLOPS— Paramount         

FARMER'S  DAUGHTER,  THE-Paramount    . 
FREE,  BLONDE  AND  21— 20th  Century-Fox    . 
GHOST  COMES  HOME,  THE-M-G-M 
HALF  A  SINNER— Universal 


HOUSE   OF   THE   SEVEN   GABLES,   THE- 
Universal 

MARINES  FLY  HIGH,  THE-RKO-Radio 

MILLIONAIRE  PLAYBOY-RKO-Radio      . 

MY  SON,  MY  SON!-Small-U.  A.    . 

NORTHWEST  PASSAGE-M-G-M 

PRIMROSE  PATH,  THE-RKO-Radio 

REBECCA-Selznick  International-U.  A. 

ROAD  TO  SINGAPORE— Paramount 

SEVENTEEN-Paramount       ... 

STRANGE  CARGO-M-G-M 

TOO  MANY  HUSBANDS-Columbia 

WOMEN  WITHOUT  NAMES-Paramount 

YOUNG  TOM  EDISON-M-G-M     .     .     . 


PHOTOPLAY 


Bes 


sure 


GERALDINE 


iMWSM 


FRANK  McHUGH 

Directed  by 
EDMUND   GOULDING 


Screen  Play  by  Warren  Duff    •    Fr 
"    Original    Story    by    Robert    It 


WARNER  BROS. 
Success 


Just  a  Pretty  Stranger 
in  her  own  Home  Town 


No  girl  need  risk  popularity!  MUM  every  day 
prevents  underarm  odor  — guards  charm! 


Peg  couldn't  help  being  envious— 
they  were  having  such  fun,  and  she 
was  so  lonely.  So  many  girls  who 
weren't  as  pretty  as  Peg,  had  dates.  "I'll 
leave  this  old  town,  then  I'll  be  popu- 
lar," thought  Peg.  But  Peg,  others  will 
neglect  you  wherever  you  go— if  you 
neglect  underarm  odor. 

Like  Peg,  we  seldom  know  when  we 
are  guilty  of  underarm  odor.  How 
much  wiser  to  play  safe— each  day— 
with  Mum!  Don't  rely  on  a  bath  alone 
to  guard  your  charm.  A  bath  removes 
past  perspiration,  but  Mum  prevents 
future  odor  before  it  starts. 

Wherever  there  is  social  life,  popu- 


lar girls  use  Mum.  And  more  use  Mum 
than  any  other  deodorant. 

MUM  SAVES  TIME!  Just  30  seconds, 
and  underarms  are  fresh  all  day. 

MUM  SAVES  CLOTHES!  The  American 
Laundry  Institute  Seal  tells  you  Mum 
won't  harm  any  fabric.  Safe  for  skin,  too 
—even  after  underarm  shaving! 

MUM  SAVES  CHARM!  Mum  makes 
odor  impossible— not  by  attempting  to 
prevent  perspiration— but  by  neutralizing 
the  odor  before  it  starts.  Get  Mum  at  your 
druggist's  today.  More  women  (and  more 
men)  make  a  habit  of  Mum  because 
Mum  keeps  you  "in  right"  everywhere— 
with  everyone! 


POPULAR   GIRLS  MAKE  A  DAILY   HABIT   OF  MUM 


TO  HERSELF 

MUM  WAS  THE  ANSWER 

FOR  ME,  ALL  RIGHT! 

I'M  A  HIT... 

TONIGHT! 


MUM 


For  Sanitary  Napkins,  Too— 

No  need  to  worry  about  Sani- 
tary Napkins  if  you  remem- 
ber Mum  will  keep  you  fresh. 
Mum  is  so  safe  ...so  gentle . . . 
thousands  use  it  this  way! 


Mum 


TAKES  THE  ODOR  OUT  OF  PERSPIRATION 


SHOPPING  for  YOU 


Come  on,  gals!  Time  to  get  out  and  do  some  serious  Spring  shopping. 
Your  list  probably  stretches  from  here  to  here — headed  by  new  clothes 
.  .  .  hats  .  .  .  underpinnings.  Then  there's  the  comforting  matter  of  cos- 
metics. New  roses  for  your  cheeks  .  .  .  new  brightness  for  your  lips  .  .  . 
new  health  and  sparkle  for  tired  fingertips.  We've  found  them  all.  Don't 
think  we've  neglected  the  young  man's  fancy,  either!  It's  Leap  Year,  and 
in  our  quest  for  little  things  that  suit  the  season,  we've  found  THE  engage- 
ment and  wedding  ring  to  tumble  any  girl  into  matrimony!  If  you  want 
to  know  where — nearest  you — you  can  find  these  treasures,  write  the  Fashion 
Secretary,  Photoplay  Magazine,  122  East  42nd  Street,  New  York  City. 


1.  TEMPTATION  TO  MATRIMONY 

What  gal  could  resist  Keepsake's  Marlboro 
diamond  engagement  ring  an  wedding 
band  to  match?  The  gold  engagement  ring 
—  Victorian  flavor  —  boasts  a  blue-wr  ite 
sguare  of  diamond  in  the  center,  flanked 
on  each  side  with  three  graduated  diamonds. 
$125.  The  wedding  band,  with  nine  dia- 
monds,   is    a    shining    complement.     $39.75. 


2.  TWINKLE,  TWINKLE,  LITTLE  STAR 

Want  your  eyes  to  twinkle  like  stars?  Set 
them  in  a  perfect  frame  as  the  movie  stars 
do  by  pointing  up  their  lashes!  Maybelline 
Cream  Mascara  is  perfect  for  the  trick  and 
no  water  needed.  In  its  rubberized  kit  that 
tucks  into  your  tiniest  purse  or  pocket,  you 
can  tote  it  around  and  have  it  right  on  tap! 
75c — black,  brown  or  blue. 


3.  "FIRST  LOVE" 

Romance  runs  riot  in  a  sweater  with  heart- 
shaped  yoke  .  .  .  heart-shaped  buttons  .  .  . 
scallops  .  .  .  collar  ...  all  the  sentiments  of 
the  season  expressed  by  Helen  Harper  in  a 
rabbit's-hair  and  zephyr  cardigan  that  but- 
tons like  a  little  blouse  from  baby  collar  to 
snug-ribbed  bottom.  Wear  it  with  summer 
skirts  and  slacks.    $3. 


4.  ON  THE  BIAS 

If  there's  a  drop  of  dressmaker  in  you,  you'll 
already  know  about  bias-cut  and  its  mold- 
ing magic.  If  there  isn't,  then  take  OUR 
word  for  it — and  Model's  too — that  this  baby 
pink  bias  batiste  bra  has  something!  It  fea- 
tures lacings  to  achieve  a  perfect  fit,  ad- 
justable shoulder-straps,  and  scalloped  edges 
of  dainty  lace.    $1. 


5.  FIGURE  IT  OUT 

Put  your  all  into  a  Damsel  of  Hollywood 
pantie-girdle  and  be  corseted  but  comfortable 
this  Spring!  There's  a  bias  pull  at  work  in 
the  powerful  though  lacy  Lastex  sides,  and 
a  vertical  pull  in  the  satin  Lastex  panels  fore 
and  aft.  Inviz-a-Grip  garters,  glove-silk 
crotch,  and  reinforcements  for  that  destruc- 
tive tug  at  the  sides.    Only  $3.95. 


PHOTOPLAY 


AND  THE^VRS 


it 


BY   FRANCES   HUGHES 


6.  INTRODUCING  THE  "SLING  SHOT" 

Not  a  little  boy's  weapon,  but  a  little  boy's 
hat,  developed  by  Chalfonte  for  not-so-little 
girls  to  wear  with  town  and  country  tweeds. 
The  shallow  crown  and  the  dip-front,  back- 
rolled  brim  are  new — borrowed  from  baby 
brother.  Borrow  his  dapper  way  of  snap- 
ping the  brim,  too,  while  you're  about  it. 
$5 — in  fifty-five  colors. 


7.  THE  COFFEE  ROBOT 


Farberware's  electric  coffee  robot  turns  cof- 
fee-making into  a  magic  trick.  It  does  every- 
thing in  fact  except  pour  and  drink  it  for 
you — brews  automatically,  stirs  without  a 
helping  hand,  turns  itself  off,  and  keeps  the 
nectar  hot  until  you  drink  it.  $11  for  this 
modern,  magic  ten-cup  urn.  Treat  yourself 
and  send  another  as  a  gift. 


8.  COFFEE  OR  COCKTAILS? 

Duncan  Phyfe  himself  would  have  wondered 
how  Imperial  does  it — getting  out  this  cosy 
coffee  table  for  $14.75.  The  mellowed  ma- 
hogany fits  in  anywhere,  while  the  carved 
pedestal,  carved  legs  and  brass  claw  feet  fol- 
low faithfully  in  the  Duncan  Phyfe  tradition. 
You'll  be  grateful  again  and  again  for  the 
convenience  of  the  removable  glass  tray. 


9.  SO  DECORATIVE! 

And  so  sweet!  Orloff's  idea — and  a  mighty 
cute  one,  too,  to  hang  little  red  satin  sachet 
balls  from  a  gilded  chain,  between  tiny  pearl 
dangles,  to  fashion  a  refreshingly  fragrant 
necklace  and  bracelet.  You  will  look  lovely, 
smell  sweet,  and  pay  little — $1  for  the  novel 
necklace  itself,  and  75c  for  the  companion 
bracelet. 


10.  MAGIC  FINGERTIPS 

Take  the  guesswork  out  of  color  shopping 
for  nail  polish  by  writing  Lady  Esther  for 
her  magic  celluloid  finger-tips  (twelve  in 
all,  each  one  the  color  of  one  of  the  famous 
Lady  Esther  seven-day  nail  polishes).  Then 
buy  your  polish  to  suit  your  own  digits.  Lady 
Esther  will  send  you  the  finger  tips  free — 
matching  cream  polish  costs  you  only  a  dime. 


(For  More  Shopping  News,  See  Page  10) 


NEW-  BORN 
SKIN 

To  Keep  Its  PROMISE  of 
NEW-BORN  BEAUTY  for  you?" 


Careful!  Your  new  skin  depends  on 
you  to  help  remove  those  tiny  flakes 
of  older  skin  that  can  "smother"  your 
new-born  Beauty! 

EVERY  TIME  the  clock  ticks— your  new 
skin  is  crowding  eagerly  upward,  out- 
ward—and soon  will  appear  in  new  glory 
and  glamour  if  you  will  do  your  part!  Why 
let  your  new  skin  be  born  under  a  cloud, 
asks  Lady  Esther,  when  each  generation 
of  your  new  skin  can  make  you  look 
younger,  fresher,  lovelier— if— 

If  only  you  will  let  my  4-Purpose 
Cream  help  you  to  remove  gently  those 
almost  invisible  flakes  of  worn-out  skin 


the  thieves  of  ■ 


beauty— steal- 


%* 


ing  the  beauty  of  your  face  powder! 

Feel  with  your  fingertips  now  the  little 
rough  spots  those  tiny  flakes  of  old,  dry 
skin  probably  have  left  on  your  face.  They 
can  make  you  look  older— keep  even  the 
finest  powder  from  going  on  smoothly 
—ruin  the  glamour  of  your  make-up.  My 
4-Purpose  Cream  permeates  those  flakes 
so  that  you  can  whisk  them  away.  Sooth- 
ingly it  loosens  embedded  impurities- 
helps  Nature  refine  your  pores— leaves 
your  skin  smoother— younger-looking. 

Ask  Your  Doctor 
About  Your  Face  Cream 

He  will  be  a  strange  physician  indeed  if 
he  tells  you  to  try  and  push  anything  like 
vitamins  or  hormones  into  your  skin  via 
your  face  cream!  Ask  him  if  every  word 
Lady  Esther  says  isn't  absolutely  true  — 
that  her  cream  gently  whisks  away  the 
worn-out  skin  and  impurities  beclouding 
your  new  skin  about  to  be  born ! 

Then  try  my  face  cream  at  my  expense. 
Continue  using  it  twice  a  day  or  oft  oner 
for  two  weeks.  See  if  your  powder  doesn't 
look  lovelier  day  by  day.  See  the  glamour 
of  your  new-born  skin  as  my  cream  helps 
you  keep  your  Accent  on  Youth! 


Accept  Lady  Esther's  10  DAY  Sample  FREE! 


MMAVWWVMMNVMlVWVM'mWVVIMfmw  >%,x,  mWMWWWIMIMWM  vi  v 

(You  can  paste  lAu  on  .1  penny  postcard)      (55) 


TiiiiWYsi  83th  St.,  Chicago,  111. 
CD  tJ  C    Please  send  me  your  gener- 
rR.EE    mis  sample  tube  of  Lady 
Esther  Pace  Cream;  also  ten  shades  of  Face 
Powder,  FREE  and  postpaid. 


Lady  Either,  Toronto,  Ont. 


MAY,      I  940 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU  AND  THE  STARS 


((  out i 'tiued  from  page  9) 


Remember — for  the  name  of  the 
store  nearest  you  fhof  carries  the 
items  you  wonf,  please  write  to: 
Fashion    Secretary,    Photoplay 
122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  Cit, 


11.  "SPARK  RED"— "STARDUST  PINK" 

These  are  the  fascinating  names  of  Corday's 
newest  Toujours  Moi  lipsticks.  "Spark  Red" 
is  a  glowing,  tingling  color  to  team  with 
greys,  with  navies,  and  with  summer  whites. 
"Stardust  Pink,"  on  the  other  hand,  is  a 
subtle  shade  that  was  born  to  brighten  pas- 
tels. You'll  love  and  require  both  these  be- 
coming shades!     $1    each. 


12.  MIND  YOUR  FINGERNAILS 

Are  your  nails  dry — do  they  crack  and  peel? 
Tiptex  will  remedy  that.  It  goes  to  work  on 
the  matrix  (where  nail  troubles  begin),  nour- 
ishing .  .  .  strengthening  .  .  .  conditioning 
.  .  .  till  one  fine  day  you  wake  with  a  strong 
set  of  long  fingernails.  A  dab  of  Tiptex 
night  and  morning  does  it,  drying  instantly, 
smelling  sweetly,  and  costing  little — $1. 


13.  THANK  YOU,  HOLLYWOOD  . . . 

Max  Factor's  Pan-Cake  Make-up  came  in 
with  Technicolor.  Then  the  stars  put  two 
and  two  together:  If  the  Pan-Cake  could 
cover  up  complexion  faults,  make  skin 
smooth  and  young-looking,-  stay  on  for  hours 
— and  it  could  and  did — why  not  use  it  all 
day  long?     And  why  don't  you?     $1. 


14.  ONE  FOR  ALL  AND  ALL  FOR  ONE 

Jergen's  new  Ail-Purpose  Face  Cream  is  like 
three  creams  rolled  into  one  by  the  makers 
of  your  favorite  hand  lotion.  It  cleanses 
thoroughly,  leaving  no  trace  of  soil,  nour- 
ishes deeply,  leaving  skin  soft  and  velvety, 
and  finally  films  the  skin  like  a  perfect  make- 
up base.    10c,  25c  and  50c  a  jar. 


15.  WANT  FINGERNAILS  THAT  SPARKLE? 

1940's  poets,  writing  about  milady's  charms, 
will  have  to  include  her  sparkling  finger- 
nails— a  very  new  fashion  that  stems  from 
the  stars.  But  YOU  can  have  that  sparkle, 
too!  Cutex  has  launched  three  new  opa- 
lescent polishes  that  will  make  your  nails 
outshine  even  the  stars  in  heaven.  Try  them 
and  be  dazzled!     10c  and  35c  a  bottle. 


PEPSI 


PETE 


THE    PEPSI-COLA    COPS 


& 


movies  last   wevht.eese  and  crackers.  , 
the  show,  yoU  swap  ,. 


12  FULL  OUNCES 


■<*« 


•&&* 


Met  *URE  Y0U  G£r 

'  \  ****,,  B\G  BOTTLE 


A  PURE  AND 


FIRST  AID  FOR  "LEAN"  BUDGETS 

Good  news  for  thrifty  hostesses. 
The  handy  Pepsi-Cola  home 
carton  holds  6  big,  big  bottles 
...  12  big  drinks.  All  you  need 
for  a  good,  big  party.  Serve  the 
drink  that's  O.K.  with  millions. 


If  your  dealer  cannot  supply  you,  fill  in 
his  name  and  address  and  mail  to  Dept. 
F3,  Pepsi-Cola  Co.,  Long  Island  City,  N.  Y. 

Dealer's  Name 


.State. 


PH  OTOPLAY 


How  Well   Do  You   Know  Your   Hollywood? 


GRADE  yourself  five  points  for 
every  one  you  guess  right.  If 
you  get  sixty  or  less,  you  don't 
keep  up  with  Hollywood.  If  your  score 
is  eighty,  you're  doing  quite  well;  and 
if  you  have  a  score  of  one  hundred, 
you  know  as  much  as  PHOTOPLAY. 
Check  up  on  page   101. 

I.   His     recent     marriage     to      Diana 
ber    of 


Lewis  makes    the    following    ni 

times  Bill   Powell   has  been  ma 
Two  Three 

Four  Five 


id: 


)f     these 


the 


Nan  Grey 
Helen  Parrish 


2.  Which 
youngest? 
Deanna  Duibin 
Ann  Rutheiford 

3.  He's  giving  up  his  orchestra  to  be- 
come a   motion-picture  producer: 
Fred  Waring  Ray  Noble 

Rudy  Vallee  Eddie  Ducbin 

4.  This  redheaded  star  dyed  her  hair 
for  a  new  picture,  and  foiled  every 
news  cameraman's  efforts  to  photograph 
it  before  the  release  of  her  picture: 
Jeanette  MacDonald  Ginger  Rogers 
Myrna  Loy  Ann  Sheridan 

5.  These  two  actors  were  once  spe- 
cialty   dancers: 

Cesar  Romero  Vincent  Price 

Ray  Milland  George  Raft 

6.  This  singing  star  has  flatly  re- 
fused to  make  any  more  musicals.  Now 
he's  about  to  star  in  a  movie  in  which 
he  won't  sing  a  note: 

Nelson  Eddy  Dick  Powell 

Allan  Jones  Douglas  MacPhail 

7.  The  first  feature  picture  made  in 
Hollywood   was: 

The  Squaw  Man    Tess  o/  the  Storm 
Carmen  Country 

Intolerance 

8.  The    motion    picture    critics   of   the 


Margaret  Lindsay  and  Vincent  Price  in  "The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables 


New  York   press  voted   this   picture   the 
best  of  the  year   1939: 

Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington 

Wuthering  Heights 

Gone  with  the  Wind 

Elizabeth  and  Essex 
9.  Two  of  these  stars  played  the  role 
of  Hildy  Johnson  on  the  screen: 


James  Cagney        Pat  O'Brien 
Claudette  Colbert  Rosalind  Russell 

10.  A     broken     ankle     stopped 
dancing    career;   so  she   became   a    r 
tion  picture  actress: 


11.  Fred  Astaire  once  danced  with 
her  in   a   picture: 

Joan  Crawford  Norma  Shearer 

Ruby  Keeler  Joan  Blondell 

12.  These    two    actresses     refused    to 
play  the  lead  in  the  new  John  Garfield 
picture,   "Saturday's  Children": 
Priscilla  Lane       Olivia  de  Havilland 
Jane  Bryan  Joan  Fontaine 

13.  His  real  name  is  Raymond  Guion: 
Raymond  Massey         Gene  Raymond 
Broderick  Crawford     Jeffrey  Lynn 

14.  It  took  Walt  Disney  the  follow- 
ing  number  of  years  to  make  "Snow 
White  and  the  Seven  Dwarfs": 

Two  Three 

Four  One 

15.  Two  of  these  actresses  have 
played    opposite   Clark   Gable: 

Beffe  Davis  Carole  Lombard 

Marion  Davies     Madeleine  Carroll 

16.  This  recently  married  actress  has 
announced  her  retirement  from  the 
screen: 


Andrea  Leeds 

Joan  Bennett 

Diana  Lewis 

Jane  Bryan 

17.   Paul  Muni  is 
to: 
Paramount 

under  term  contract 

Warner  Bros. 

20th  Century-Fox 

Sam  Goldwyn 

18.  Two  of  these 

studios  are  located 

not  in    Hollywood, 

but  in   Culver  City: 

Columbia 

Metro-Goldwyn- 

Selznick 

Mayer 

International 

Universal 

Irene  Dunne 
Miriam  Hopkins 


Vivien  Leigh 
Constance  Bennett 


19.  Her  real  name  is  Margaret  Fitz- 
patrick: 

Nancy  Kelly  Patricia  Morison 

Gail  Patrick  Margaret  Lindsay 

20.  She  is  starring  in  a  movie  that 
is  built  around  her  own  experiences  in 
getting    into   pictures: 

Lana  Turner  Linda  Darnell 

Brenda  Joyce  Frances  Dee 


clear  as  Sunshine 
flattering  as  Candlelight 


IF  you  are  proud  of  your  legs  you'll 
choose  the  loveliest  stockings  you  can 
buy ...  IF  you  envy  the  trim  ankles  of 
the  glamor  girls  you'll  want  the  most 
flattering  hosiery  you  can  find.  In 
either  case  you'll  buy  Fine  Feathers 
Hosiery,  made  by  the  unique  single 
unit  process,  for  sheer,  lusterless  per. 
fection.  About  $1  a  pair  and  doubly 
economical  for  its  durability  record. 

Ask  for  FINE  FEATHERS  Hosiery  in  viva- 
cious new  "Mood  Tones"  for  spring  and 
summer  at  your  favorite  shop. 


«0  5  ItRY 


Miller-Smith  Hosiery  Mills 
chattanooga,  tennessee 


MAY,      I  940 


The  time  has  come 
for  Beech-Nut  Gum 


Bicycling  I  Tennis!  Golf  I  Ail  sports 
are  extra  fun  when  you  refresh 
with  Beech-Nut  Gum.  Your  choice 
of  Peppermint,  Spearmint,  Oral- 
gum  and  three  flavors  of  candy- 
coated  BEECHIES,  Peppermint, 
Spearmint  and  Pepsin.  Beech-Nut 
Gum  is  made  in  Flavor-Town 
(Canajoharie,  N.  Y.)  .  .  .  famous 
for  Beech-Nut  flavor  and  qualify. 


Beech-Nut 
Gum 


High  brow— Patricia  Mori- 
son's  lovely  eyes  can   take 
.  the    higher    line    that    girls 

ntSrf    P)  w'+h  sma"  eyes  must  avoid 


The  camera  played  tricks 
with  the  deep-set  eyes 
of  Linda  Hayes,  till  a 
make-up  man  took  a  hand 


PERSONALITY  PERCENTAGE— 
have  you  given  yourself  a  personal- 
ity test  lately?  You've  probably  had 
your  I.Q.  taken  and  your  allergy  tests 
and  done  all  those  various  tests  that  tell 
you  whether  you  have  a  sense  of  humor 
or  any  charm  or  would  make  a  good 
wife  to  any  given  husband,  and  now  we 
have  tests  to  prove  how  well  you  express 
your  personality.  Did  you  know  that, 
like  all  Gaul,  feminine  personality  or 
glamour  is  divided  into  three  parts — the 
eyes,  the  brows,  and  the  lips?  Accord- 
ing to  make-up  specialist  Mel  Burns, 
who  waves  his  magic  wand  at  RKO  to 
turn  little  Cinderellas  into  glamour 
girls,  personality  is  expressed  sixty  per 
cent  by  your  eyes,  ten  per  cent  by  your 
eyebrows,  and  thirty  per  cent  by  your 
lips.  So  if  you're  only  expressing  say 
forty  per  cent  of  your  personality  by 
your  eyes,  you're  not  even  passing  fair. 
So  let's  get  to  work  and  bring  up  your 
personality  percentage. 

If  your  eyes  aren't  carrying  their  full 
quota  of  your  individuality,  all  you  have 
to  do  is  borrow  a  few  ideas  from  your 
movie  star  prototype.  "There  are  a  few 
generalities,  of  course,"  says  Mr.  Burns, 
"that  everyone  should  follow,  most  im- 
portant of  which  is  eye  health.  That 
means  enough  sleep  to  keep  the  eyes 
clear;  correct  diet  to  make  them 
sparkle;  proper  care  to  banish  the  strain 
which  brings  about  puffiness,  squint 
lines,  and  discoloration. 

"Definite  ways  of  treating  definite 
problems  are  a  little   more  difficult  to 


accomplish.  However,  experimenting 
and  practicing  will  lead  to  success.  Just 
remember  that  shadows  create  the  illu- 
sion of  depth;  highlights  counteract 
too  much  depth. 

"For  example,  let's  take  Linda  Hayes, 
who  has  deep-set  eyes.  They're  in- 
tensely blue,  well-placed,  expressive, 
and  dark-lashed.  But  the  camera  em- 
phasized their  depth  and  made  them 
appear  smaller  than  they  are.  To  coun- 
teract this  effect  we  did  two  things.  We 
raised  the  brow  line  slightly  by  pluck- 
ing sparingly  only  from  the  side  closest 
to  the  eye.  Fortunately  Linda  has 
luxurious  brows,  and  thinning  them  this 
way  did  not  detract  from  their  natural 
line  or  expression.  Then  we  discarded 
shadow  and  used  mascara  only  on  the 
tips  of  the  lashes.  Linda  uses  a  tiny 
bit  of  cream  or  oil,  rubbed  well  into  the 
lids,  as  this  tends  to  catch    the  light." 

Frequently  when  eyes  are  deep-set, 
they  give  the  effect  of  being  too  close  to- 
gether. If  this  is  the  case  with  you, 
then  never  use  eye  shadow,  but  separate 
the  brows,  by  plucking  the  inside  ends. 
If   the   eyes   are   not  deep-set,   but  set 


Normal  eyebrows  and 
careful  use  of  e  y  e 
shadow  are  the  require- 
ments for   Bette   Davis 


slightly  close  together  anyway,  use  the 
same  brow  treatment  and  start  shadow 
at  the  center  of  the  lid,  blending 
toward  the  outer  corners. 

ANNA  NEAGLE,  the  British  beauty,  has 
a  natural  loveliness  that  requires  prac- 
tically no  make-up  in  private  life.  But 
the  camera  is  much  more  exacting,  so 
her  fair  lashes  and  brows  needed  ac- 
centing for  the  screen.  In  order  to  re- 
tain that  delicate  effect,  Mel  Burns  first 
drew  a  fine  line,  using  a  sharp  pointed 
pencil,  directly  on  the  lash  lines  of  both 
upper  and  lower  lids,  extending  them 
slightly  at  the  outer  corners,  where  they 
met  to  form  a  small  triangle.  These 
pencil  lines  were  blended  into  the  skin 
away  from  the  eye,  until  they  made  just 
a  faint  shadow.  Light  blue  shadow  was 
applied  to  the  upper  lid,  and  blended 
only  as  far  as  the  natural  crease  of  the 
lid.  Then  the  lashes  and  brows  were 
touched  lightly  with  brown  mascara. 

"This    same    basic    treatment,"    con- 
tinues Mel,  "can  be  used  when  eyes  are 
small.    Be  sure  to  blend  the  first  pencil 
(Continued  oil  page  91) 


PHOTOPLAY 


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-<^i  snarling,  vicious, 
killer-breed .  .  .  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law!  A 
hurt  and  embittered 
boy . .  .to  the  girl  who 
loves  him!  With  bite 
and  dynamite,  this 
drama  blasts  the  truth 
out  of  his  heart! 


\ 


Tyrone 

POWER 

.     .  not  since  "Jesse  James" 
has  he  had  such  a  role! 


Dorothy) 

LAMOUR 

.  .  .  revealing  more  of  her 
allure  than  ever  before! 


A  20th  Century  -  Fox  Picture 

Darryl  F.  Zanuck  In  Charge  of  Production 


^--  in 

EDWARD  ARNOLD  .  LLOYD  NOLAN 

CHARLEY   GRAPEWIIN    .    LIONEL   ATWILL 

Directed  by  Henry  Hathaway 

Associate  Producer  Harry  Joe  Brown     •     Screen  Play  by  Philip  Dunne  and   Rowland 

Brown    •    Original  Story  by  Samuel  G.  Engel  and  Hal  Long 

• 

Dorothy  Lamour  sings:  "This  is  the  Beginning  of  the  End"  by  Mack  Gordon 

and  "Dancing  for  Nickels  and  Dimes"  by  Lionel  Newman  and  Frank  Loesser 


PHOTOPLAY 


CLOSE     UPS     AND 


LONG   SHOTS 


BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


NOW  that  the  Academy  has  announced  its 
awards  for  the  year  1939  I'd  like  to  sug- 
gest that  it  set  up  a  special  Oscar  for  un- 
selfish actors  who  are  able  to  do  the  type  of 
work- such  as  Robert  Young  did  for  that  terrific 
and  beautiful  film,  "Northwest  Passage"  .  .  . 
for  while  the  Academy  does  have  a  special 
award  for  supporting  roles,  it  naturally  gives 
that  award  to  roles  that  are  "fat"  and  outstand- 
ing .  .  .  but  when  it  comes  to  a  role  like  that  of 
Langdon  Towne  in  "Northwest  Passage"  .  .  . 
and  unfortunately  such  stuffy  roles  appear  in 
every  production  ...  it  takes  not  alone  ability 
on  the  actor's  part  to  make  anything  out  of  it  at 
all  .  .  .  but  it  takes  a  certain  quality  in  the  ac- 
tor's soul  that  makes  him  able  to  face  it.  .  .  . 

Langdon  Towne  was  the  role  which  Robert 
Taylor  turned  down  as  being  an  utterly  thank- 
less one  ...  he  was  absolutely  right,  too  .  .  . 
it  was  a  thankless  one  .  .  .  Robert  Taylor  ar- 
gued that  any  player  in  such  a  part,  particularly 
when  played  against  by  an  old  master  film 
stealer  like  Spencer  Tracy,  would  be  acted  right 
out  of  the  picture  .  .  .  and  he  was  right  about 
that,  too  .  .  .  Tracy  does  take  "Northwest  Pas- 
sage" as  easily  as  a  volcano  eruption  takes  a 
mountain  side  .  .  .  but  nevertheless  because  of 
the  complete  faithfulness  with  which  Robert 
Young  plays  even  dull  scenes  .  .  .  because  of 
the  many,  many  feet  of  film  in  which  he  ha,s  to 
stand  admiring  and  without  a  line  while  Tracy 
emotes  ...  by  such  scenes  Robert  Young 
makes  the  picture  a  much  finer  production  than 
it  could  possibly  have  been  without  him.  .  .  . 

That's  why  he  deserves  a  special  award  .  .  . 
for  Bob  knew  that  he  was  not  only  automatically 
playing  second  fiddle  ...  he  knew  he  was 
merely  in  there  because  the  studio  couldn't  get 
the  actor  it  had  originally  wanted  .  .  .  the  Young 
talent  is  for  high  comedy  ...  so  when  Bob 
stepped  into  that  vacancy  he  was  under  a  double 
handicap  .  .  .  going  into  a  role  without  a  laugh 
in  it  .  .  .  one  in  which  he  seldom  had  a  good 
line  and  rarely  a  whole  scene  .  .  .  many  under 
those  circumstances  ...  in  fact,  most  important 
actors  in  such  a  spot  would  have  simply 
"walked  through"  the  part  .  .  .  but  Bob  gave 
all  that  he  had  .  .  .  and  such  loyalty  to  his  own 
profession  should  be  recognized.  .  .  . 

CURRENTLY  the  favorite  Hollywood  jingle  is 
the  one  which  Fred  Allen  used  on  the  air: 

"Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us, 
We  can  think  of  death  as  peachy, 
With  Darryl  Zanuck  left  behind  us, 
We'll  come  back  as  Don  Ameche." 

Which  reminds  me  that  I  don't  know  how  you 
feel  about  it  .  .  .  (though  I'd  like  to  very  much 
and  you'll  make  me  happy  if  you  write  and  tell 
me  .  .  .)  but  personally  I'm  getting  very  bored 
with  Robert  Fulton  inventing  the  steamship 
right  in  the  middle  of  Alice  Faye's  romance  in 
"Little  Old  New  York";  of  Stephen  Foster  used 
as  mere  prop  to  bring  That  Light  into  Andrea 
Leeds'  eyes;  and  of  the  great  Victor  Herbert  ap- 
parently exclusively  engaged  in  fixing  up  Mary 
Martin's    love    life  .  .  .  now    it    has    been    an- 


They're    fightin'    words,    if  you    call    Mickey 
Rooney  a  "mugger"  after  "Young  Tom  Edison" 


nounced  that  that  magnificent  performer,  Henry 
Fonda,  will  be  cast  in  "Hudson  Bay  Company" 
...  I  wish  they'd  let  Henry  escape  ...  he  has 
already  done  his  biographical  Zanuck  stint  .  .  . 
(and  very  nobly,  too)  as  "Young  Mr.  Lincoln" 
.  .  .  now  I  hate  the  thought  that  undoubtedly  in 
order  to  win  the  heroine  he'll  have  to  revolu- 
tionize the  life  of  all  the  fur-bearing  ani- 
mals. .  .  . 

IT'S  probably  very  old-fashioned  of  me,  but  I'd 
like  to  have  some  screen  love  stories  just  for 
the  sake  of  love  stories  .  .  .  and  not  industrial, 
musical,  scientific  or  whatnot  history  being 
pushed  around  to  make  a  set  of  beautiful  close- 
ups  of  some  romance-stricken  cutie-pie.  .  .  . 

Not  that  I  want  biography  entirely  dropped 
from  the  screen  .  .  .  that  it  can  be  done  won- 
derfully is  proven  by  M-G-M  in  "Young  Tom 
Edison"  .  .  .  this  is  the  very  faithful  biography 


of  a  very  real  and  very  great  American  .  .  . 
"Young  Tom  Edison"  has  been  rendered  into 
terms  of  the  grandest  entertainment  .  .  .  laugh- 
ter, tears,  pathos,  excitement  are  all  there  plus 
a  poignant  portrait  of  the  simple  American  way 
of  life  of  nearly  a  century  ago  .  .  .  but  the  basic 
thing  that  makes  it  so  fine  is  that  there  is  no  dis- 
tortion in  the  story  ...  it  is  the  real  story  of  a 
real  person  .  .  .  not  a  bookish  peg  on  which  to 
hang  a  torrid  romance  .  .  .  and  it  is,  inciden- 
tally, the  only  film  I've  ever  seen  where  I  heard 
the  whole  audience  whispering  that  they  could 
barely  wait  to  see  its  sequel,  "Edison,  the  Man" 
.  .  .  furthermore,  even  though  the  Academy 
didn't  give  Mickey  Rooney  its  chief  award  this 
year  .  .  .  and  I  agree  that  it  wouldn't  have 
been  right  when  you  compare  his  work  with 
that  of  Robert  Donat  and  Gable  and  Jimmy 
Stewart  in  this  year's  award  line-up  .  .  .  I'll 
wager  that  on  next  year's  Academy  lists  he  will 
once  more  be  considered  .  .  .  probably  in  there, 
running  neck  to  neck  with  Tracy  for  "Edi- 
son, the  Man"  .  .  .  because  there  isn't  a  single 
Andy  Hardy-ism  in  Mickey's  entire  Edison  per- 
formance ...  it  is  a  sensitive  refined  portrayal 


and  after  this  anyone  who  claims  that  Mickey 
is  only  a  mugger  will  find  those  fighting  words 
in  Hollywood.  .  .  . 

IN  the  twelfth  year  of  its  existence,  the  Academy 
of  Motion  Picture  Arts  and  Sciences  seems  at 
last  to  have  satisfied  all  Hollywood  with  its 
awards  .  .  .  other  years  the  post  mortems  have 
lasted  till  dawn,  with  this  side  and  that  wailing 
of  "influence"  .  .  .  "politics"  and  whatnot  .  .  . 
but  this  year  I  didn't  hear  one  word  of  dissent 
.  .  .  even  the  dinner  was  good,  which  if  you  are 
an  old  public-dinnergoer  you  never  expect,  even 
if  the  banquet  does  cost  twenty-five  dollars  a 
plate,  as  this  one  did  .  .  .  there  were  voices 
who  claimed  that  the  4,000  votes  from  the  extra 
ranks  .  .  .  the  group  in  Hollywood  who  have 
never  been  permitted  to  vote  before  .  .  .  helped 
to  keep  the  balloting  on  the  level  .  .  .  whatever 
it  was  .  .  .  everybody  was  happy.  .  .  . 

There  is  an  adage  in  the  acting  world  that 
nobody  can  remember  a  movie  that  is  more  than 
six  months  old  .  .  .  they  dragged  that  adage  out 
when  other  critics  in  other  parts  of  the  country 
awarded  Jimmy   Stewart  the  prize  as  having 


"Gone  with  the  Wind,"  produced  by 
David  Selznick  and  starring  Vivien  Leigh 
as  Scarlett  O'Hara  (left)  was  a  natural 
'andslide,  but  the  highlight  of  the  eve- 
ning was  when  Hattie  McDaniel  (above 
with  Fay  Bainter)  received  her  Oscar 
for  the  role  of  Mammy.  Right:  "Stage- 
coach" won  Thomas  Mitchell  recognition 
with  Spencer  Tracy,  last  year's  big  winner) 


given  the  best  male  per- 
formance in  1939  .  .  .  Hol- 
lywood didn't  agree  with 
that  .  .  .  Hollywood  ar- 
gued that  if  "Mr.  Smith 
Goes  to  Washington"  had 
been  released  in  the  early 
spring  and  "Goodbye, 
Mr.  Chips"  had  been  re- 
leased in  the  fall,  instead 
of  the  reverse,  Robert 
Donat's  beautiful  per- 
formance would  have 
taken  the  palm  .  .  . 
whether  or  not  that's 
true,  Hollywood  gave  the 
honors  to  Donat  .  .  .  the 
feeling  being  that  fine  as 
Jimmy's  work  was,  his 
performance  was  neces- 
sarily only  the  perform- 
ance of  a  man  going 
through  one  dramatic 
situation  .  .  .  whereas  the  Donat  performance 
was  the  poignant  picturization  of  the  entire  life- 
time of  a  little  man.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  Vivien  Leigh  was  a  walk-away 
for  the  best  feminine  performance  .  .  .  senti- 
mentally, I  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  Garbo 
get  it  for  "Ninotchka"  .  .  .  but  I  do  know  that 
would  have  been  pure  sentiment  .  .  .  Miss  Leigh 
definitely  deserved  it.  .  .  . 

"Gone  with  the  Wind"  was  a  natural  land- 
slide, too  .  .  .  for  the  best  production,  the  best 
direction,  the  best  editing,  the  best  art  work 
and  the  best  supporting  performance  by  an 
actress  .  .  .  and  in  this  particular,  Photoplay  is 
proud  to  announce  that  you  readers  have  also 
selected  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  as  the  best  pic- 
ture of  the  year  and  the  Photoplay  Gold  Medal 
is  even  now  being  struck  off  in  honor  of  Miss 
Margaret  Mitchell's  enchanting  brainchild.  .  .  . 
There  were  three  highlights  of  this  year's  din- 
ner .  .  .  Mickey  Rooney  handing  Judy  Garland 
her  statuette  for  the  best  performance  of  a  juve- 
nile during  the  past  year  ...  it  was  charming  to 
watch  him,  with  his  new-found  dignity  upon 
him,  presenting  Judy  with  her  Oscar,  and  then 


forgetting  himself  and  kissing  her  with  kid  en- 
thusiasm .  .  .  and  Judy  was  never  more  per- 
suasive than  when  she  crooned  "Over  the  Rain- 
bow," the  year's  prize-winning  song,  into  the 
mikes,  with  a  suspicious  little  quaver  in  her 
voice.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  emotional  moment  when  Douglas 
Fairbanks,  Jr.  stepped  forward  to  take  the  award 
that  was  given  to  the  memory  of  Douglas  Fair- 
banks, Sr.  for  all  that  he  did  to  make  movies 
international,  for  all  that  he  did  to  make  them 
exciting,  romantic  and  worthy  of  attention  .  .  . 
that  the  son  of  the  father  was  very  touched  was 
keenly  apparent  ...  it  gave  us  spectators  the 
sense  of  how  this  business  is  going  on  .  .  .  de- 
veloping steadily  better  and  better  .  .  .  David 
Selznick,  son  of  the  pioneer  Lewis  J.  Selznick, 
being  proclaimed  the  most  distinguished  pro- 
ducer of  the  year  .  .  .  young  Doug,  carrying  on 
the  acting  tradition  of  his  forebear  .  .  .  Mickey 
and 'Judy,  the  swiftly  rising  generation.  .  .  . 

I  HOSE  two  moments  were  quite  wonderful  .  .  . 
the  speeches  of  Walter  Wanger,  the  new  presi- 
dent of  the  Academy  ...  of  Darryl  Zanuck,  of 
Sinclair  Lewis,  who  made  the  writing  award  to 
the  late  Sidney  Howard  .  .  .  were  all  swell 
moments,  too  .  .  .  but  the  really  great  moment 
was  that  in  which  the  very  black  Hattie  Mc- 
Daniel was  given  an  Oscar  for  having  turned 
in  "the  best  supporting  performance  by  an 
actress".  .  .  . 

She  had  competed  for  the  prize  against  Olivia 
de  Havilland  for  her  sensitive  Melanie  and  Edna 
May  Oliver  for  that  marvelous  pioneer  woman 
in  "Drums  Along  the  Mohawk"  .  .  .  but  this 
Negro  woman  who  had  created  Mammy  in 
"Gone  with  the  Wind"  .  .  .  won  by  hundreds  of 
votes  .  .  .  and  I  am  so  glad,  as  I  know  Holly- 
wood is  so  glad,  too.  .  .  . 

For  it  wasn't  alone  because  her  work  was  so 
beautiful  ...  it  wasn't  alone  because  this  huge, 
great-hearted  woman  has  literally  starved  and 
gone  homeless  and  friendless,  at  times,  for  her 
work  ...  it  was  much  more  than  that  ...  it 
was  this  ...  it  was  good  to  have  Hollywood 
show  to  this  mixed-up  world  of  today  that 
there  is  one  great  democracy  left  .  .  .  the  death- 
less democracy  of  art.  .  .  . 

Hattie  McDaniel  was  the  first  of  her  race  to 
win  such  a  prize  .  .  .  she  was  so  deeply  touched 
that  the  tears  ran  down  her  shining  face  as  she 
picked  up  that  stiff,  golden  figure  .  .  .  but  even 
that  doesn't  matter  .  .  .  what  really  counts  is 
that  by  this  vote  the  Academy  gives  further 
nurture  to  the  spirit  ...  to  that  eternal  good 
will  which  says  that  without  regard  to  race,  color 
or  creed,  merit  ...  just  true  merit  .  .  .  may 
still  win  out  in  this  world. 


16 


Dr.  Cyclops  injects  his  new  radium  for- 
mula . . .  shrinking  victims  to  pygmy  size! 


A  beautiful  young  woman  shrunk  to  min- 
iature size  ...  yet  breathing  defiance! 


A  normal-sized  cat  becomes  a  huge  rav- 
ening monster  to  the  helpless  victims! 


Angered  by  their  resistance,  Dr.  Cyclops 
attacks  the  little  people  with  a  shovel! 


Dr.  Cyclops*  victims,  maddened  at  the  results  of 
their  size  reduction,  attack  the  gigantic  doctor! 


A  Paramount  Picture  with  Albert  Dekker  •  Janice  Logan  •  Thomas  Coley  •  Charles  Halton 

Victor  Kilian  •  Frank  Yaconelli  •  Directed  by  Ernest  Schoedsack  •  Original  Screen  Play  by  Tom  Kilpatrick 


It's  the  yarn  you  can  tell  on  any  beach 
—as  far  as  you  can  see  it.  Nothing  else 
could  perform  this  small  miracle  of 
fit  with  freedom,  of  control  with  com- 
fort. This  suave  technique  has  made 
the  American  bathing  beauty  the  envy 
of  the  world.  When  choosing  a  suit  re- 
member that  the  stretch  of  "Lastex" 
yarn  is  applied  with  equal  facility  to 
any  sort  of  woven  or  knitted  fabric, 
silk  or  cotton,  wool  or  rayon.  That  in 
many  and  various  applications  it 
glorifies  every  type  of  suit,  maillot, 
skirted  or  dressmaker.  There  is  a 
swimsuit  made  with  this  priceless  in- 
gredient to  fit  every  kind  of  figure, 
and  at  a  price  to  fit  every  kind  of 
purse.  So  the  rest  is  up  to  you.  Just 
ask  for  a  suit  made  with  "Lastex" 
yarn  at  the  stores  you  usually  patron- 
ize, under  the  name  of  a  favorite 
maker,  if  you  like.  But  be  sure  your 
suit  is  made  with  benefit  of  fashion's 
fourth  dimension. 


THE    MIRACLE    YARN 
THAT    MAKES    THINGS    FIT 


An  elastic  yarn  manufactured  exclusively  by  United  States  Rubber  Company,  Rockefeller  Center,  New  York  City 

18  '     '  PHOTOPLAY 


C*fcu  Jtock&£"~ 


BY  MORTON  THOMPSON 

Like  pirates  of  old,  gangdom's  petty  chiselers  are  levying  toll  on  the  helpless  extra  players  of  Hollywood 


LIUSTRATED      B 


BACK  of  the  glamour,  back  of  the 
laughter,  the  beauty,  the  swirl  of  fa- 
mous Hollywood  faces  are  stories  that 
have  never  been  told.  Some  of  them  are 
grim.    This  is  a  grim  one. 

It  is  a  behind-the-scenes  story  of  starv- 
ing extras,  and  the  furtive  wolves  and 
chiselers  who  howl  at  their  heels. 

On  the  night  of  November  15,  1937, 
someone  crept  into  an  apartment  in  the 
middle  of  Hollywood  and  paused  by  the 
bedside  of  one  Hymie  Miller.  There  was 
the  roar  of  a  gun.  And  that  was  the  end 
of  Hymie  Miller. 

Who  was  Hymie  Miller?  He  was  a  man 
now  charged  by  frightened  extras,  afraid 
to  speak  during  his  lifetime,  of  being  a 
racketeer  to  whom  they  were  forced  to 
pay  from  their  piteously  few  nickels  and 
dimes  "protection"  against  being  beaten 
up  so  badly  that  they  wouldn't  be  able  to 
answer  a  call  to  work. 

You'll  probably  hear  more  about  Hymie 
Miller  during  the  next  few  weeks.  A  de- 
tective agency,  composed  of  former  G- 
Men,  hired  by  the  Screen  Actors  Guild, 
has  been  making  an  intensive  investiga- 
tion of  the  whole  extra  situation,  of  scan- 
dalous rumors,  complaints  and  criminal 
charges. 

These  are  nothing  new  to  Hollywood. 
For  many  years  Hollywood  has  been  hear- 
ing about  extra  scandals  which  never 
quite  came  to  a  head.  Somehow,  even  the 
most  ominous  reports  never  could  be 
traced  down.  Extras  have  been  afraid  to 
talk. 

An  extra  is  a  man  or  woman  on  the  low- 
est rung  of  Hollywood's  ladder  of  talent. 
He  or  she  is  simply  an  anonymous  part  of 
a  mob;  a  chunk  of  human  background. 
Unless  an  extra  belongs  to  the  Screen 
Actors  Guild  he  or  she  can  get  no  work. 
The  Guild  at  present  lists  about  5,600  paid- 
up  extras.  Central  Casting,  a  sort  of 
clearing  house  through  which  the  studios 


contact  extras  for  jobs,  lists  a  total  of 
9,849. 

Last  year  the  studios  spent  $3,124,671 
for  extras. 

Divide  that  sum  among  5,600  men  and 
women.  It  means  the  average  yearly 
earning  of  a  Hollywood  extra  is  $558. 
About  ten  dollars  a  week.  Divide  it  among 
9,849  and  the  average  yearly  earning  is 
$317.  Somewhere  between  $558  and  $317 
a  year  lies  the  actual  figure  earned  by  the 
average  extra. 

Who'd  prey  on  workers  like  that,  who 
get,  at  the  most,  not  more  than  a  month's 
work  out  of  every  year?  And  the  rest  of 
the  year  wait  hungrily,  hopefully,  fran- 
tically beside  their  telephones — ? 

Hollywood  has  its  fringe  of  chiselers, 
petty  mobsters,  street-corner  rats.  There 
aren't  many.  But  it  doesn't  take  many  to 
throw  a  reign  of  terror  over  an  extra's  life. 
It  takes  only  one  to  kill  a  man. 

Hymie  Miller  came  from  New  York. 
He  was  at  one  time  an  unremarkable  man- 
ager of  prize  fighters.  In  Hollywood  he 
was  part  owner  of  a  delicatessen.  Occa- 
sionally he  played  small  parts  in  pictures. 

Nobody  knows  who  killed  him.  There 
were  powder  burns  on  the  sheets,  indicat- 
ing that  the  bullet  was  fired  at  close  range. 
Police  reason  that  only  a  friend  or  trusted 
henchman  could  have  gotten  that  close. 

Chalk  up  one  murder. 

Hymie  Miller  died  without  revealing  the 
name  of  his  murderer. 

"I'll  take  care  of  them  myself,"  he  said. 
(Continued  on  page  97) 


PVL 


Intimidated  bythreats 
of  disfigurement — 
even  dishonor — have 
extra  girls  paid  reg- 
ular tribute  to  racke- 
teers  to  safeguard 
their  chances  of  con- 
tinued    employment? 


ony!  Objective:  The  kitchens  of  the  stai 

OME 
A/EET 


*;40  lm 


"•"h 


a** 


M 


vo^e 


o\ea 


& 


\V 


3b\e^ 


°r-ofso  actress  °n' 

Our  world -renowned  society  expert  < 
makes  a  preposterous  diagnosis  of  a 

new  Hollywood  epidemic.  Have  YOU  I 

ever  had  "relentless  domesticity"?  \ 

BY  ELSA  MAXWELL 


FORTUNATELY  for  me,  still  more  fortu- 
nately for  my  Hollywood  friends,  I  do  not 
write  a  daily  gossip  column.  Heaven  alone 
knows  to  what  far-reaching  and  thoroughly  wild 
conclusions  I  would  have  jumped  by  now  had  I 
to  turn  out  so  many  words  seven  times  a  week. 
Even  as  it  is,  I  suspect  that  Hollywood  is  a  town 
where  one  makes  acquaintances  and  loses 
friends  but  were  I  to  conduct  a  column  .  .  .  The 
very  thought  makes  me  shudder. 

Take  for  instance  the  case  of  Constance  Ben- 
nett. While  working  in  my  first  picture,  I  was 
staying  in  Connie's  house.  I  was  enjoying  both 
her  hospitality  and  her  company  hugely  but  I 
could  not  help  wondering  why  practically  every 
evening  she  would  suddenly 
disappear,  lock  herself  up  in 
her  room  and  not  show  up 
again  for  an  hour  or  so.  Now 
had  I  been  a  Winchell,  a  Sulli- 
van or  a  Fidler,  I  would  have 
been  in  duty  bound  to  report  to 
my  readers  that  something  was 
"on."  Something  was  on.  The 
glamorous,  the  bewitching,  the 
ever-so-romantic  Miss  Bennett 
was  spending  those  mysterious 
evening  hours  .  .  .  knitting  a 
red  sweater  which  she  pre- 
sented to  me  on  the  occasion  of 
my  birthday.  She  could  have 
bought  a  sweater  for  me  in  a 
downtown  shop — although  not 
every  shop  in  Los  Angeles 
would  be  likely  to  have  on 
hand  a  sweater  of  that  size — 
but  she  wanted  to  prove  to  me 
that  when  it  came  to  knitting 
she  bowed  to  no  housewife. 

The  other  one  whose  sudden 
disappearances  used  to  puzzle 
me  quite  a  bit  is  Virginia 
Zanuck.  Early  every  after- 
noon she  would  order  her  car 


Otf 


■H& 


Caught  in  each  other's  arms  at  the  Beverly 
Hills,  Leland  and  Maggie  Sullavan  Hayward 


and  be  gone,  never  telling  anyone  where  she 
was  going,  never  suggesting  that  her  friends 
join  her.  The  popular  legend  had  it — probably 
still  has  it — that  she  would  sneak  into  this  or 
that  neighborhood  movie  house  and  watch  the 
audiences'  reaction  to  various  pictures  and 
players.  Then — said  the  experts — she  would 
present  her  report  to  Darryl. 

I  loathe  to  destroy  legends  but  the  plain 
truth  is  that  Virginia  Zanuck  was  and  is  spend- 
ing her  "off  the  record"  afternoons  supervising 
the  riding  lessons  taken  by  her  children  on  a 
ranch  near  by. 

OTILL  another  case  which  would  have  baffled 
me  had  I  been  conducting  a  column  is  that  of 
Ann  Warner.  Probably  the  best-dressed 
woman  in  Hollywood,  the  wife  of  Jack  Warner 
of  Warner  Brothers  is  an  inveterate  daydreamer. 
A  stranger  watching  her  stare  into  space  would 
bet  his  last  nickel  that  Ann  is  dreaming  of 
Paris,  of  the  new  dresses  she  is  about  to  order, 
of  the  new  jewelry  displayed  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix,  of  the  newest  and  craziest  hats  about  to 
be  shown  and  of  some  gorgeous  furs  that  only 
multimillionaires  can  afford. 

Well,  our  stranger  would  lose  his  last  nickel 
in  no  time  at  all.  Ann  Warner  is  dreaming 
of  .  .  .  her  kitchen  and  of  the  dinner  she  should 
order  for  that  night.  Dining  in  Ann's  house  is 
an  experience  and  an  adventure,  not  to  be  en- 
countered anywhere  else  on  this  continent. 

"The  best  French  food  I've  tasted  outside 
France,"  according  to  Charles  Boyer. 

"The  best  Philippine  food  this  side  of  Manila," 
according  to  President  Quezon. 

"The  best  English  food,"  according  to  the 
Duchess  of  Sutherland. 

"The  very  best  South  American  food,"  ac- 
cording to  the  stalwart  Argentina  polo  players. 

"The  only  authentic  Russian  food  in  America," 
according  to  a  visiting  Grand  Duchess. 

"An  Italian  dinner  that  even  the  best  restau- 
rant in  Venice  cannot  provide,"  according  to 
Count  Rossi. 

What  is  the  mystery?  No  mystery  at  all. 
Ann  Warner  lets  the  nationality  of  her  guest 
of  honor  determine  the  style  and  the  contents 
of  the  meal.  Back  in  New  York  people  rave 
about  the  ingenuity  of  Herbert  Bayard  Swope 
(the  former  editor  of  the  New  York  World  and 
the  present  Chairman  of  the  New  York  State 
Racing  Commission)  who  employs  two  shifts  of 
servants — one  working  from  eight  a.m.  to  eight 


Who  dances  with  whom  on 
a  typical  Trocadero  eve- 
ning? Well — Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Hornblow,  for  instance  .  . . 


Ultrachic  Ann  and  ultra- 
successful  Jack  Warner — 
could  you  guess  where  her 
thoughts  most  likely  are? 


Mervyn  LeRoy  and  Darryl  Zanuck  with  Connie  Bennett  and  Virginia  Zanuck 
— two  film  wives  whose  sudden  disappearances  were  solved  by  our  author 


p.m.,   the   other   from   eight  p.m.   to   eight  a.m. 

"Isn't  it  marvelous,"  exclaim  the  numberless 
friends  of  Mr.  Swope,  "that  Herbert  can  afford 
to  wake  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  decide 
that  what  he  wants  is  a  good  sirloin  steak  and 
have  that  steak  served  half  an  hour  later?" 

I  do  not  want  to  disturb  Mr.  Swope's  peace  of 
mind  or  interfere  with  his  enjoyment  of  a 
sirloin  steak  served  in  the  wee  hours  of  the 
morning,  but  when  it  comes  to  comfort  and  "in- 
genuity" Ann  Warner  has  it  all  over  him.  She 
employs  nearly  a  score  of  cooks.  A  French  chef 
who  can  put  to  shame  the  best  of  his  Parisian 
colleagues  ...  A  Mexican  maestro  whose  hot 
tamales  make  you  feel  like  talking  back  to  Mus- 
solini .  .  .  An  Italian  poet  of  food  whose  spa- 
ghetti, ravioli,  minestrone  and  scallopini  recreate 
the  very  air  of  Venice  in  Beverly  Hills  ...  A 
solid  and  silent  Englishman  who  toys  with  noth- 
ing smaller  than  a  twelve-rib  roast  .  .  .  An  ever- 
smiling  Hawaiian  who  knows  all  there  is  to  be 
known  about  cooking  that  very  tiny  but  most 
delicious  fish  of  all — the  one  and  only  o-poka- 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


Bedtime  story:  Glamour  Queen  knitting 
— but  it  was  hardly  a   "tiny  garment"! 


21 


ICH  ROMANO 


And  which  star  romances  are  manufactured  to 
amuse  and  confuse  you?   An  unvarnished  report 

BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


THE  week  end  after  Lana  Turner  pulled  her 
bombshell  elopement  with  Artie  Shaw 
(which  was  about  four  week  ends  after  the 
even  more  explosive  elopement  of  William 
Powell  and  Diana  Lewis),  the  hottest  news 
around  Hollywood  was  that  Joan  Crawford  was 
eloping  with  Lee  Bowman. 

It  was  a  Saturday  night  that  this  got  in  the 
wind  and  every  columnist  in  Hollywood,  because 
of  those  two  former  "scoop"  elopements,  went 
into  a  tailspin.  The  phones  rang  in  the  Craw- 
ford Brentwood  mansion.  The  phones  rang  in 
the  Bowman  Beverly  Hills  apartment.  Neither 
Miss  Crawford  nor  Mr.  Bowman  was  at  home. 

Well,  that  absence  confirmed  every  writer's 
hunch.  If  those  two  glamorous  people  weren't 
at  home  (and  on  Saturday  night,  too!)  then 
they  simply  must  be  in  a  plane  eloping. 

Joan  is  famous  for  hating  airplanes,  but  what 
of  that? 

Lee  Bowman  had  been  seen  the  night  before 
this  event  dancing  with  Nancy  Kelly  (who 
rumor  has  it  is  madly  in  love  with  Edmond 
O'Brien — that  is,  she  is,  unless  you  belong  to 
the  school  of  whispers  that  has  her  even  more 
madly  in  love  with  Irving  Cummings,  Jr.).  The 
night  before  he  was  cutting  rugs  with  Nancy, 
Lee  was  seen  brightening  up  the  dance  floors 
with  Wendy  Barrie.  (The  boy  loves  to  dance!) 
But  still  and  for  all,  he  was,  so  They  said,  ab- 
solutely and  positively  eloping  with  Joan  Craw- 
ford. 

With  a  hot  tip  like  that  out,  the  important 
news  gatherers  of  Hollywood  never  relaxed. 
They  kept  their  wires  open  and  their  ears 
peeled  for  calls  from  Las  Vegas  or  Boulder  City 
or  other  Nevada  points.  But  dawn's  early  light 
came  without  a  single  ring,  telephonic  or  wed- 
ding. Joan  didn't  wed  Lee  and  Lee  didn't  wed 
Joan.  The  most  casual  research  would  have 
revealed  several  reasons  why  such  a  possibility 
was  always  impossible. 

Lana  Turner  and  Artie  Shaw — their  elopement 
helped  start  a  boom  in  the  local  gossip-mart 


4"- 


:UMORS  ARE 


plttf : 


? 


Reason  one  was  that  on  the  very  evening 
Joan  was  supposed  to  be  eloping  she  was,  in 
full  sight  of  everyone,  exquisitely  circling  the 
floor  at  Ciro's,  held  in  the  graceful  arms  of  Cesar 
Romero.  Reason  two  was  that  Joan  is  not  re- 
motely in  love  with  Lee  and  Lee  is  not  remotely 
in  love  with  Joan.  Very  good  friends  they  are 
indeed,  but  romantic  they  are  not.  Reason  three 
— and  most  important — Joan  couldn't  have  mar- 
ried that  particular  night  if  the  man  of  her 
elopement  has  been  a  combination  of  Franchot 
Tone-Charlie  Martin-Cesar  Romero-Lee  Bow- 
man (to  mention  just  a  few  of  the  crowd  that 
she  is  supposed  to  be  infatuated  with)  plus  the 
King  of  the  Mystic  Isles.  Joan  can't  wed  any- 
body before  late  this  spring  unless  she  commits 
bigamy.     And  Joan  doesn't  commit  bigamy. 

OUT  the  fact  that  such  a  stew  can  and  actually 
did  happen  lets  you  in  on  what  is  happening  to 
romance  reporting  in  our  pretty  little  place  by 
the  Pacific.  It  is  also  the  reason  that  Photoplay 
right  here  and  now  is  attempting  to  clear  the 
air  and  the  type  lines  on  who  is  really  going 
with  whom;  who  is  divorcing  whom;  and  who 
is  and  who  isn't  apt  to  get  married  fairly  soon. 

Not  that  Photoplay  is  infallible,  either.  Not 
that  we  claim  to  have  the  inside  track  on  every- 
body's heart.  We  haven't.  Nobody  has.  The 
big  thing  is  that  the  stars  of  Hollywood,  even  as 
you  and  I,  are  human  beings.  Even  as  you  and 
I,  they  do,  some  of  them,  fall  in  love  unex- 
pectedly. They  do,  some  of  them,  quarrel  un- 
expectedly. They  do,  some  of  them,  make  up 
unexpectedly.  They  haven't  the  privacy  that 
you  and  I  have  when  they  go  through  these 
emotional  turmoils.  But  we  do  think  ("we," 
meaning  Photoplay  and  "I,"  meaning  the 
writer)  that  they  have  the  right  to  be  asked 
what  goes  on  with  them  before  they  are  rumored 
this  way  and  that  way  with  this  person  and  that 
person,  merely  because  somebody  told  some- 
body else  that  this  or  that  was  true  (and  never 
checked  the  facts  further). 

Not  that  asking  a  star  his  or  her  matrimonial 
intentions  always  brings  the  truth.  Not  that 
they  will  always  talk,  truly  or  otherwise. 
Nevertheless,  Photoplay  is  trying  to  take  its 
heart  charmers  at  their  own  words  and  at  least 
give  them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  as  knowing 
whom  they  love  and  how  much  and  to  what  pur- 
pose. 

For  instance,  early  last  summer  when  the  re- 
port first  got  about  that  Alice  Faye  and  Tony 


Martin  were  separating,  I  went  directly  to  Alice 
and  asked  her  concerning  it.  Alice  said  then 
exactly  what  she  had  said  in  1937  the  day  after 
their  marriage.  She  said,  this  direct,  honest, 
troubled  girl,  "I  hope  we  can  make  a  go  of  it. 
But  I  don't  know.  I'm  trying  and  Tony's  try- 
ing, but  two  careers  in  one  family  are  terrible. 
If  Tony  and  I  can  work  together  and  be  equally 
successful,  I  think  we  can  swing  it.  If  we  have 
to  separate,  I'm  afraid  we'll  fail."  That  was  her 
1937  statement  and  the  only  thing  she  added  to 
that  in  the  summer  of  1939  was  that  she  and 
Tony  had  weathered  two  tough  years,  so  she 
hoped  for  the  best. 

They  had,  last  summer,  purchased  their  first 
home  together.  As  you  know  it  burned  to  the 
ground  the  day  after  they  moved  into  it.  I 
believe  that  the  burning  of  that  dream  house 
was  the  killer  on  their  marriage.  For  Alice 
loved  that  house  and  wanted  to  live  in  it,  but 
with  it  gone,  and  she  so  busy  and  Tony  so  busy 
and  both  of  them  separated,  she  didn't  have 
the  energy,  inspiration  or  time  to  start  house 
hunting  all  over  again.  It  left  her  with  no 
"center"  to  her  emotions.  She  did,  however, 
cross  the  continent  this  winter,  just  to  spend  a 
few  days  with  Tony  in  New  York.  But  she's 
too  honest  to  think  three  or  four  days,  hastily 
grabbed  at,  constitute  a  marriage. 

It  was  on  her  way  back  to  California  that  she 
was  reported  as  seeking  her  divorce  in  Chicago. 
Our  biggest  papers  said  she  had  started  the  di- 
vorce action,  and  instantly  told  the  world.  Once 
more  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  go  to  Alice  to  get 
the  real  answer.    Alice  said  she  had  not  started 


Hollywood,  wondering  about 
Ann  Sheridan  and  Anatole 
Litvak,  characteristically  for- 
got   one    important    item! 


proceedings,  and  that  then  was  the  truth.  Now 
she  has  filed  the  divorce  action.  That  is  all  too 
bad,  but  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  story.  Our 
big  point  is  that  at  no  time  did  Alice  try  to  lie, 
evade  or  cheat  any  reporter  regarding  the  sit- 
uation between  her  and  Tony. 

I  HE  setup  with  the  Errol  Flynns  is  quite  the 
reverse  of  the  sincerely  honest  Faye-Martin 
situation.  It's  my  belief  that  the  witty  Errol 
gets  a  continual  laugh  and  an  impish  pleasure 
at  noting  the  papers'  consternation  about  him- 
self and  Lili.  He  adores  to  fool  them  into  silly 
statements.  It's  also  my  belief  that  the  Flynns 
will  not  divorce,  now  or  ever.  To  be  blunt 
about  the  love  life  of  the  Flynns,  they  fight. 
When  they  fight,  they  flit.  And  when  they  get 
over  fighting,  they  kiss  and  make  up.  That 
isn't  the  usual  form  love  takes,  but  it  is  one 
form.  Not  all  people  like  peace  and  content- 
ment. There  are  people  who  like  thunder  and 
lightning,  storms  at  sea,  hurricanes  and  floods. 
They  find  that  these  phenomena  add  excitement 
to  life.  People  like  that  find  too  that  emotional 
storms,  hurricanes  and  floods  add  excitement  to 
love.  It's  my  conviction  that  that  is  the  way  it 
is  with  Lili  and  Errol.  Even  as  I  write  they 
have  just  "gone  back  together"  after  their  latest 
"separation."  Errol  said,  when  questioned  about 
that,  "You  can't  call  this  a  reconciliation  because 
we  were  never  really  separated.  I  took  an 
apartment  away  from  home  because  I  was  start- 
ing a  picture  and  things  are  always  tough  then. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  I'm  keeping  the  apartment, 
(Continued  on  page  97) 


Though  it's  "six-and-a- 
half  years  since  the 
birth  of  Peter,  Helen  and 
Melvyn  still  cringe  al 
the    mention    of   suki-yak 


ON 


MFLVY 


INTERVIEWING  actors  is  a  tough  proposition; 
especially  when  you're  a  friend. 
I  met  Melvyn  Douglas  three  years  ago 
when  he  played  a  part  in  "I  Met  Him  in  Paris" 
— a  part  over  which  I  had  sweated  three  months 
to  make  casual.  And  because  he  was  born  to 
look  casual,  he  stepped  right  in  and  played  the 
part  without  any  effort  whatsoever. 

We  went  to  Sun  Valley,  Idaho,  and  made  the 
picture.  When  we  came  back  I  knew  a  few 
things  about  Melvyn  Douglas.  I  knew  that  he 
is  taller  than  he  looks  on  or  off  the  screen,  that 
his  sandy  hair  photographs  darker  than  it  is, 
that  he  has  a  nervous  habit  of  picking  at  his 
thumb  nails,  that  he  is  nuts  about  his  family 
and  that  he  thinks  I  am  nuts. 

Coming  back  to  Hollywood  on  the  train  he 
said  we'd  have  to  get  together  because  my  wife 
would  like  his  wife  and  his  wife  would  like 
me  and  we'd  all  like  each  other.  I  said  yes, 
we'd  have  to  get  together,  and  three  years  later 
he  walked  onto  the  set  of  "Too  Many  Husbands" 
and  said  hello. 

He  said  he  liked  the  part  I  had  written, 
thanks,  and  how  old  was  my  kid  now?  I  said 
nine  and  how  old  was  his?    He  said  six-and-a- 


Presenting — an  hilarious  word  pic- 
ture of  a  suave  actor  who  got 
ready  for  Hollywood  the  hard  way 

BY  CLAUDE  BINYON 


half  and  I  told  him  you  get  over  that  half  busi- 
ness when  your  kid  hits  nine. 

He  asked  me  if  I  knew  that  he  had  another 
kid  now,  and  I  said  of  course  I  did  and  how  old 
was  he?  He  said  it  was  a  girl  named  Mary 
Helen  and  it  was  one-and-a-half.  Then  there 
was  a  lull. 

The  other  leads  in  "Too  Many  Husbands"  are 
Jean  Arthur  and  Fred  MacMurray.  Douglas 
said  he'd  never  worked  with  either  of  them  and 
how  were  they?    I  told  him  MacMurray  was  a 


cinch  after  he  got  over  being  shy,  but  Jean  Ar- 
thur I  didn't  know.  He  said  she  sure  had  a 
bright  face  and  he'd  always  wanted  to  work 
with  her.  Later  we  found  she'd  always  wanted 
to  work  with  him  and  MacMurray  had  always 
wanted  to  work  with  her  and  she'd  always 
wanted  to  work  with  MacMurray.  Douglas  and 
MacMurray  had  never  thought  whether  they 
wanted  to  work  with  each  other  or  not. 

In  a  few  days  we  all  were  in  the  rut  and 
happy.  Everybody  knew  that  MacMurray 
meant  "Gee!"  when  he  blew  his  lines  and  said 
"Damn!"  and  that  Jean  Arthur  had  her  four 
o'clock  tea  with  cream  and  sugar  and  water  but 
no  tea,  and  that  Douglas  would  eat  the  wrong 
thing  at  lunch  and  call  for  bicarbonate  of  soda 
two  hours  later.    Life  was  routine  and  easy. 

Then  I  made  my  mistake.  I  told  Douglas  I 
was  going  to  write  something  about  him  for  a 
magazine.  He  grew  as  tense  as  a  frightened 
maiden. 

"You  mean  you're  going  to  ask  me  if  I  object 
to  my  wife  shaving  her  legs?"  he  asked.  I 
hadn't  thought  of  that.  "Does  she?"  I  asked. 
He  didn't  know. 

Finally  we  decided  that  I  would  ask  only  sen- 


24 


^JS 


Claude  Binyon  (left),  noted  film  writer  who  adapted  Somerset  Maugham's 
"Too    Many    Husbands"    for   the    screen,    and    star    Melvyn    Douglas 


sible  questions.  So  I  asked  them,  and  he  told 
me  that  he  was  born  in  Macon,  Georgia,  and 
lived  there  until  he  was  three,  and  in  Nashville 
until  he  was  ten,  and  in  Toronto  until  he  was 
fifteen,  and  in  Nebraska  until  he  ran  away  to 
join  the  army  in  1917.  All  this  time  his  fam- 
ily's financial  condition  was  going  from  medium 
to  poor,  and  his  schooling  suffered  for  the  sake 
of  odd  jobs.  This  surprised  me,  because  he  has 
an  air  of  culture  when  he  feels  like  having  it 
and  he  can  toss  big  words  with  unerring  aim. 

A  thing  happened  in  the  army.  After  much 
honest  effort  Douglas  became  a  noncommis- 
sioned officer  and  he  was  very  proud  of  his 
stripes.  Also,  after  much  honest  effort,  he  ac- 
quired a  girl.  The  fact  that  Douglas  had  taken 
the  girl  away  from  his  superior  officer  made  him 
feel  quite  dashing. 

The  superior  officer  was  a  patient  soul.  He 
waited  until  Douglas  was  in  charge  of  the 
watch,  then  unofficially  granted  him  leave  to 
visit  the  girl.  The  moment  Douglas  was  out  of 
sight  the  superior  officer  reported  him  absent 
without  leave.  Douglas  lost  his  stripes  and  the 
girl  lost  interest. 

He  saw  her  years  later.  He  didn't  think  much 
of  her.  She  didn't  think  much  of  him,  either, 
because  he  was  an  actor  and  she  preferred  men 
with  steady  jobs.  She  told  him  he  was  a  goof 
to  waste  his  business  ability. 

What  happened  to  the  superior  officer  Doug- 


las doesn't  know.  He's  often  wanted  to  meet 
him  again.  I  asked  him  what  he'd  do.  "Just 
look  at  him,"  he  said. 

After  the  war  Douglas  kicked  around  as  a 
gas  meter  reader  and  a  hat  salesman  and  any- 
thing else  that  provided  beans.  Looking  in  the 
mirror  one  day,  he  ignored  his  imperfect  points 
and  decided  what  he'd  known  from  the  start. 
He  was  going  to  be  an  actor. 

He  enrolled  in  a  dramatic  school  under  the 
guidance  of  an  old  gentleman  named  William 
Owen,  and  Douglas  and  a  punk  named  Ralph 
Bellamy  became  teacher's  pets.  This  was  in 
Chicago. 

Douglas  was  working  as  a  hat  salesman  to 
pay  his  tuition.  Surrounded  by  stiff,  new  hats 
looking  silly  without  their  crown  dents  he'd 
dream  up  visions  of  himself  as  a  great  actor 
with  equally  great  actresses  melting  in  his  arms. 
The  melting  process  was  regarded  purely  from 
a  clinical  viewpoint,  as  it  must  be  with  any  truly 
great  actor. 

The  Chicago  hat  salesman  emerged  from  his 
cocoon  at  a  church  social  in  Chicago.  Standing 
alone  on  the  platform  with  soft  organ  music 
transporting  him,  he  recited  the  poem  called 
"Fleurette" — the  case  history  of  a  hospitalized 
victim  of  war  who  finds  in  gentle,  spiritual 
Fleurette  the  inspiration  to  carry  on  with  one 
leg  missing. 

There  were  genuine  tears  on  Douglas'  cheeks 


as  the  organ  music  ceased.  There  were  genuine 
tears  on  the  cheeks  of  his  audience.  Douglas 
stepped  from  the  platform  every  inch  an  actor, 
ate  his  fill  from  a  paper  plate,  collected  ten  dol- 
lars from  the  committeewoman  who  had  hired 
him  and  strode  into  the  crisp  Chicago  night  with 
calm  assurance.  He  was  an  actor  and  he  had  a 
ten  dollar  bill  to  prove  it. 

Chicago  churches  saw  a  lot  of  Douglas  and 
his  tear-stained  cheeks,  and  he  collected  many 
of  their  ten  dollar  bills.  But  landladies  made 
devastating  inroads  into  his  collection,  and  his 
struggles  through  the  ensuing  years  have  been 
experienced  by  nine-tenths  of  the  honest-to- 
(Continued  on  page  96) 


25 


Set  in  a  dreamy  land  of  romance— 
this  ultramodern  story  of  a  handsome 
actor  who  is  torn  between  love  and 
loyalty  for  his  young  bride  and  the 
undeniable  allure  of  his  former  wife 

BY  HAGAR  WILDE 


H  AWAI  IAN 


S 


»0  you  did  it  ...  I  hope  you're  utterly 
liserable  and  lie  awake  nights  .  .  . 
/ishing  you  were  dead!" 

There  hadn't  been  any  signature.  But  Ann, 
casually  fishing  the  little  note  out  of  her  brand- 
new  husband's  polo  shirt  before  sending  it  to 
the  laundry,  knew  that  only  one  woman  could 
have  written  it — Laurel,  David's  first  wife,  con- 
gratulating him  on  his  second  marriage. 

Life  ought  to  be  perfect  when  you  were  Ann 
Adams,  whose  tiptilted  nose,  fiery  hair  and 
comedy  talent  had  brought  her  stardom  in 
Hollywood  .  .  .  when  you  had  just  married  the 
topmost  male  star  in  films,  idolized  by  girls  the 
world  over  (only  no  one  could  idolize  David 
Crawford  more  than  Ann  herself)  .  .  .  when 
you  were  spending  your  honeymoon  in  the 
dreamy  Hawaii  of  song  and  story. 

But  there  was  the  note.  And  Laurel  Crane 
was  on  the  island.  Laurel,  of  whom  Randy  said: 
"Laurel's  just  trouble  wrapped  in  skin."  But  it 
was  beautiful  skin.  Maybe  Laurel  was  vicious, 
but  she  was  undeniably  voluptuous.  Only  Ann 
knew  the  anguish  that  beauty  had  caused  David 
when  Laurel  divorced  him.  Only  Ann  knew  the 
agonies  he  had  gone  through  to  find  a  serenity 
with  which  he  and  Ann  could  face  life  together. 

Now  they  had  to  begin  all  over  again — if  they 
could.  Randy  and  Caroline  had  done  all  they 
could  to  ease  the  tension  of  the  long  wait — 
through  dinner  time  till  after  midnight — before 
David  returned  to  Ann  after  seeing  Laurel  for 
the  first  time  since  his  marriage.  Randy  Grimes, 
the  young  producer,  was  David's  best  friend,  as 
Caroline  Hathaway  was  Ann's  own  loyal  confi- 
dante. But  they  didn't  know  about  the  letter. 
And  they  didn"t  hear  David's  answer,  after  his 
haggard  return,  when  Ann  asked  him: 

"Do  you  lie  awake  nights,  wishing  you  were 
dead?" 

"Yes,"  he  confessed  wretchedly,  at  last.  "I 
have,  ever  since  Laurel  left  me." 

ANN  sat  on  the  edge  of  Caroline's  bed  watching 
her  as  she  rearranged  her  breakfast  tray,  putting 
the  coffee  where  the  toast  had  been  and  putting 
the  toast  where  the  coffee  had  been.  Caroline 
leaned  back  against  the  pillows  and  regarded 
the  tray,  saying,  "I'm  really  not  hungry." 

Ann  said  through  her  teeth,  "Don't  sit  there 
thinking  about  your  stomach  when  I'm  ready 
to  break  down  and  howl  the  house  down.  I'm 
smack  in  the  middle  of  having  my  heart  broken 
and  you  push  things  around  on  breakfast  trays. 
What  shall  I  do,  make  a  scene?  Pack  up  and 
go  back  to  the  mainland?  Or  just  smile  and 
take  it?" 

"I  can't  think  on  an  empty  stomach,"  Caroline 
said  firmly.  She  selected  a  piece  of  toast  and 
munched  it  thoughtfully.  "What  did  you  say  last 
night?  After  he  said  he  still  loved  Laurel,  I 
mean." 

"I  didn't  say  anything.     I  just  sat  there." 

"That  was  clever  of  you,"  Caroline  said.    "It's 


26 


always  best,  when  a  wall  is  falling  on  you,  not 
to  move.    That  makes  it  quicker." 

Ann  got  up  and  wandered  out  onto  the  bal- 
cony. "You  haven't  answered  my  question. 
Shall  I  pack  up  and  go  back  to  the  mainland?" 

"And  have  the  press  hung  around  your  neck 
like  a  window  sash  after  you've  been  thrown 
through  it?  Don't  be  a  fool."  In  answer  to  a 
knock  at  the  door  Caroline  said,  "Come  in." 
Randy  came  in,  looked  at  the  breakfast  tray  and 
shuddered. 

"Eating,"  he  said,  "how  can  you?" 

Caroline  threw  down  a  small  bit 
of  toast  with  a  look  of  vexation. 
"What  do  people  expect  me  to  do, 
live  on  air?  All  I  did  was  to  order 
my  own  simple  little  breakfast  in 
my  own  elaborate  room.  All  I  ask 
is  to  be  allowed  to  eat  it  without 
undue  commotion.  I  didn't  ask 
either  of  you  to  come." 

"I'm  only  one,"  Randy  mourned, 
"except  for  my  head  which  is  four." 

Caroline  said  pettishly,  "That 
wistful  tennis  dress  you  see  hang- 
ing over  the  balcony  has  Ann  in- 
side it." 

"Hello,  Ann,"  Randy  said,  sinking 
into  a  chair. 

"  'Lo,"  said  Ann  from  outside. 

In  a  conversational  tone  Caroline 
informed  Randy  of  developments. 
"David's  in  love  with  Laurel  and 
Ann's  heart  is  breaking.  He  told 
her  last  night." 

Ann  came  back  in  and  stood,  her 
hands  locked  behind  a  stiff  little 
back.  "I  didn't  mean  for  you  to  tell 
everybody  everything  I  told  you." 

"Randy's  not  everybody,"  said 
Caroline,  "even  though  he  thinks 
he  is." 

Ann  said,  "What  am  I  going  to  do, 
Randy?  Could  I  get  appendicitis  or 
something  awful  and  take  the  Clip- 
per out  today?" 

"Where  is  David?"  said  Randy. 

"What  does  it  matter  where  he 
is?  If  he's  in  love  with  somebody 
he's  in  love  with  her  wherever  he 
is." 

Caroline  drank  her  coffee  with  a 
ruminative,  patient  air.  "The  point 
is,  my  sweet,  if  you  and  David  were 
private  individuals  you  could  come 
down  here  and  fall  in  love  with 
somebody  different  every  hour. 
The  public  might  think  you  were  a 
little  addled  but  they  wouldn't  care 
what  you  did  with  your  evenings. 
But  you're  two  of  the  most  public 
people  in  the  world.  David  Craw- 
ford and  Ann  Adams  on  a  honey- 
moon is  world  news.  I  suppose 
you've  given  that  some  thought?" 

"Consider   your    career,"    Randy 


A  voice  said,  "Why  shouldn't 
she  mention  me?  I  think  it's  only 
natural.  May  I  meet  your  wife, 
David?"  For  a  moment  Ann 
thought  she  would  snatch  the 
poi  cocktail  from  the  waiter  and 
throw     it     in     Laurel's     face 


said.  "Smile  for  the  columnist,  dear.  Where  is 
David?" 

Caroline  said,  "Why  don't  you  get  a  new  ques- 
tion?   Maybe  we'd  know  the  answer." 

"You  can't  be  on  a  honeymoon  and  not  know 
where  your  husband  is!"  Randy  yelled. 

"I  can,"  said  Ann. 

"She  came  out  last  night  without  even  a  tooth- 
brush," Caroline  said.  "She's  been  curled  up 
beside  me  all  night  stuffing  the  pillow  in  her 
mouth  so  I  wouldn't  hear  her  cry.  I  must  say  I 
can  think   of  things  more   conducive   to  sleep 


than  Ann  when  she's  in  a  state."  She  sat  up 
and  balanced  the  breakfast  tray  precariously  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed.  "Now  look  here.  Do  you 
love  David?" 

"Oh  you  are  a  fool,"  Ann  said  crossly. 

"Do  you  want  to  get  him  back?" 

"Two,"  said  Randy,  "plus  two  equals  four.  If 
we  get  up  to  a  hundred  with  this  simple  addition 
we'll  have  a  hundred." 

Ann  said  despairingly,  "How  can  I  get  him 
back  when  I've  never  had  him?  You  can't  get 
around  facts." 


ILLUSTRATED      BY 
BRADSHAW      CRANDELl 


"You  can  change  facts,"  Caroline  said  point- 
edly. "If  you  weren't  married  to  David  and 
you  knew  he  was  in  love  with  somebody  what 
would  you  do?" 

"Nothing." 

"No  spirit,"  Caroline  said  disgustedly. 

"Well,  if  a  man  is  in  love,"  Ann  argued,  "I've 
no  right  to  step  in." 

Caroline  moaned,  "Now  she's  being  fair.  You 
can  help  anybody.  A  sick  person,  people  who 
are  broke,  even  lunatics  can  be  helped  .  .  .  but 
when  a  person  starts  being  jair  .  .  ."  She  broke 
off  and  looked  at  Ann.  "I'll  go  back.  I'll  for- 
get all  about  this  attack  of  fairness.  Just  don't 
do  it  again.  If  you  knew  David  had  tuberculosis, 
what  would  you  do?" 

"Go  crazy." 


"That  would  be  a  big  help  to  David,"  Caroline 
said. 

"He  hasn't  tuberculosis.  He's  healthy  as  any- 
thing. I  was  looking  at  him  last  night  and  I 
thought,  'He'll  live  for  years  and  years  and  all 
those    years    he'll    be    living    with    Laurel.' " 

Randy  took  a  piece  of  cold  toast  and  nibbled 
experimentally.  "Not  if  the  last  attempt  was 
any  sample,"  he  said. 

"You'd  try  to  cure  him,"  said  Caroline.  "You'd 
lie  awake  nights  thinking  up  new  climates  and 
new  ways  to  fix  milk  so  he'd  like  it.  Wouldn't 
you?" 

"I  expect  I  would." 

"Well,"  said  Caroline.  "Laurel's  tuberculosis. 
And  believe  me,  bad  tuberculosis." 

"No  worse  than  a  bad  case  of  tuberculosis," 
Randy  said. 

"If  you  mean  I  should  lie  awake  nights  think- 
ing up  new  ways  to  make  my  husband  fall  in 
love  with  me,"  Ann  said,  "I  can't  think  of  any 
more.  I  thought  until  I  was  dizzy  before  I  mar- 
ried him." 

"But  you  didn't  lie  awake  thinking  up  ways 
to  make  him  fall  out  of  love  with  Laurel,"  said 
Caroline.    "What  does  he  like  most  about  her?" 

"Her,"  Ann  said  simply. 

"Oh  God,"  said  Caroline,  "with  that  brain  how 
does  anybody  direct  you?  What  does  he  hate 
most  in  a  woman?" 

"Hair  on  her  upper  lip  and  stealing  his 
scenes,"  Ann  said  promptly. 

Randy  said,  "Then  that's  settled.  We'll  grow 
some  hair  on  Laurel's  upper  lip."  He  got  up  and 
wandered  unsteadily  toward  the  balcony  look- 
ing for  a  place  to  lean.  He  found  it  and,  closing 
his  eyes,  tried  to  recapture  fragments  of  the 
night  before.  He'd  met  the  pineapple  man  again 
after  he  had  left  Caroline,  but  what  had  hap- 
pened? What  was  the  man's  name?  Cooper? 
Cowper?  Vosper?  No,  it  began  with  an  M. 
Muggins.  Masters.  Michaelmas.  That  was 
Christmas.  Malvern.  Mustang.  That  was  a 
horse.    Maverick.    Calf.    Mac.    Mac  something. 

CAROLINE  was  getting  into  her  Beatrice  Fair- 
fax role  with  a  vim.  "Now,"  she  said,  "if  David's 
love  for  Laurel  were  absolutely  invincible  he 
wouldn't  have  been  able  to  marry  again.  There- 
fore we  are  able  to  assume  that  to  some  extent 
his  feelings  are  divided.  You've  come  between, 
Ann,  and  no  matter  how  small  the  wedge,  it's 
still  a  wedge.  Once  there's  a  space  between  two 
people  it  can  always  be  made  bigger.  It's  half 
the  battle." 

Ann  said  disconsolately,  "If  you're  going  to 
hand  me  that  old  saw  of  making  him  see  a  lot  of 
her,  don't  bother.  I  should  invite  her  for  lunch- 
eon, breakfast,  tea  and  dinner.  I  should  let  her 
use  my  powder  and  cold  cream.  I  should  push 
her  down  his  throat  at  every  opportunity. 
Thanks  for  the  advice,  but  I  don't  want  it." 

"Don't  shove  me  back  into  the  Victorian  era," 
Caroline  snapped.  "I  don't  like  it.  What  I  in- 
tended saying  was  this:  There's  always  a  crucial 
point  in  a  man's  love  for  a  woman.  If,  at  that 
point,  the  woman  does  the  right  thing,  the  man 
goes  on  loving  her.  If  it's  the  wrong  thing  he 
stops  loving  her  without  knowing  it  and  from 
that  point  on  everything  is  downhill.  For  in- 
stance, I  stopped  loving  my  first  husband  when 
he  had  pneumonia." 

"What  do  I  care  when  you  stopped  loving  your 
first  husband?" 

"It's  just  an  example,"  said  Caroline.  "It  was 
really  after,  when  he  began  whisking  around 
closing  windows  and  complaining  to  waiters 
about  the  fan  being  in  the  wrong  place.  For  a 
year  I  couldn't  figure  out  what  was  wrong  with 
me  and  then  I  knew,  suddenly.  I  was  living 
with  another  Lazarus.  Other  people  had  lived 
through  pneumonia  and  forgotten  it,  but  not 
Lester.  He  clung  to  that  pneumonia  and  lost 
me.  But  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  didn't  con- 
sider that  a  bargain." 

"We're  not  getting  anywhere."  Ann  said. 

(Continued  on  page  89) 


27 


It  was  radio's  loss,  when  Bill  Lundigan 
of  "The  Sea  Hawk"  took  a  screen  test 


A  girl  who  has  used  her  head  is  Mary 
Howard    of   "Abe    Lincoln    in    Illinois" 


In  real  life  Alan  Marshal  of  "Irene"  won 
his    girl;    but    in    the    movies  —  never 


ROUND-UP  OF 

Here  is  our  "Meet  the  People"  department — designed  to  tell 
you  the  inside  story  of  eight  movie  folk  who  are  on  their  way — up! 

BY  SARA  HAMILTON 


The  story  of  Donald 
Crisp  of  "The  Sea 
Hawk"  is  also  the  story 
of  Hollywood  from  its 
earliest  flicker  days 


Albert  Dekker,  the  fearfu 
"Dr.  Cyclops,"  has  reason 
to  gloat  over  the  ever- 
so-  slight  slant  to  his 
eyes    and     pliable    face 


Meet  the  People 

TRULY  there  are  goldmines  in  the  sky  of 
Hollywood.  Unexpected  veins  of  pure 
metal  that  run  through  the  vast  mountains 
of  hope  and  despair.  Often  we  unearth  it  in  the 
least  expected  places;  in  the  mind  of  an  eager 
newcomer,  for  instance,  or  deep  in  the  heart  of 
a  veteran  whom  we've  never  troubled  to  know. 
And  so,  this  month,  we  go  on  our  gold-digging 
way,  bringing  you  both  the  young  and  the  ex- 
perienced of  Hollywood,  telling  you  a  little  of 
their  lives,  hopes,  ideas  and  ambitions.  Like 
our  new  hit  show  out  here,  we  ask  you  out 
there  to  "Meet  the  People." 


Of  Human  Bondi 

Acid  in  her  voice,  love  in  her  heart — how  does 
she  do  it,  this  Beulah  Bondi  of  Republic's  "The 
Dark  Command"  and  United  Artists'  "Our 
Town"?  She  has  neither  experienced  over- 
whelming sorrow  (except  in  average,  human 
measure),  and  few  people  have  seen  her  with- 
out the  warm  smile  on  her  lips  that  springs 
from  a  very  warm  heart  and  a  life  of  complete 
fulfillment.  Yet,  with  one  quick,  easy  gesture 
she  can  step  before  a  camera  and  into  her  eyes 
will  come  brooding  rebellion;  into  her  voice,  the 
acid  quality;  into  her  figure,  hopeless  despair. 

"My  face,  my  body,  this  visible  me,  is  a  mal- 
leable instrument  through  which  I  work,"  Beu- 
lah explained.  "I  get  a  character  down  deep  in- 
side and  just  naturally  let  it  come  out."  Her 
handsome  brown  eyes  smiled,  "I'm  even  wear- 
ing a   cotton  undershirt  for  my   role   in   'Our 


28 


A  smiler  off-screen;  a  character  actress 
on.    is    Beulah    Bondi    of    "Our   Town" 


A  forerunner  of  tomorrow  is  Lynn  Bar 
of  "The  Life  and  Loves  of  Lillian  Russell' 


Irina   Baronova   of  "Florian"   is  on   her 
nimble  toes  when  it  comes  to  her  career 


(sCWl 


itia/L  AnceA^ 


Town.'  I'd  wear  panties  with  ruffles  if  it  helped." 

There's  an  infectious  good  feeling  about 
Bondi.  She's  caught,  somehow,  somewhere,  the 
secret  of  living  a  life  of  awareness,  the  way  it 
should  be  lived,  and  like  lost  sheep,  people,  all 
sorts  of  people,  flock  to  her. 

Interviewing  Beulah  is  like  trying  to  find  out 
from  the  Grand  Central  Station  Information 
desk,  when  the  next  train  leaves  for  Hoboken. 
Interruptions  are  the  order  of  the  day.  Guy 
Kibbee,  for  instance,  popped  into  the  dressing 
room  to  talk  about  food — it  seems  Guy  and 
Beulah  share  a  love  of  good  food.  And  then 
Tommy  Mitchell  popped  in  to  tell  us  that  in  his 
estimation  Beulah  is  the  honestest,  most  down- 
to-truth  actress  he  knows.  "Why,  Tommy 
Mitchell,"  Beulah  beamed,  "that's  the  nicest 
compliment  I  ever  had." 

Bill  Holden,  eating  an  enormous  hot  dog  (the 
hot-dog  wagon  comes  right  onto  the  set), 
trouped  in  to  smile  approval  at  Beulah.  Dur- 
ing shots  her  stand-in  told  us  of  Miss  Bondi's 
unselfishness  and  constant  kindness  and  tact. 
"I  never  felt  like  such  a  chump  in  my  life,"  she 
laughed,  "as  the  day  I  magnanimously  offered  to 
do  for  her  any  riding  Miss  Bondi  might  have  to 
do  in  pictures.  She  smiled  sweetly  and  thanked 
me.  A  little  later  I  discovered  she's  an  expert 
horsewoman  who  rides  every  day." 

She's  the  first  in  her  family  to  become  an 
actress.  Her  mother  had  always  wanted  to  be 
an  actress  and  Beulah  feels  the  ambition  and 
training  were  passed  on  to  her.  For  instance, 
she  and  her  mother  would  go  for  a  ride  in  the 
country.  "How  many  sounds  do  you  hear?" 
her  mother  would  ask. 

"A  cowbell,  a  rooster  crowing,  the  buzz  of  a 
bee,"  Beulah  would  answer.  "No,  there  are 
more  sounds,"  her  mother  would  point  out. 
"In  the  grass,  a  cricket;  a  bird  over  on  that  tree." 
In  this  way  Beulah's  senses  were  developed. 
She  became  aware. 

Chicago  gave  her  birth.  Her  father  was  a 
real  estate  broker  there  and  after  she'd  finished 
Hyde  Park  High  School,  he  sent  Beulah  to  the 


Frances  Shimer  Academy  and  later  to  the  Holy 
Name  of  Jesus  and  Mary  Convent  in  Montreal. 
She  finished  her  education  at  Valparaiso  Uni- 
versity, and  then  began  her  stage  training  at 
Maurice  Brown's  Little  Theater  in  Chicago. 
Stuart  Walker's  stock  company,  in  Minneapolis, 
and  Elitch's  Gardens  in  Denver  were  stopping 
places  before  Broadway — and  "Saturday's  Chil- 
dren," "Street  Scene,"  "Christopher  Bean,"  and 
other  hits. 

"Words  spoken  in  sincerity  reap  a  harvest," 
she  feels.  "If  I  could  just  play  with  such  stars 
as  Grant  Mitchell  and  Louise  Closser  Hale,"  she 
used  to  say  as  a  novice.  Her  first  New  York 
show  was  with  Louise  Closser  Hale  and  Grant 
Mitchell  in  "One  of  the  Family." 

She  came  to  Hollywood  for  "Street  Scene" 
and  stayed  on  to  play  in  one  great  picture  after 
another.  Among  them  is  that  gem,  "Make  Way 
for  Tomorrow." 

She  has  never  married.  Her  mother,  past 
seventy,  "smart  as  a  steel  trap,"  lives  with  her 
in  their  San  Fernando  Valley  home,  but  Beulah 
spends  most  of  her  free  days  on  a  Victorville 
ranch,  riding  and  enjoying  her  friends  who  con- 
gregate in  droves  wherever  she  happens  to  be; 
writers,  thinkers,  do-ers. 

She  has  wit,  gaiety,  and  ease  of  manner. 
"Each  of  us,"  she  says,  "creates  his  own  little 
world  of  war  or  peace."  Beulah's  is  a  world  of 
peace.  A  world  that  reaches  out  and  gathers 
all  who  will  come  within  its  shining  orbit. 


The  Boy  From  Syracuse 

Movie  actor,  tell  me  why 
You've  grown  almost  to  the  sky? 
Do  you  want  to  be  a  star 
Even  long  before  you  are? 

By:  ME 

Bill  Lundigan  is  practically  a  mile  high.  Well, 
not  a  mile,  maybe,  but  pretty  nearly.  The  nice 
part  of  it,  though,  is  that  he's  taken  his  boyish- 


ness up  there  with  him,  but  occasionally  it 
seems  an  awful  lot  of  good-looking  boy  to  have 
around. 

"I've  been  like  this,  six-feet-two-inches,  since 
I  was  a  kid,"  he  says,  so  of  course  he  must  be 
used  to  it,  and  in  all  probability  just  hasn't 
learned  how  (he's  only  twenty-six)  to  co-ordi- 
nate all  of  him  harmoniously. 

He  was  born  in  Syracuse,  New  York,  of 
Michael  F.  and  Martha  Elizabeth  O'Brien  Lun- 
digan. One  of  his  father's  shoe  stores  was  in  the 
building  that  housed  the  Syracuse  Radio  System, 
and  after  school  and  on  Saturdays,  when  Bill 
was  supposed  to  be  helping  his  dad,  he  was,  in- 
stead, exploring  the  wonders  of  radio.  He  ex- 
plored himself  right  onto  the  air,  too,  with  bits 
in  plays  and  sketches.  He  even  left  the  pre- 
law department  of  Syracuse  University,  to  ac- 
cept a  radio  announcing  job,  and  thereby  he  be- 
came radio's  youngest  announcer.  Four  years 
later  he  met  a  movie  scout  who  suggested  a 
test  for  Universal.  The  test  clicked,  Bill  said 
good-by  to  radio  and  came  to  Hollywood,  pos- 
sessed of  a  contract  with  Universal  and  a  feel- 
ing he'd  wake  up  any  minute  and  find  it  all  a 
dream.  Instead  he  went  right  on  dreaming 
through  the  reality  of  "Three  Smart  Girls  Grow 
Up"  and  twenty-eleven  other  movies.  The  day 
his  contract  was  up  on  that  lot,  he  signed  with 
Warners,  made  "Dodge  City,"  "The  Old  Maid," 
"Three  Cheers  for  the  Irish,"  "The  Fighting 
69th,"  and  is  now  sporting  a  beard  to  end  all 
beards  for  his  role  in  "The  Sea  Hawk." 
"Everyone  thinks  I'm  with  an  Orson  Welles 
unit,"  Bill  says,  fumbling  at  the  beard. 

When  things  began  looking  secure,  he  moved 
his  father  (retired),  mother  (amazed),  and  three 
brothers  (younger),  to  Hollywood.  Peaceably 
they  all  live  together,  although  experience  has 
taught  Bill  to  expect  no  praise  or  awe  from  his 
family.  The  morning  after  sixteen-year-old 
Brother  Bob  took  his  girl  to  see  "Dodge  City."' 
Bill  waited  around  for  a  word  of  praise.  Pres- 
ently Bob  looked  up  from  his  breakfast  cereal 
(Continued  on  page  92) 


29 


?<v°   no*0 


I  MARRIED 


(h^^ 


BY  OSA  JOHNSON 


For  thrills  and  excitement,  there's 
nothing  like  spending  your  honey  moon 
on  a  cannibal  island  in  the  Pacific 


The  Johnsons'  first  trip  to  the  island  stronghold  of  Cannibal 
Chief  Nagapate  almost  ended  in  death,  but  on  their  second 
visit  under  proper  escort  the  chief  posed  with  Martin  for 
the  picture  at  the  top  of  the  page.  Above,  Osa — star  and 
author  of  Columbia's  forthcoming  film  "I  Married  Adven- 
ture"— and  a  small,  serious-minded  native  of  the  Island  of  Vao 


The  author's  daring  ventures  in  unex- 
plored corners  of  the  world  have  always 
been  front  page  news,  so  the  announce- 
ment that  she  is  recording  her  fascinat- 
ing experiences  in  a  movie  soon  to  be 
released  is  of  special  interest.  For  this 
reason  Photoplay  is  happy  to  publish 
this  excerpt  from  the  autobiography 
which  has  been  chosen  by  the  Book  of 
the  Month  Club  as  its  June  presenta- 
tion—  "I  Married  Adventure,"  by  Osa 
Johnson.  Copyright  1940.  Used  by  per- 
mission of  J.  B.  Lippincott  Company, 
Philadelphia,  Publishers. 


WE  had  just  boarded  the  freighter  So- 
noma in  San  Francisco  harbor,  and  I 
was  practically  beside  myself. 
Martin  grinned.    "Happy?" 
"Oh,  yes!"    That's  all  I  could  say. 
I  had  looked  forward  to  getting  on  the  boat 
and  heading  for  the  South  Seas  as  the  fulfillment 
of  long-deferred  hopes  for  Martin;  that  it  would 
hold  all  this  excitement  for  me  was  astonishing. 
In  the  light  of  subsequent  expeditions,  our 
equipment  was  meager  to  the  point  of  not  be- 
ing equipment  at  all.     It  consisted  of  one  hand 


crank  motion-picture  camera,  two  still  cameras 
with  film  packs,  Jack  London's  original  30-30 
Marlin  rifle,  two  automatic  revolvers,  and  of  an 
importance  and  inadequacy  which  I  look  back 
on  today  with  amazement,  only  six  thousand 
feet  of  motion  picture  film.  What  with  the  dif- 
ficulties and  waste  of  outdoor  photography,  this, 
cut  and  edited,  probably  would  net  little  more 
than  footage  enough  for  one  short  subject,  but 
it  was  all  we  could  afford. 

I  glanced  at  Martin.  He  was  lazily  relaxed 
against  the  railing. 

"Well,  aren't  you  excited?"  I  demanded. 

"Fit  to  pop,"  he  said. 

"You  don't  look  it,"  I  said  accusingly. 

"Wait  till  you've  embarked  as  often  as  I 
have,"  he  grinned.  "You're  always  excited,  but 
you  don't  exactly  break  out  in  a  rash.  That 
only  happens  the  first  time." 

Actually,  for  the  first  time  since  we  were  mar- 
ried, I  think,  I  realized  that  my  husband  was  a 
much-traveled  man.    I'd  never  be  able  to  catch 


up  with  him,  of  that  I  was  sure,  but  at  least  I 
could  get  over  being  a  small-town  Kansas  girl. 
I  determined  to  grow  as  fast  as  possible. 

Captain  Trask  was  a  big  man  with  a  seamed, 
weathered  face,  a  fine  big  nose  and  an  air  of 
awe-inspiring  authority.  I  admired  him  very 
much  and  was  prouder  than  ever  of  my  husband 
when  I  saw  how  much  the  captain  liked  him. 
They  talked  a  lot,  of  places  and  people  I  knew 
nothing  about,  so  I  decided  the  best  thing  for 
me  would  be  to  listen  and  learn — and  all  the 
more  so  because  it  was  apparent  that  the  cap- 
tain had  put  me  down  as  little,  soft  and  gen- 
erally useless.  He  had  known  Jack  and  Char- 
mian  London,  and  very  pointedly  every  now 
and  then — squinting  at  me  under  his  heavy 
brows — he  spoke  of  Charmian. 

"There's  a  woman  for  you,"  he'd  say.  "She 
had  the  soft  ways  of  a  kitten  and  the  heart  of  a 
lioness,  and  her  beat  never  lived  and  never 
will." 

All  the  way  across  (Continued  on  page  81) 


30 


A&*ew 


AS  ITS  MAY  MOVIE  BOOK, 
THE  FAMOUS  AND  ENTHRALLING  BEST  SELLER, 


CONDENSED  FOR  BUSY  READERS 


If 


r 


It  was  a  heartbreaking  moment  for 
William  Essex  (Brian  Aherne)  when 
he  discovered  that  his  son  Oliver 
(Louis  Hayward)  was  in  love  with 
Livia  Vaynol  (Madeleine  Carroll) 


By  HOWARD  SPRING 


From  the  soul  of  William  Essex  came 
this  love  for  a  son  who  should  have 
everything  the  father  had  been  de- 
nied— except  beautiful  Li  via  whom 
both  loved,  the  son  with  all  the 
eagerness  of  youth,  the  father  with 
the    desperation    of   middle    age 


I  LIKED  fetching  the  washing  from  the  Moscrops', 
and  my  mother  liked  washing  for  Mrs.  Moscrop 
better  than  for  anybody  else.  That  was  because 
Mrs.  Moscrop  always  wrapped  a  bar  of  yellow 
soap  in  with  the  washing.  There  wasn't  anyone 
else  who  thought  of  a  thing  like  that. 

The  Moscrops'  shop  stood  on  a  corner.  When  I 
pushed  open  the  door,  there  was  the  familiar,  warm, 
foody  smell  all  about  me.  Mrs.  Moscrop,  squat  and 
rounded,  came  in  from  the  parlor  behind  the  shop. 
"Oh,  the  washing!"  she  said.  "It's  not  quite  ready. 
Just  go  and  talk  to  Mr.  Moscrop  in  the  bakehouse." 
Mr.  Moscrop  cast  an  eye  at  me  now  and  then,  but 
he  did  not  speak  till  all  the  loaves  were  on  the 
tables.  Then  he  pulled  towards  him  a  long  jam  roll, 
took  up  a  knife,  struck  off  an  inch  or  two,  and 
pushed  it  towards  me.  In  a  voice  as  hoarse  as  though 
his  throat  were  choked  with  flour,  he  said:  "  'Ave  a 
pennorth." 

But  now  my  heart  gave  a  thump.  Two  boys  were 
standing  outside  the  window.  I  knew  they  would 
still  be  there  when  I  came  out.  They  were.  I  was 
burdened  with  that  monstrous  bundle,  the  week's 
washing  of  the  Moscrop  family.  The  boys  tore  open 
the  bundle,  scattered  its  contents  in  the  muddy  lane, 
and  ended  by  pushing  me  down  into  the  sorry  mess, 
snatching  my  cap  from  my  head,  and  making  off 
yelling  the  call  with  which  they  always  assailed  me: 
"Does  your  mother  take  in  washing?" 

Young  as  I  was,  I  hated  all  the  circumstances  of 
my  life.  I  hated  the  carrying  of  bundles  of  washing. 
I  hated  the  turning  of  the  mangle,  and  most  of  all 
I  hated  the  close  compression  of  a  life  that  threw 
us  all  upon  one  another  by  day  and  night,  and  made 
us  bite  and  snarl,  and  gave  no  one  the  chance  to  be 
alone.  So  that  when  I  saw  the  fine  rich  houses 
of  the  Palatine  Road,  I  burned  to  be  as  rich  as  the 
people  who  lived  in  them. 

IT  was  because  our  foul  range  of  dungeons  mis- 
called a  street  was  also  called  Shelley  Street  that  a 
turn  came  to  my  career.  In  the  pleasant  rural  part 
to  which  I  had  gone  one  day  in  my  quest  for  herbs, 
I  lay  in  the  churchyard  with  my  filled  basket  at  my 
side,  and  with  nothing  to  do  but  let  the  tranquillity 
of  the  day  drift  by  till  it  was  time  to  set  out  for  home. 
The  old  man  who  came  into  my  life  at  the  moment 
was  named  Oliver — the  Reverend  Eustace  Oliver. 

I  don't  remember  much  of  what  we  talked  about 
that  afternoon,  except  that  he  asked  me  my  name 
and  I  said  William  Essex;  and  he  asked  me:  "How 
old  are  you,  William?"  and  I  said  twelve;  and  he 
asked  me  where  I  lived  and  I  said  Shelley  Street. 
Then  he  smiled  again,  and  showed  me  the  book  he 
was  carrying,  and  said:  "I  often  wander  down  Shel- 
ley Street  myself." 

I  didn't  know  what  he  was  talking  about,  and 
said:  "I've  never  seen  you  there,  sir,"  and  he  re- 
plied patiently:  "No,  no.  I  mean  I  read  Shelley. 
This  book,  you  see — these  are  Shelley's  poems." 

That  meeting  began  an  easy  relationship  between 
us  which  ended  by  his  offering  me  employment.  The 
wages  were  something  ridiculous,  but  I  was  to  have 
my  keep,  and  Mr.  Oliver  said  he  would  teach  me  to 
read  and  write.  I  didn't  realize  it  at  the  time,  but 
what  had  happened  to  me  was  a  chance  in  a  mil- 
lion: I  had  acquired,  and  kept  for  three  years,  a 
private  tutor  of  exceptional  intelligence  and  skill 
at  his  job. 

We  were  occupied  with  this  business  of  my  edu- 
cation up  to  nine  o'clock  one  May  evening.  It  had 
been  a  beautiful  day,  and  suddenly  Mr.  Oliver  thrust 
away  the  work  as  though  he  were  impatient  with  it. 
"That'll  do  for  tonight,  William,"  he  said,  and  walked 
to  the  window  to  look  out  over  the  water-meadows 
towards  the  last  flush  of  sunset  that  lingered  in  the 
sky.  Then,  as  was  his  custom,  he  expressed  his 
deepest  emotion  in  a  catchword.    "The  golden  eve- 


SON,  MY  SON! 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


ning  brightens  in  the  west,"  he  murmured.  "Good 
night,  William." 

"Good  night,  sir,"  I  said. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Oliver  was  found  dead  in 
his  bed. 

Mr.  Oliver  died  on  a  Wednesday.  His  old  friend, 
Mr.  Summerway,  a  cotton  merchant,  offered  me  em- 
ployment and  told  me  to  report  to  his  office  in  Mos- 
ley  Street  on  the  following  Monday. 

"Report  to  Mr.  O'Riorden,"  Summerway  had  said 
to  me,  and  when  I  came  in  that  morning  out  of  the 
clear  air  of  May  I  found  Mr.  O'Riorden  before  me. 
He  looked  at  me  from  over  the  top  of  steel-rimmed 
spectacles,  and  said:  "So  you're  Essex?  Young  and 
blooming.  The  good  God  help  ye."  He  shook  his 
head  as  though  the  sight  of  me  filled  him  with  in- 
tolerable sadness. 

I  spent  a  futile  and  unhappy  morning.  There  was 
no  place  for  me,  there  was  no  need  for  me,  in  the 
office.  I  was  to  receive  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and 
I  saw  no  means  of  earning  it. 

At  one  o'clock  O'Riorden  said:  "William,  haven't 
you  brought  any  lunch?" 

"No,  Mr.  O'Riorden,"  I  said. 

"Then  you'd  better  come  with  me." 

I  thanked  him  for  bringing  me  out,  and  finding 
him  in  a  friendly  mood  I  suddenly  blurted  out  the 
truth  about  my  loneliness,  of  the  life  I  had  led  for 
the  last  three  years  which  had  made  the  prospect 
of  returning  to  live  with  my  family  in  our  dingy 
house  so  unpleasant  that  I  had  resolved  not  to  go 
home  again. 

"  'Tis  a  hell  of  a  thing,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
compassionately,  "when  ye're  not  aisy  with  yer  own 
flesh  and  blood.  What  would  ye  say  now  to  coming 
home  with  me?  There's  only  me  an'  the  missus  and 
Dermot.  You'll  have  to  share  a  room  with  Dermot. 
He's  seventeen." 

I  lived  with  the  O'Riordens  for  five  years,  and 
very  happy  years  they  were.  I  have  the  clearest 
recollection  of  the  great  kindliness  with  which  I 
was  received,  of  the  simple  frank  acceptance  of  the 
fact  that  here  was  a  boy  whom  Father  had  brought 
home  because  he  wanted  somewhere  to  live,  and 
somewhere  to  live  he  should  have. 

Dermot  was  rather  a  pale-faced  redhead,   quite 


unlike  either  of  his  parents.  His  eyes  were  pale, 
and  he  had  long  gawky  wrists  covered  with  fine 
gold  hair.  He  accepted  me  with  the  friendliness  his 
mother  had  shown.  He  was  working  for  a  cabinet- 
maker, and  as  we  shook  hands  I  saw  that  there  was 
a  fine  powdering  of  sawdust  in  his  eyebrows  and 
in  the  hair  on  his  wrists. 

That  first  night  we  ate  Lancashire  hot-pot,  and 
then  we  ate  apple  dumplings  and  then  we  all  had 
a  cup  of  hot  strong  tea.  It  was  a  satisfactory  eve- 
ning meal  as  Lancashire  understood  it. 

Afterwards  Dermot  made  a  sign  with  his  head. 
"Come  and  have  a  look  at  this,"  he  said. 

We  walked  into  the  small  shed  which  leaned 
against  the  end  wall  of  the  garden.  "This  is  my 
place,"  Dermot  said.     "What  d  you  think  of  it?" 

He  ran  his  hand  lovingly  over  a  piece  of  work' 
that  stood  on  the  bench,  up  and  down  the  planks 
that  leaned  against  the  wall.  "Oak.  Ash.  Walnut. 
Teak."  His  voice  sounded  as  Mr.  Oliver's  had  done 
when  he  was  reading  a  poem. 

I  had  evidence  that  first  night  of  another  passion 
in  Dermot's  life.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  O'Riorden  had  gone 
to  bed  when  we  came  in  from  the  workshop.  Der- 
mot took  a  candle  and  preceded  me  up  the  stairs  to 
our  room.  The  light  of  the  candle  fell  upon  a  carved 
frame  that  hung  on  the  wall.  The  frame  was  round 
a  piece  of  parchment  on  which  three  names  were 
inscribed  in  red  ornamental  lettering.  I  read  them 
aloud:   Allen,  Larkin,  O'Brien. 

"Ever  heard  of  them?"  Dermot  asked.  I  turned  at 
the  strange  harshness  of  his  voice  and  saw  his  eyes 
glinting  green  in  the  candlelight. 

"No,"  I  said. 

"You'll  hear  about  them  some  day.  They  were 
the  Manchester  Martyrs." 

I  WAS  seventeen  years  old  when  I  sat  down  on  a 
winter  night  in  the  cold  bedroom  and,  using  the 
freezing  marble  slab  of  the  washstand  for  a  writing 
table,  embarked  upon  a  novel  whose  rich  perspec- 
tives faded  away  into  the  distances  of  my  mind 
clothed  in  all  the  circumstances  of  a  Copperfield  or 
Newcome. 

That  evening  was  notable  because  it  was  the  be- 
ginning of  long,  gruelling  work,  and  it  was  notable 


too,  because  I  found  that  all  the  bright  ideas  that 
filled  my  head  were  specters  which  retreated  as  I 
advanced  upon  them.  They  wouldn't  be  pinned 
down.    It  was  a  barren  and  humiliating  evening. 

And  then  Dermot  came  in,  bringing  Sheila  Nolan 
with  him.  Dermot  was  nineteen  then,  and  very  tall, 
every  hair  of  him  red  as  a  fox,  but  white  in  the  face. 
Sheila  Nolan  was  a  dark  slip  of  a  thing:  Dark  wav- 
ing hair  framed  her  olive  face  that  had  a  moist  red 
mouth  and  eyes  as  black  as  blackberries  and  as 
glistening.  She  was  a  grand  girl.  They  were  mar- 
ried the  next  year. 

▼»  HEN  Dermot  was  gone  I  began  to  feel  miser- 
able in  Ancoats.  I  had  an  objective,  but  my  scribbled 
exercise  books  were  not  satisfying  things  like  Der- 
mot's  chairs  and  tables  and  sideboards.  And  I 
wanted  money.  I  did  not  think  my  writing  would 
ever  bring  me  much.    But  money  I  must  have. 

There  was  a  horse-omnibus  at  that  time  running 
between  Manchester  and  Didsbury.  I  often  traveled 
by  it  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  as  far  as  the  Old  Cock 
inn,  drank  a  glass  of  beer,  and  walked  back  along 
the  Palatine  Road  into  Manchester. 

On  one  of  those  walks  I  found  myself  standing  in 
what  had  once  seemed  so  golden  an  oasis:  The  patch 
of  yellow  light  in  front  of  Moscrop's  shop.  It  had 
always  been  a  friendly  place  to  me,  and,  impelled 
by  a  craving  for  company,  I  pushed  the  door.  The 
woll- remembered  bell  gave  its  unmusical  "tang"; 
the  warm  familiar  odor  of  new  bread  and  spiced 
cakt  came  to  my  nostrils.  But  the  dear  little  squat 
figure  of  Mrs.  Moscrop  was  not  behind  the  counter. 
Instead,  there  was  a  girl  whom  I  did  not  recognize, 
a  plain  and  dowdy  creature,  who  did  not  look  any 
the  more  handsome  now  because  she  was  trembling 
with  fright. 

The  cause  of  her  fright  did  not  recognize  me,  but 
I  knew  him  at  once  for  one  of  my  tormentors  in 
days  of  old,  one  of  the  boys  who  had  pursued  me 
and  trampled  upon  the  washing.  The  whole  scene 
rushed  back  upon  me;  my  agony  of  humiliation,  my 
mother's  face  when  she  looked  upon  the  filthy  mess 
that  I  had  brought  home.  I  could  hardly  see  the 
man  before  me,  because  of  the  tides  of  hate  that 
surged  suddenly  into  my  head  and  clouded  my  eyes. 

Of  all  this  the  young  man  was  unaware.  In  a 
loud  voice  he  was  addressing  the  girl  who  shivered 
behind  the  counter:  "And  you  can  tell  Mr.  Moscrop 
that  in  future  'e  can  drive  'is  own  'orse — see?  If 
you  can  call  the  spavined,  wind-broken,  galled 
creature  an  'orse — see?" 

The  words  fell  like  blows  upon  the  girl.  She 
clapped  her  hands  over  her  ears  and  was  near  to 
sobbing. 

"Dainty,  ain't  yer?"  the  man  went  on.  "Yes, 
dainty  an'  religious,  too.  I  know.  Yer  don't  like 
my  language,  do  yer?  An'  I  don't  like  this  job.  I 
won't  be  'ere  on  Monday.  Wot  about  a  nice  bit  o' 
cake  for  a  partin'  gift?" 

He  strode  towards  the  counter  and  made  a  grab 
at  a  fine  Dundee  cake.  The  girl  grabbed  at  the 
same  time,  and  the  cake  was  crumbling  beneath 
their  pulling  hands.  Then  the  man  lifted  a  hand 
to  strike,  but  at  that  moment  all  the  emotions  that 
were  tormenting  me  came  to  a  head  in  a  red  fury. 
I  had  never  struck  a  man  in  anger  before,  and 
instinct  rather  than  science  went  into  the  blow.  I 
caught  him  under  the  chin  with  all  the  weight  of 
my  body  behind  my  fist.  He  went  down  with  a 
grunt,  and  didn't  move.  There  was  an  empty  flour 
sack  lying  in  a  corner  of  the  shop.  I  pulled  it  over 
his  head,  stuffed  the  cake  in  after  him,  and  without 
a  word  to  the  girl  hauled  him  out  onto  the  pavement. 

WHEN  I  got  back  to  the  shop,  old  Moscrop  was 
sitting  in  an  armchair  in  the  middle  of  it.  The  girl 
was  still  behind  the  counter,  reading  now.  I  could 
see  at  a  glance  that  the  book  she  held  was  the  Bible. 
Old  Moscrop  had  changed.  He  had  always  been  a 
stout  man.    Now  he  was  immense. 

He  didn't  stir  when  I  came  into  the  shop.  Only 
the  lids  of  his  eyes  went  up,  and  he  said  in  a  voice 
that  seemed  to  come  whistling  and  wheezing  out  of 
a  complicated  series  of  tubes:  "Well!  William,  isn't 
it?    William  Essex?" 

Even  so  few  words  seemed  to  exhaust  him.  His 
great  chest  heaved  and  he  gasped  for  breath.  The 
girl  pushed  up  the  hinged  part  of  the  counter  and 
came  and  knelt  beside  him.  I  recognized  her  now. 
She  was  Nellie  Moscrop,  the  ugly  shy  little  girl 
whom  I  used  to  see  sometimes  peeping  from  the 
parlor  into  the  shop,  always  with  a  finger  in  her 
mouth.  As  she  came  out  now  from  behind  the 
counter,  I  saw  that  she  really  had  hardly  changed 
at  all,  except  to  become  bigger  and  ungainlier  and, 
if  possible,  shyer.  But  she  gave  me  a  timid  smile, 
and  said:      "Thank  you  for  helping  me  just  now," 


and  then  to  her  father  she  said:  "I'll  light  one  of 
your  pastilles." 

From  a  box  she  took  a  pastille,  placed  it  on  a 
saucer,  and  put  a  light  to  it.  Heavy  fumes  began 
to  fill  the  room,  and  Moscrop's  large  nostrils  flared 
as  he  breathed  them  in. 

"He's  a  bad  lot,  yon  Ackroyd,"  old  Moscrop  said. 
"He's  been  driving  the  van  for  a  month,  forgetting 
half  the  customers,  and  coming  back  drunk  as  often 
as  not.  If  he  hadn't  cleared  out,  I'd  have  cleared 
him.    And  now  there's  Monday." 

So  we  talked,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  old  fel- 
low was  pleased  to  spread  out  his  little  worries.  His 
wife  had  been  dead  for  two  years.  His  own  health 
was  very  bad.  He  could  no  longer  do  anything  but 
supervise.    He  had  a  man  working  in  the  bakehouse. 

"Then  there's  the  man  to  do  the  round,"  he  said. 
"And  no  one  to  do  it,  anyway,  on  Monday.  And 
what  about  you,  William?  What  have  you  been 
doing  all  these  years?" 

I  told  him  as  much  as  I  wanted  him  to  know.  He 
looked  at  me  shrewdly.  "You  sound  restless.  You 
don't  sound  settled,"  he  said.  "What  about  doing 
the  round  on  Monday?" 

The  question  took  me  so  much  by  surprise  that 
I  broke  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  The  idea  of  driving 
a  baker's  van  as  the  next  step  in  the  career  of  a 
man  who  intended  to  be  very  rich  seemed  gloriously 
comic.  Nellie  look  at  me  reproachfully.  "It  was 
my  idea,"  she  said.  "I  suggested  it  to  Father.  You'd 
live  in,  of  course." 

And  suddenly  I  perceived  that  the  old  man  and 
the  girl  deeply  desired  this  to  happen.  They  were 
lonely  and  helpless.  My  blow  had  introduced  me 
in  the  character  of  a  hero.  Something  in  the  situa- 
tion suggested  to  my  mind  that  it  had  advantages. 
So  I  said:  "Forgive  my  laughter,  Mr.  Moscrop.  It 
was  just  the  idea  of  laying  a  man  out  and  then 
stealing  his  job.  I'd  like  to  come  to  you.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  the  work.  But  I'd  like  to 
come." 

Thus  it  was  that  I  became  deeply  acquainted  with 
the  solid  comfort  of  the  Moscrop  household.  These 
were  the  cosiest  private  quarters  I  had  ever  struck. 
My  hopes  of  writing  soared. 

In  this  happy  and  hopeful  mood,  I  put  my  few 
clothes  away,  arranged  my  books  on  the  top  of  the 
chest  of  drawers,  and  sat  down  for  a  moment  in  the 
wicker  chair  to  give  myself  a  sense  of  proprietor- 
ship. Then  I  put  a  writing  pad  and  a  pen  on  the 
table.  Yes;  it  looked  very  workmanlike.  I  put  out 
the  gas  and  when  I  got  downstairs,  I  found  Moscrop 
was  settling  down  for  the  evening.  "Well?"  he 
asked. 

"You're  being  too  kind  to  me,  Mr.  Moscrop,"  I 
said.  "It's  a  lovely  room,  and  I'm  going  to  be  very 
comfortable  in  it." 

"That's  all  Nellie's  doing.  And  now  I  want  you 
to  do  something  for  her.  Just  go  along  to  chapel 
with  her  this  evening.  I  don't  like  Nellie  coming 
home  from  the  evening  service  alone." 

The  proposal  took  me  aback.  I  had  never  attended 
a  chapel  in  my  life.  Always,  while  I  lived  at  Mr. 
Oliver's,  I  had  attended  service  in  church  twice  on 
a  Sunday.  Since  leaving  him  I  had  gone  nowhere. 
I  was  impelled  to  blurt  out  some  excuse;  but  Nellie, 
standing  there  as  though  in  no  possible  doubt  of  my 
compliance,  weakened  me.  "Right,"  I  said,  "I'll  go 
up  and  get  my  overcoat." 

1  AM  not  going  on  from  this  to  tell  you  that  a 
change  came  over  my  spiritual  life  from  that  night. 
Nothing  of  the  sort.  The  significance  of  that  night 
was  that  it  was  the  first  step  towards  my  marriage 
with  Nellie  Moscrop.  Accompanying  Nellie  became 
a  habit,  and  the  habit  landed  me  into  marriage;  but 
a  good  deal  was  to  happen  before  that. 

To  begin  with,  there  was  the  business  of  learning 
the  bread  round.  A  few  days  told  me  all  I  wanted 
to  know  about  that. 

Driving  up  and  down  the  little  streets,  watching 
the  grey  plumes  of  smoke  rise  so  numberlessly  over 
the  houses,  into  the  clear  cold  blue  one  winter  day,  I 
began  to  feel  the  fascination  of  all  these  lives,  to 
realize  that  here  under  my  hand  and  eye  were  tales 
without  end.  An  impatience  stirred  in  me  to  be 
back  at  Moscrop's,  to  get  to  my  room,  and  to  begin 
some  work  that  would  matter. 

When  supper  was  cleared  away  that  night  Mos- 
crop asked:  "Would  you  like  to  go  with  Nellie  to- 
night?" "I'd  rather  not— not  now.  I  rather  wanted 
to  work  tonight.  You  see,  I'm  trying  to  write  a 
book." 

Then  I  noticed  Nellie's  face.  It  was  lit  up  with 
excitement.  She  was  gazing  at  me  as  though  I  had 
just  been  made  poet  laureate.  "How  marvelous!" 
she  said.  "A  book!"  I  had  never  seen  her  so 
animated.     "I  shall  pray  for  its  success  and  your 


success  as  a  writer,"  she  said,  very  sincerely. 
Old  Moscrop  said:  "But  what  about  the  bakery 
when  I'm  gone?"  And  there  it  was,  the  cat  out  of 
the  bag,  all  that  he  had  been  turning  over  in  his 
heavy  mind  during  the  last  few  days  suddenly  re- 
vealed.   Nellie  flushed  and  went  quickly  away. 

1  HE  farthest  point  of  the  bread  round  touched  the 
comfortable  suburb  of  Withington,  and  on  a  day  in 
the  following  October  as  I  was  driving  down  a  With- 
ington street  I  was  hailed  by  name.  "Hi,  Bill!"  Der- 
mot O'Riorden  was  leaning  from  a  bedroom  window. 
I  pulled  up,  and  soon  Dermot  came  running  down 
the  short  garden  path.  I  fastened  the  horse's  reins 
to  a  ring  in  the  coachhouse  wall,  and  walked  with 
Dermot  to  the  front  door. 

"You're  looking  prosperous."  I  said.  "This  your 
house?" 

"No,"  said  Dermot.  "This  is  a  job  I've  been  doing 
— the  biggest  job  I've  had  yet.  I'm  not  just  a  cab- 
inetmaker any  more.  I  take  over  the  whole  show 
and  make  it  beautiful.  And  I  want  to  find  a  new 
name  for  myself.  How's  this:  Maker  of  beautiful 
furniture  and  decorator  of  interiors?" 

Common  enough  now.  Everyone  is  an  interior 
decorator  today.  But  Dermot  ORiorden  was  the 
first  man  I  heard  use  the  words. 

"Hallo,  there!  Anyone  in?"  a  voice  shouted  from 
the  hall,  and  Sheila  walked  into  the  room,  carrying 
a  basket.  "The  boss's  lunch,"  she  said.  She  shook 
hands  and  invited  me  to  share  the  lunch.  "There's 
enough  for  three." 

But  it  was  already  more  than  time  that  I  was  off. 

"You  must  come  and  see  us,  Bill,"  Sheila  said 
then.    "Tomorrow  night?" 

I  said  I'd  be  there.  Then  I  left,  leaving  Sheila 
unpacking  the  lunch  basket  on  the  lovely  table.  I 
shouted  back  through  the  open  window:  "I  may 
bring  a  friend." 

Now  why  had  I  said  that?  Why  did  the  idea 
come  to  me  to  take  Nellie  Moscrop  to  see  Dermot 
and  Sheila? 

Altogether,  there  was  no  doubt  that  Nellie  was  in 
love  with  me.  I  didn't  feel  even  an  egotistical  pride 
that,  without  effort,  I  had  achieved  this  miracle.  It  was 
hardly  possible  to  conceive  one  human  being  less 
enthusiastic  about  another  than  I  was  about  Nellie. 
And  yet  those  words  I  had  shouted  to  Dermot  put 
the  whole  situation  on  a  different  footing.  Hitherto, 
we  had  gone  nowhere  together  save  at  her  invita- 
tion. Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  was  proposing  to  in- 
vite her.  The  words  had  come  almost  unconsciously 
to  my  lips.  I  remembered  old  Moscrop's  question: 
"But  what  about  the  bakery  when  I'm  gone?"  Was 
that  it?  The  bakery  v/as  not  grandeur,  but  it  was 
a  sort  of  security.  It  was  a  place  where  a  man 
could  be  his  own  boss,  and  get  down  in  comfort  to 
other  things  which  he  might  wish  to  do.  I  was  not 
aghast  at  this  sudden  beam  of  insight  into  my  own 
mind.  I  just  shut  off  the  beam  quickly  and  drove 
home. 


'  HenryH„n 

,Jly  Beckett     & 


33 


<^9U,^gL 


/ 


We  walked  all  the  way  to  Dermot's  house  the 
next  night.  Dermot  and  Sheila  both  came  to  the 
door  full  of  welcome,  and  when  they  had  drawn  us 
into  their  sitting  room,  even  Nellie's  reticence 
dropped  enough  to  permit  the  exclamation  to  be 
drawn  from  her:     "How  beautiful!" 

"Just  advertisement,"  said  Dermot.  "I've  got  to 
stun  my  clients." 

He  produced  a  bottle  of  wine  from  the  dresser. 
"This  to  grace  a  rare  occasion,"  he  announced, 
"the  receipt  by  Dermot  O'Riorden  of  his  first  check. 
My  client  has  paid  up  today,  with  a  handsome  testi- 
monial thrown  in."  He  held  the  bottle  of  burgundy 
towards  Nellie's  glass.    "Miss  Moscrop,  permit  me." 

Nellie,  with  a  little  panic-stricken  gesture,  placed 
her  hand  over  the  glass.  "I'm  a  teetotaler,"  she  said, 
in  a  small  frightened  voice.  Sheila  at  once  filled 
her  glass  from  the  water  jug. 

"You,  Bill?"  Dermot  asked. 

"Yes.    We  must  drink  to  the  check." 

We  drank  to  the  check,  and  Dermot  and  Sheila 
drank  to  me  and  Nellie,  and  we  then  drank  to  them. 
It  was  all  rather  silly  and  childish,  but  happy  and 
friendly,  and  when  the  two  girls  had  put  on  aprons 
and  carried  the  things  to  the  scullery,  Dermot  and 
I  went  back  to  the  sitting  room.  He  took  out  a 
tobacco  pouch  and  began  to  fill  a  pipe.  "My  latest 
vice,"  he  said.    "Haven't  you  taken  to  it?" 

;;no." 

"Oh,  you  must,"  he  said.  "That's  what's  wrong 
with  your  writing.  Come  on  now,  I  insist  on  buy- 
ing you  a  pipe  out  of  my  first  check.  You  buy  me 
something  when  you  get  yours." 

"Good.    That's  a  bargain." 

He  shouted  to  Sheila  that  he'd  be  back  in  a  min- 
ute, and  we  plunged  out  into  the  short  bleak  street 
to  the  tobacconist's  shop  on  the  corner.  Dermot 
bought  me  the  best  brier  pipe  the  shop  had,  together 
with  an  ounce  of  Smith's  Glasgow  Mixture,  and  I 
bought  myself  a  red  rubber  tobacco  pouch.  The 
counter  was  strewn  with  cheap  periodicals.  Dermot 
took  one  up.  It  was  called  Titbits.  "Stick  that  in 
your  pocket  and  study  it  when  you  get  home,"  he 
said.  "That's  how  you'll  make  money  to  begin  with." 

Then  we  wandered  back  through  the  cold  foggy 
dark.  It  was  not  till  we  were  just  outside  the  door 
that  Dermot  said:  "That  girl's  in  love  with  you. 
Did  you  know  that?" 

"Yes." 

"So  long  as  you  know.    She's  a  good  girl." 

Midnight!  When  I  told  Nellie  the  time,  she  nearly 
fainted.  She  had  never  before  been  out  at  mid- 
night. Late  hours  and  sin  were  almost  synonymous 
in  her  mind.    We  left  hastily  for  heme. 

As  I  followed  Nellie  into  the  house  I  sensed  that 
something  was  wrong.  The  pungent  smell  of  old 
Moscrop's  asthma  pastilles  filled  the  place.  I  had 
expected  the  old  man  to  be  in  bed,  but  I  found  him, 
gripping  the  arms  of  his  chair,  his  whole  body  rigid. 
The  wheezing  of  his  labored  breath  filled  the  room. 

"I'll  get  the  doctor,"  I  said. 

The  doctor  himself  helped  me  to  put  Moscrop  to 
bed.  When  we  came  down,  he  said:  "You  ought 
to  know  that  the  old  boy's  in  a  rotten  way.  Asthma's 
bad  enough  but  the  old  man's  heart's  in  a  frightful 
state.  He  may  live  for  years.  He  may  pass  out 
next  time  he  has  an  attack." 

I  sat  down  in  the  old  man's  big  chair  and  pondered 
over  the  evening  and  when  I  rose  to  go  at  last  to 
bed,  I  knocked  off  the  arm  of  the  chair  a  sheaf  of 
papers,  and  as  I  picked  them  up  my  eye  ran  over  a 
page  covered  with  penciled  figures.  "Say  £5250,"  I 
read;  then  shamelessly  I  read  the  whole  thing 
through.  Moscrop  had  been  figuring  out  the  pros 
and  cons  of  his  earthly  goods,  and  had  arrived  at  the 
conclusion  that  he  was  worth  "say  £5250." 

It  was  a  surprisingly  large  sum  for  a  back-street 
baker,  but  the  paper  showed  that  he  had  made  a 
few  farseeing  investments.  It  would  be  a  comfort- 
able sum  for  a  man  to  have  behind  him  if  he  wanted 
to  write.  At  that  thought,  I  sat  down  again  and 
pondered  my  position.  In  cold  blood  I  made  up  my 
mind  then  and  there  to  marry  Nellie  Moscrop. 


1  HE  room  which  had  been  my  bed-sitting-room 
became  now  my  study.  I  moved  into  Nellie's  bed- 
room, and  that  was  the  only  change  in  domestic 
habits  brought  about  by  the  wedding.  I  was  afraid 
that  Nellie  would  be  possessive,  that  she  would  want 
me  now  to  spend  all  my  spare  time  with  her  and 
Moscrop,  but  nothing  of  the  sort  happened. 

When  my  day's  work  was  over,  Nellie  would  chase 
me  away  to  my  study.  "Get  on  with  your  book,"  she 
would  say,  and  old  Moscrop  would  lift  his  heavy 
lids  and  say:  "Aye,  she'll  make  a  great  man  of  you." 

But  in  my  study,  which  I  had  managed  to  make 
cosy  with  bookshelves  and  a  carpet,  I  was  not  work- 
ing at  a  book.  The  paper  called  Titbits  which  Der- 
mot had  thrust  into  my  hand  was  occupying  my  at- 
tention. The  sort  of  stuff  it  contained  seemed  so 
easy  to  write,  and  yet  I  think  I  tore  up  twenty  efforts 
before  I  had  completed  one  that  I  liked.  It  was 
called  "Lodging-Houses  in  Winter."  Titbits  accepted 
it,  printed  it,  and  paid  me  thirty  shillings  for  it. 
That  article  hangs  in  my  study  today.  I  suppose  I 
am  a  sentimentalist,  but  I  wouldn't  sell  for  a  lot  of 
money  that  framed  article. 

There  was  great  excitement  at  Moscrop's  when 
that  first  check  came.  The  old  man  advised  the 
opening   of   a   bank   account,   venturing   to   coin   a 


phrase  about  saving  the  shillings  and  the  pounds 
taking  care  of  themselves.  Nellie  was  as  pleased 
and  excited  as  though  another  "Jane  Eyre"  had 
come  out  of  the  purlieus  of  Hulme.  But  I  remem- 
bered my  promise  to  give  Dermot  a  present  out  of 
my  first  check.  I  bought  him  a  silver-headed 
malacca  cane,  and  on  a  February  night  I  walked 
around  to  Ancoats  with  it. 

"You're  just  in  time  to  see  the  grand  perform- 
ance," said  Sheila,  who  came  to  the  door. 

In  the  kitchen  Dermot  sat  at  the  table  on  which 
were  spread  dozens  of  small  pieces  of  carved  box- 
wood.   "Feel  it,"  he  said,  pushing  one  across  to  me. 
"It's  like  ivory." 
It  was:  A  minute  but  lovely  bit  of  carving. 
''But  what  are  they?"  I  asked. 
"Toys  for  Rory,"  Sheila  said  with  a  happy  smile, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  Dermot's  chair. 

Dermot  began   fitting   the   pieces   together.     "It's 
an  old  English  village,  you  see,"  he  said,  "every  de- 
tail guaranteed  true  to  the  facts  of  the  case.    Any 
child  can  put  it  together." 
"Any  child?"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  laughed,  "any  child  that's  lucky  enough 
to  have  it,  and  that'll  be  Rory." 

But  I  was  thinking  far  beyond  that  now.  "Der- 
mot," I  said,  as  he  packed  the  pieces  into  a  box  he 
had  made,  "let  me  take  these  home  to  show  them  to 
Nellie,  will  you?  Rory  won't  be  born  for  a  month, 
you  know,  and  he  won't  be  fitting  these  things  to- 
gether for  a  bit  after  that." 

"Go  on  then,"  said  Dermot,  "but  mind  what  you're 
doing  with  them." 

Then  I  produced  the  malacca  cane  and  told  him 
about  the  article  in  Titbits.  We  drank  to  it  in  a 
glass  of  stout  apiece — but  if  they  had  known  how 
far  that  article  was  by  now  from  my  mind!  With 
the  precious  box  under  my  arm  I  hurried  away,  my 
head  swimming  with  grandiose  dreams. 

T 

*  HAT  was  how  the  business  began  which  was 
known  as  "Easifix  Toys."  It  was  a  good  thing  that 
I  had  faith.  No  one  else  believed  in  Easifix  Toys. 
Dermot  thought  it  was  an  amusing  pastime.  Cer- 
tainly he'd  carve  his  little  toys.  It  gave  him  some- 
thing to  do  in  the  evenings.  Especially  now  that 
Sheila  couldn't  go  out.  For  there  was  Maeve  to  look 
after  now.  Not  Rory,  but  Maeve — Maeve  with  a 
black  down  on  her  head  and  her  little  monkey  face 
puckered  in  a  grin  half  the  day.  And  there'd  be 
Rory  all  right  some  day.    Never  doubt  it. 

So  Dermot  carved  away,  and  his  pale  eyes  lighted 
with  laughter  at  my  enthusiasm.  "Ach,"  he  said, 
"it'll  be  money  for  jam — if  it  comes  off."  And  then, 
more  gravely:  "But,  Bill,  I  don't  like  it.  There  are 
you,  putting  your  capital  into  this  thing,  and  all  I 
have  to  do  is  what  I'd  be  doing  anyway.  And  yet 
you  call  me  a  director,  and  we  split  fifty-fifty.  It's 
not  sense." 

"Fifty-fifty's  fair,"  I  argued.  "You  showed  me  an 
outlet  for  my  capital  that  I'd  never  have  thought 
of  without  you." 

"Your  capital,  my  hat!"  Sheila  mocked;  and  of 
course  that  was  a  sore  point  for  it  wasn't  my  capital 
at  all.    It  was  Nellie's  capital. 

I  was  thinking  of  that  as  I  sat  one  morning  at 
breakfast.  Alone  with  Nellie.  There  was  no  Mos- 
crop now.  Of  course  there  was  no  Moscrop,  or 
there  would  have  been  no  capital. 

I  had  been  unable  to  interest  her  in  the  affairs 
of  the  Easifix  Company.  Moscrop  had  left  nearer 
six  than  five  thousand  pounds.  Every  penny  was 
hers,  and  I  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  open  the  sub- 
ject of  throwing  the  money  upon  the  waters  in  the 
hope  of  a  goodly  return.  But  once  I  had  done  so, 
she  was  acquiescent,  resigned.  If  she  had  heartily 
backed  the  gamble,  I  could  more  bravely  have  faced 
failure.  But  to  lose  the  money  of  this  spiritless 
woman  would  have  cut  me  deeply. 

Nellie  did  not  like  to  see  anything  changed,  but 
change  enough  soon  came.  I  had  finished  with  Mos- 
crop's bakery  for  good.  It  continued  to  exist,  but 
an  efficient  man  ran  it.  All  my  time  now  was  being 
given  to  Easifix  Toys. 

We  were  all  going  ahead.  Dermot  had  his  fine 
new  showrooms.  There  was  his  new  house,  too. 
He  had  moved  in  last  week.  "I  don't  want  Rory  to 
be  born  in  Ancoats,"  he  said,  because  now  Rory 
was  on  the  way  once  more.  "And  I  want  to  show 
off,  too,"  he  added,  with  a  grin.  "I'm  having  a  grand 
party  to  warm  the  house.  Grand  for  me,  anyway. 
There'll  be  four  of  us:  me  and  Sheila,  you  and 
Nellie."  He  paused  for  an  almost  imperceptible 
moment,  then  added:  "If  Nellie'd  care  to  come?" 
People  were  beginning  to  feel  like  that  about  Nellie. 

She  came,  though.  I  think  she  felt  rather  uncom- 
fortable in  Dermot's  house.  It  was  a  great  contrast 
to  the  cosy  jumble  of  our  own  place.  Six  candles 
without  shades  burned  in  a  row  down  the  long  table, 
which  Sheila  had  laid  beautifully.  "Not  that  I 
ought  to  be  here,"  she  said  with  a  laugh.  "The  man's 
mad,  asking  people  tonight,  with  Rory  expected  at 
any  minute.  Ach,  ye  young  devil,  I  -  'ouldn't  be 
surprised  if  ye  interrupted  the  party." 

Nellie  gave  her  a  shocked  and  wondering  look; 
but  Sheila  took  her  gaily  by  the  arm  and  led  her 
away  to  see  little  Maeve,  who  had  been  put  to  bed. 

Sheila's  prophecy  that  the  baby  would  interrupt 
the  party  was  fulfilled.  Late  that  night  when  the 
doctor  and  nurse  were  upstairs  with  her,  and  Nellie 


had  departed  for  home,  Dermot  and  I  were  in  the 
small  coachhouse  at  the  side  of  the  garden  which 
he  had  fitted  up  into  a  lovely  workshop.  As  a  man 
will  at  such  times,  Dermot  began  talking  about  the 
plans  he  had  for  his  son,  and  his  plan  was  that  Rory 
should  enter  into  the  bitter  fight  of  freeing  Ireland 
from  England,  as  Dermot  himself  had  hoped  to  do. 

"If  I  could  have  gone  to  Ireland,"  he  said,  "and 
worked  for  Ireland — in  Ireland — and  perhaps  died 
for  Ireland,  I'd  have  done  it.  But  I  had  to  work  for 
my  living  and  then  I  got  married  and  there's  Maeve 
and  there'll  be  more.  I've  had  to  choose  what  chan- 
nels I  should  put  my  energies  into  and  I've  chosen 
for  good  and  all.  But  I'm  no  less  an  Irishman  for 
that.  I  can  still  give  something  to  Ireland.  All  that 
I  should  have  liked  to  do  can  still  be  done.  If  I 
have  a  son  it  shall  be  done.  My  son  shall  go  to 
Ireland.  He  shall  learn  to  be  an  Irishman,  as  I  am 
not.  So  now  you  know  what  I  want  most  passion- 
ately in  this  world  for  my  son."  His  rare  pale  smile 
lit  his  face.  "And  what  about  you,  Bill?"  he  said. 
"What's  your  scheme  for  the  next  generation?" 

I  recharged  and  lit  my  pipe  before  answering. 
"Well,  Dermot,  it  comes  to  roughly  what  you  want 
yourself.  That  is  to  say,  I  want  to  realize  in  my 
son  all  that  I  have  missed  myself.  I've  been  poor 
in  a  way  that  even  you  have  never  known.  I've 
been  lonely  and  miserable  and  lacking  in  all  that 
children  should  have  in  a  decent  world.  If  I  have 
a  son,  I  just  want  him  to  have  everything.  I'll  work 
my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  give  him  everything  he 
asks  for  and,  seeing  him  enjoying  it,  I'll  enjoy  it  my- 
self and  live  my  life  over  again  from  the  beginning, 
but  differently.     Do  you  approve?" 

He  looked  at  me  gravely.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said. 
"You'll  spoil  him." 

"I'll  chance  it.    I'll  give  him  a  lovely  life." 

And  so,  Rory,  and  so,  Oliver,  we  settled  your 
destiny  for  you,  Dermot  and  I,  sitting  there  in  that 
room  at  midnight  with  the  smoke  from  our  pipes 
dimming  the  light,  and  the  merciful  veils  of  the 
future  dimming  our  eyes. 

DUT  Rory  was  not  born  that  night.  That  time  it 
was  Eileen;  and  when  Rory  was  born  I  was  not  so 
excited,  because  Oliver  was  born  the  same  night. 

Before  we  were  married,  Nellie  always  called  me 
Bill.  Now  she  called  me  William.  I  hated  being 
called  William,  but  Bill  was  too  frivolous  for  Nellie 
when  she  had  fully  entered  into  a  matron's  estate. 

When  Eileen  O'Riorden  was  three  months  old,  I 
walked  home  from  Dermot's  house  full  of  discon- 
tents. It  was  an  August  day,  and  the  pavements 
sweltered.  The  thought  of  Dermot's  home  with  its 
little  garden,  its  few  trees  and  bushes  suddenly 
made  me  resolve  to  have  done  with  Hulme  forever. 
In  this  mood  I  reached  home,  and  walked  into  the 
living  room.  As  soon  as  I  entered  Nellie  said:  "Wil- 
liam, I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 

I  felt  neither  glad  nor  sorry,  simply  surprised,  so 
surprised  that  1  said  nothing.    Nellie  asked:    "Aren't 
you  glad?"    And  I  said:    "Yes,  my  dear.     Yes,  of 
course.    I  hope  it'll  be  a  boy." 
"I  want  a  daughter,"  she  said. 
"Well,  whichever  it  is,"  I  told  her,  "don't  let's  have 
it  born  here.    We're  well  off,  Nellie,  and  we're  going 
to  be  better  off.    Let's  get  out  of  Hulme  and  let  the 
child  have  a  start  in  fresh  air  with  something  beau- 
tiful to  look  at." 
"But,  William,  I've  spent  all  my  life  here.  .  .  ." 
I  said  no  more  that  night.     But  the  next  day  I 
wandered  along  the  Wilmslow  Road  till  I  came  to  a 
little  lane  leading  down  to  the  Mersey,  and  just  be- 
yond that  was  a  house  standing  back  from  the  road 
at  the  end  of  a  long  narrow  garden.    A  noticeboard 
said  "To  Let." 

It  was  called  The  Beeches,  and  I  knew  I  was  go- 
ing to  live  at  The  Beeches  as  soon  as  I  had  pushed 
open  the  front  gate.  Under  Dermot's  advice,  I  had 
the  place  decorated  from  top  to  bottom  before  a 
word  was  said  to  Nellie. 

We  let  Nellie  into  the  secret  bit  by  bit,  and  she 
rather  grudgingly  allowed  herself  to  be  persuaded. 
There  was  a  Wesley  an  chapel  a  few  hundred  yards 
down  the  road,  and  I  think  that  helped. 

On  a  May  midnight  in  the  following  year,  when 
the  beech  leaves  in  the  garden  were  in  their  love- 
liest green,  I  walked  up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
while  a  cold  moon  climbed  over,  and  the  leaves 
sighed  and  murmured.  When  they  told  me  I  could 
see  Nellie  and  the  child  I  crept  upstairs  with  a  heart 
near  to  bursting.  It  was  not  till  I  had  left  the  room 
again  that  I  realized  I  had  hardly  looked  at  Nellie. 
I  brought  out  with  me  nothing  but  a  memory  of  a 
small  face  with  eyes  serenely  closed,  and  a  little 
down-tufted  skull,  and  a  long  thin  hand  exquisitely 
shaped,  into  which  I  longed  to  pour  the  world. 

A  few  hours  earlier  Sheila's  third  child  was  born, 
and  that  time  it  was  Rory. 

PART  II 

T  was  a  hot  June  day.  From  the  dining  room, 
while  I  ate  my  lunch,  I  could  look  down  the  long 
garden  and  see  the  perambulator  in  the  shade  of 
the  beeches.  I  liked  it  to  be  there,  where  I  could 
see  it  and  think  of  Oliver's  blue  eyes  gazing  up 
into  the  wonderland  of  waving  leaves. 

"May  I  wheel  him  out  this  afternoon?"  I  asked. 

Nellie  looked  at  me  with  her  myopic  eyes.    "Can  I 


34 


->^^^y^^ 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


trust  you  to  be  careful?"  she  asked. 

"You  can  that." 

"Well,  don't  be  away  for  more  than  an  hour  or  an 
hour  and  a  half." 

A  moment  later  I  was  pushing  Oliver  along  the 
Wilmslow  Road,  putting  my  educational  theories 
into  practice.  No  baby-talk.  "Trees!"  I  exclaimed 
as  we  passed  beneath  the  green  branches  that  hung 
over  garden  walls;  and  "Horses!"  I  said  boldly  as 
they  trotted  by.  But  Oliver's  silken  lids  had  fallen 
over  his  eyes  and  his  head  drooped  sideways  on  his 
neck  like  a  heavy  flower  on  its  stalk. 

I  had  reached  the  gates  of  the  large  house  called 
the  Priory,  when  coming  towards  me  from  the  With- 
ington  direction  I  saw  Dermot,  pushing  a  pram.  "I 
was  bringing  Rory  to  see  you,"  he  shouted  when  he 
was  twenty  yards  away. 

"I  was  bringing  Oliver  to  see  you." 

The  prams  came  to  a  halt.  Dermot  bent  over 
Oliver's  pram,  and  I  bent  over  Rory's.  Rory  was 
awake,  feet  kicking,  grey  eyes  looking  earnestly  up 
at  the  leaves  above  him. 

"This  beggar's  asleep,"  said  Dermot.  "I  wanted 
them  to  meet." 

"Put  your  hand  behind  his  back  and  lift  him  up," 
I  said. 

So  Dermot  heaved  Oliver  to  a  sitting  position  and 
held  him  there,  and  I  held  Rory.  Oliver  opened  his 
eyes,  and  the  two  children  gazed  at  one  another  for 
a  moment  with  solemn  scrutiny.  Then  Oliver's  face 
puckered  up  in  smiles,  and  Rory,  after  a  doubtful 
moment,  smiled  too.  They  leaned  towards  one  an- 
other, and  soon  their  hands  met  and  their  fingers 
interlaced.    They  clutched,  smiling  broadly. 

"Well,  what  d'you  think  of  that?"  said  Dermot. 
"Shaking  hands  at  one  month!  If  these  two  don't 
make  good  friends,  no  one  ever  will." 

My  visual  memory  is  very  good.  In  memory  now 
I  am  sitting  at  the  window  of  my  study,  looking 
down  the  long  garden.  A  year  has  passed  since  the 
day  when  Rory  and  Oliver  met.  It  is  a  hot,  still  day, 
and  an  extraordinary  sense  of  contentment  is  in  my 
heart.  On  the  desk  is  a  novel  called  "The  Unkindest 
Cut."  I  look  again  and  again  at  the  title  page.  "By 
William  Essex."  I  can't  get  over  it.  I  never  have 
got  over  the  excitement  of  seeing  my  name  on  a 
title  page;  but  that  first  time  it  was  like  an  exalta- 
tion.   The  book  had  arrived  that  morning. 

In  the  garden,  Nellie  and  Sheila  sat  sewing.  The 
children  were  sprawling  on  the  lawn:  Maeve,  who 
was  now  a  beautiful  child,  Eileen,  Rory,  and  Oliver. 

Maeve  had  ranged  the  three  of  them  on  cushions. 
"Eileen  is  fat,"  she  chanted.  "She  will  never  be  as 
beautiful  as  Maeve,  because  Maeve  is  an  Irish 
queen." 

"Maeve  is  a  conceited  little  monkey,"  Sheila 
shouted. 

Maeve  went  on  unperturbed.  "Rory  is  a  dark  fat 
baby,  but  Rory  is  a  better  boy  than  Oliver.  Oliver 
is  the  most  beautiful  baby  I  have  ever  seen.  But  I 
do  not  like  Oliver.  If  I  put  my  finger  in  Rory's 
mouth,  Rory  sucks  it.  But  if  I  put  my  finger  in 
Oliver's  mouth,  he  tries  to  bite  it." 

Nellie  said  nothing,  but  her  lip  trembled. 

Another  vivid  memory  is  the  winter  after  Oliver's 
sixth  birthday.  We  had  extended  the  times  of  our 
intimacy.  Instead  of  reading  to  him  after  he  had 
been  put  to  bed,  I  now  had  him  in  my  study  every 
evening  between  tea  time  and  his  bedtime,  which 
was  at  half-past  six. 

Well,  one  night  Oliver  was  in  a  talkative  mood. 
He  roamed  along  the  bookcases,  and  presently 
pulled  out  a  book  at  random  and  looked  through  it, 
as  he  would  often  do,  for  a  word  he  didn't  know. 
It  was  one  of  our  favorite  games  at  that  time.  End- 
less "conversations,"  which  he  loved,  began  with  a 
word.  I  lit  my  pipe  and  waited  for  him.  He  brought 
the  book  to  the  hearthrug  and  lay  at  my  feet. 
"Covetousness,"  he  announced  at  last,  boggling  the 
pronunciation.     "What   does   covetousness  mean?" 

"It  means  wanting  what  isn't  yours." 

"Is  covetousness  wrong?"  he  asked,  stumbling 
again  at  the  word. 

"It's  like  a  great  many  other  things,  my  dear  boy. 
If  you  allow  it  to  get  the  upper  hand  of  you,  so  that 
you  would  even  steal  in  order  to  have  the  thing 
you  covet,  then  it  is  wrong.  You  see  that,  don't 
you?"    He  nodded  gravely. 

Then  we  were  interrupted.  There  was  a  loud 
tattoo  at  the  door,  and  Dermot's  voice  shouted: 
"May  I  come  in,  Bill?" 

Rory  was  with  him,  and  Rory  rushed  into  the 
room,  shouting:  "Where's  'The  Cuckoo  Clock?'  I 
want  "The  Cuckoo  Clock.'  " 

"You  want  a  smack  on  the  bottom,"  said  Dermot, 
his  red  beard  bristling  with  mock  anger.  "Is  that 
the  way  to  dash  into  a  gentleman's  room,  heathen 
that  you  are?    Say  good  evening  to  your  Uncle  Bill." 

"I  left  'The  Cuckoo  Clock'  yesterday,"  said  Rory. 
"We  read  it  in  your  room,  and  I  left  it  there." 

"You  took  it  home,"  Oliver  said. 

"He  did  not  then,  my  young  cock,"  said  Dermot, 
"unless  he  lost  it  on  the  way,  because  I  was  there 
when  he  got  home,  and  there  was  no  book  with  him." 

Oliver  looked  Dermot  full  in  the  eye.  "We'd  bet- 
ter look  in  my  room,"  he  said. 

We  cast  our  eyes  along  the  books  in  the  case. 
There  was  no  "Cuckoo  Clock,"  but  there  was  a  book 
I  had  not  seen  before,  and  I  thought  I  knew  every 


book  in  that  small  library,  which  I  had  myself  as- 
sembled. The  book  that  caught  my  eye  had  been 
covered  in  brown  paper,  and  in  gaudy  lettering 
done  in  water  color  I  read:  "Adventures." 

I  pulled  the  book  out.  "This  is  a  new  one,"  I  said. 
"Where  did  you  get  this  from,  Oliver?" 

He  leapt  to  take  the  book  from  me.  I  held 
him  back  with  one  hand,  surprised  at  his  sudden 
vehemence.  "Here— steady!"  I  said.  Then,  as  I  be- 
gan to  flip  over  the  pages,  the  color  drained  from  his 
face  and  he  stood  deathly  still.  I  felt  my  heart  sud- 
denly hammer,  and  I  wondered  if  I  looked  as  pale  as 
he  did.  "The  Cuckoo  Clock,"  I  read  at  the  top  of 
every  page  as  it  flipped  past  my  eyes.  Cuckoo  Clock! 
Cuckoo  Clock!    Liar!    Thief!    Oliver! 

"This  looks  good,"  I  said.  "We'll  go  through  it  to- 
gether. Well,  Dermot,  you've  drawn  a  blank.  Are 
you  sure  you  didn't  lose  the  book,  Rory?" 

Rory  looked  doubtful.    "I  might've  done,"  he  said. 

The  color  flowed  back  to  Oliver's  cheeks.  "You 
must  have  done!"  he  cried,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  could  have  struck  him. 

Dermot  led  Rory  from  the  room.  In  a  moment 
I  tore  the  wrapping  from  the  book,  dropped  it  be- 
hind the  bookcase,  and  threw  the  book  into  Oliver's 
easy  chair  sticking  a  cushion  on  top  of  it.  Then  I 
shouted:  "Just  a  minute,  Dermot — a  last  chance"; 
and  when  he  and  Rory  were  back  in  the  room  I 
pulled  away  the  cushion.  Rory's  face  creased  in  his 
ugly,  attractive  grin.  "I  knew,"  he  said,  and  went 
away  happy  with  his  treasure. 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  looked  at  Oliver  for  a 
moment,  and  he  returned  my  look,  level  and  un- 
blinking. Then  he  smiled,  the  beautiful  smile,  con- 
fident of  its  power,  that  I  had  never  been  able  to 
resist.    I  did  not  return  it. 

"Oliver,"  I  said,  "why  did  you  steal  Rory's  book?" 

"I  didn't  steal  it." 

"But  there  it  was — in  your  bookcase.  You  must 
have  put  it  there?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  covered  it  and  wrote  'Adventures'  on 
it  so  that  Rory  wouldn't  know  it  was  his  book." 

"Yes." 

"And  you  said  that  Rory  had  taken  it  with  him, 
though  you  knew  he  hadn't.     Wasn't  that  a  lie?" 

"Yes,  it  was  a  lie.    But  I  didn't  steal  the  book." 

"If  that  isn't  stealing,  what  do  you  call  it?" 

"Don't  you  see?"  he  said  frankly.  "I  took  it  be- 
cause it  was  Rory's.  I  love  Rory.  I  wanted  to  have 
something  belonging  to  Rory.  Rory  loves  "The 
Cuckoo  Clock,'  so  I  wanted  to  have  it.  You  believe 
what  I  said,  don't  you,"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  old  boy." 


Nellie  said  I  was  spoiling  Oliver.  "Do  you 
think  it's  nothing  to  me  to  see  him  growing 
up  to  be  a  cheat  and  a  liar?"  she  demanded 


"Then  that's  all  right."  He  gave  a  great  sigh 
as  though  my  good  opinion  were  all  that  mattered. 

I  was  about  to  run  straight  to  my  study,  when  the 
drawing-room  door  opened  and  Nellie  came  out. 
She  stood  like  a  grey  uneasy  ghost  in  the  doorway, 
and  said:  "What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Oliver?" 

"Do?"  I  said. 

She  swung  round,  and  said  in  a  rising  voice: 
"Whether  I'm  anything  to  you  or  not,  I'm  the  child's 
mother.  D'you  think  it  doesn't  matter  to  me  that 
he's  growing  up  a  cheat  and  a  liar?"  I  had  never 
known  her  so  perturbed.  "What  are  you  going  to 
do  about  it?"  she  insisted. 

"I  don't  see  that  we  can  do  anything  except  give 
the  boy  our  care  and  love." 

At  that  she  laughed,  almost  hysterically.  "Love!" 
she  cried.  "A  pretty  idea  you've  got  of  love!  Do 
you  call  it  love  to  bring  a  child  up  to  think  he  can 
do  what  he  likes  without  taking  the  consequences? 
Give  him  everything— more  money  in  a  week  than  I 
saw  in  a  year  at  his  age,  more  clothes  than  any  child 
needs,  presents,  games,  expensive  schools,  every- 
thing he  fancies  or  dreams  of — give  it  to  him — that's 
your  idea  of  love.     Well,  it  isn't  mine. 

"Oliver  is  my  child,"  she  continued,  "as  well  as 
yours.  Bear  that  in  mind.  I  know  I'm  nobody  in 
this  house.     But  so  far  as  Oliver's  concerned,  I'm 


going  to  exist  from  now  on.    D'you  hear?" 

"What  do  you  propose  should  be  done  about  the 
present  case?"  I  asked  as  calmly  as  I  could. 

"I  think  he  should  be  thrashed." 

"I  don't." 

"You  haven't  got  the  strength  to  do  your  duty." 

"Put  it  that  way  if  you  like.  If  you  have  no  other 
suggestion,  I  may  as  well  go." 

I  went  in  my  room  I  drew  the  curtains  but  did 
not  light  the  lamp.  I  sat  in  the  dark,  in  no  mood 
to  read  or  to  write.  I  heard  Nellie's  step  pass  the 
door,  and  assumed  that  she  was  going  to  bed.  A 
moment  later  Oliver's  voice  could  be  heard,  mur- 
muring uncertainly,  as  though  he  had  been  awak- 
ened from  sleep.  Then  the  voice  sharpened  to  a 
cry  of  protest:     "No!    Don't!" 

I  leapt  from  the  chair,  and  as  I  hurried  across  the 
landing  that  divided  my  room  from  his,  he  gave  a 
howl  of  pain.  Nellie  had  pulled  back  the  bedclothes 
and  stripped  off  his  pajama  jacket.  With  her  left 
hand  she  was  holding  Oliver  face-downward  on  the 
bed.  With  her  right  she  was  lashing  his  back  with 
a  cane.  "Cheat!  Liar!  Thief!"  she  cried.  Her  face 
was  inhuman  with  cold  fury.  The  child's  cries  tore 
my  heart,  and  every  blow  seemed  to  bite  into  my 
own  shrinking  flesh. 

I  was  across  the  room  in  a  stride,  and  seized  her 
wrist  as  her  hand  was  aloft  for  another  blow. 
"Stop!"  I  shouted.    "Are  you  mad?" 

She  turned  towards  me,  panting.  "I  am  doing 
your  work,"  she  gasped. 

Oliver  had  stopped  shrieking  when  the  blows 
ceased.  He  lay  with  his  head  buried  in  his  arms, 
his  body  shaking  with  sobs.  I  tore  the  cane  from 
Nellie's  hand  and  swung  it  up  over  my  head. 

She  faced  me  calmly,  though  her  breast  was 
stormy  with  effort  and  emotion.  "Strike  me,"  she 
said.   "That's  all  it  needs  now — strike  me." 

My  arm,  lifted  above  my  head,  remained  as  though 
frozen,  and  then  suddenly  I  felt  the  cane  wrested 
from  my  hand.  Oliver  had  leapt  erect  upon  the  bed. 
"Don't!"  he  screamed  hysterically.  "Don't  hit  my 
mother!"  He  lashed  with  the  cane  swiftly  at  my 
head,  his  face  contorted  with  passion.  I  ducked,  and 
took  the  puny  blow  on  my  shoulder.  Then,  as 
though  all  life  had  gone  suddenly  out  of  her,  Nellie 
collapsed  in  a  weeping  heap  upon  the  bed.  Oliver 
threw  the  cane  to  the  floor,  knelt  over  her,  fond- 
ling her  and  murmuring  endearments.  She  cast 
herself  full-length  on  the  bed  and  took  him  in  the 
crook  of  her  arm.  "Oliver!  Darling — my  darling!" 
she  sobbed,  and  he  snuggled  closer  to  her,  crooning 
like  a  dove.    "Mummy!    Dear»  dear  mummy!" 

I  shook  my  head  as  though  to  clear  it  of  illu- 
sions and  went  back  to  my  room. 

IT  was  Dermot  who  found  Heronwater.  He  was 
staying  then  in  Falmouth.  I  had  been  working 
hard,  and  welcomed  the  excuse  to  take  a  few  days' 
holiday.  I  packed  a  bag  and  traveled  to  London, 
saw  my  publishers,  stayed  the  night  at  the  old 
Golden  Cross  Hotel,  and  left  for  Falmouth  the  next 
morning.    Dermot  was  waiting  at  the  station. 

Looking  ahead  as  the  boat  chugged  forward,  I 
could  see  on  the  right-hand  bank  a  small  landing 
place.  As  we  drew  nearer,  it  defined  itself  as  a  quay 
whose  side  to  the  water  had  been  stoutly  fortified 
by  a  wall  of  grey  granite  blocks.  There  were  steps 
leading  up  to  the  level  land  that  had  been  cut  in  the 
bank.  A  few  sheds  stood  there,  and  behind  them  the 
trees  rose  to  the  line  of  the  blue  sky. 

"Look!"  said  Dermot.  "Halfway  up.  Can  you  see 
the  house?" 

You  could  just  see  it,  deep  among  the  cliff-side 
trees,  and  you  could  not  imagine  anything  more 
peaceful,  anything  more  free  from  strain  and  fret, 
than  that  house  with  the  elms  and  oaks  about  it,  and 
the  water  below  it,  and  the  lift  of  the  sky  above  it. 

"That's  it,"  said  Dermot.  "That's  what  I  brought 
you  to  see." 

The  engine  was  shut  off.  In  perfect  silence  the 
boat  drifted  in  to  the  steps.  The  boatman  grasped 
a  ring  in  the  wall  and  we  stepped  ashore. 

"Heronwater,"  said  Dermot.  "That's  what  they 
call  this  place.  Lovely,  isn't  it?"  He  strutted  up 
and  down  the  little  quarterdeck  of  quay.  "The 
place  is  for  sale,"  he  added  casually.  "I  thought 
you  might  like  to  buy  it." 

I  nearly  fell  off  the  log.  "Have  you  had  the  cheek 
to  drag  me  down  here  to  make  an  idiotic  proposal 
like  that?"  I  said.  But  even  as  I  spoke  I  knew  that 
the  idea  had  hit  at  my  imagination. 

A.ND  so  it  was  that  I  bought  Heronwater,  and  it 
became  a  convention  for  the  O'Riorden  and  Essex 
families  to  spend  August  there.  Those  holidays  now 
telescope  themselves  in  my  memory.  There  is  the 
memory  of  Captain  Judas,  whose  boat  the  Jezebel, 
was  always  anchored  off  shore.  A  queer,  lovable 
old  man,  in  whose  mind  an  early  sea  disaster  and  the 
fact  that  his  name  was  Jude  Iscott  had  developed 
the  illusion  that  he  was  Judas  Iscariot,  falsely  ac- 
cused of  betraying  his  Master.  In  Oliver,  Captain 
Judas  fancied  he  beheld  the  young  Christ,  and  this 
belief  led  him  to  an  adoration  of  the  lad  almost  as 
great  as  my  own. 

There  is  the  memory  of  the  summer  that  Kevin 
Donnelly  and  his  daughter  Maggie  visited  us.  Kevin 
was  a   Dublin  printer,  a  power  in  the  movement 


<<<<<<<<<< 


35 


tswiy  %  e/^r  hrem 


/ 


to  free  Ireland,  and  Dermot's  admiration  for  the 
man  caused  him  to  plan  to  send  Rory  the  next  year 
to  live  with  the  Donnellys  and  under  Kevin's  tute- 
lage take  up  the  fight.  Maggie  was  the  same  age 
as  Oliver  and  Rory,  a  serious  grey-eyed  child  so 
like  Rory  that  it  seemed  inevitable  even  then  that 
some  day  they  should  marry. 

PART  III 

NELLIE  was  wanner  in  her  manner  towards 
me  these  days.  I  was  forty.  She  was  a 
year  older.  We  had  been  married  for 
nineteen  years.  Each  of  us  realized  the 
limitations  of  that  companionship.  Nothing 
had  ever  set  it  on  fire;  nothing  had  given  it  glory. 
During  the  last  couple  of  years  its  comfortableness 
had  deepened.  I  think  perhaps  Nellie  was  glad  to 
have  me  to  herself.  Dermot  and  Sheila  had  gone 
to  live  in  London,  taking  Eileen  with  them.  Maeve 
was  playing  her  first  part  in  a  London  theater.  I 
hadn't  seen  her  in  it.  I  should  have  to  run  up  to 
town  soon.  Her  work,  when  I  had  seen  her  once  or 
twice  with  the  Mary  Latter  Company  in  Manchester, 
had  surprised  and  thrilled  me. 

Rory  was  in  Dublin.  I  knew  less  of  him  than  of 
the  others.  He  had  written  occasionally  to  Oliver, 
but  now  Oliver  was  away  at  school,  so  I  didn't  see 
even  the  letters. 

An  inexpressible  sadness  settled  upon  me.  I  felt 
that  a  phase  of  my  life  was  ended.  Oliver  gone.  The 
one  family  in  Manchester  that  had  meant  anything 
to  me  gone.  Nellie  was  still  there,  sensing  my 
trouble,  being  maternal. 

Prowling  about,  restless  as  a  beast  in  a  zoo  cage, 
fiddling  with  this  and  that,  I  knew  suddenly  that  I 
would  write  no  more  novels  about  Manchester.  I 
wanted  to  leave  the  place;  I  wanted  to  go  to  London. 
Maeve  was  growing  up.  Time  I  thought  about  that 
play  I'd  always  promised  to  write  for  her. 

The  corners  of  the  room  were  full  of  shadow  and 
I  was  ruminating  in  my  easy  chair  when  I  heard 
Nellie's  voice  calling  from  downstairs:  "William! 
Can  you  spare  a  moment?" 

I  went  down  and  found  her  in  the  hall  with  a 
big  gaunt  parson,  the  Rev.  W.  Wilson  Wintringham. 
It  appeared  that  there  had  been  a  breakdown  in 
transport  arrangements.  The  Rev.  W.  Wilson  Win- 
tringham had  to  get  home  that  night  and  the  car 
which  was  to  take  him  to  the  railway  station  at 
Wilmslow  had  not  appeared. 

"I  thought  if  you  were  not  busy  tonight — "  Nellie 
appealed. 

I  got  out  the  car — an  open  four-seater — and  off 
we  went.  The  train  drew  in  as  we  reached  the 
platform.  A  moment  later  we  were  watching  the 
red  taillight  receding  in  the  dusk. 

We  came  through  Cheadle  and  turned  left  into 
the  road  that  led  straight  home.  I  gave  the  car  an 
extra  turn  of  speed.  And  there,  strolling  in  the 
moonlight,  came  two  lovers,  oblivious  of  all  save 
themselves.  Oblivious  of  the  car,  until  the  sudden 
blaze  of  headlights  wrenched  them  back  to  the 
world  of  sense.  Then  they  stood  stock-still,  while 
my  heart  cried:  "Oh,  poor  young  fools!  Leap!  Back- 
wards or  forwards.  But  leap!"  and  Nellie's  hand 
went  to  her  mouth,  smothering  a  cry. 

They  did  not  leap.  They  dithered  now  forward, 
now  backward.  On  me,  then,  the  decision  fell,  and 
I  drove  the  car  full  pelt  between  them  and  the  hedge 
at  the  side  of  the  road.  There  was  a  tearing  of 
shrubs  and  saplings,  a  sudden  remembrance,  pierc- 
ing me  like  a  knife,  that  the  hedge  hid  a  sharply 
falling  bank,  the  car  sliding  with  us  beneath  it  for 
a  little  way,  then  coming  to  a  standstill.  I  raised 
my  arms,  trying  foolishly  to  lift  the  weight  that 
oppressed  us;  I  tried  to  move  my  legs,  and  agony 
forced  a  cry  from  me;  I  called:  "Nellie!  Nellie!  Are 
you  all  right?"  but  there  was  no  answer,  no  sound 
at  all,  except  the  sound  of  men  shouting  and  of 
hands  rasping  on  the  fabric  of  the  car  as  it  was 
seized  and  lifted. 

A  fractured  thigh  for  me.  A  broken  neck  for 
Nellie.  They  said  she  must  have  died  instantly.  A 
statement  was  taken  from  me  in  the  hospital,  but  I 
could  not  attend  the  inquest.  Dermot  made  the  for- 
mal identification.  Dermot  and  Sheila  arranged  and 
attended  the  funeral  in  the  Southern  Cemetery.  It 
was  a  long  time  before  I  saw  the  grave.  Early  in  the 
new  year  I  hobbled  out  of  the  nursing  home,  whither 
I  had  gone  from  the  hospital.  My  new  car  was  wait- 
ing for  me,  with  a  chauffeur  at  the  wheel. 

Dermot  had  told  me  how  to  find  the  grave  amid 
that  afflicting  wilderness  of  graves,  and  it  was  with 
a  shock  that  my  eyes  fell  presently  upon  the  mound 
of  clay  where  Nellie  lay  sleeping  beneath  the  sodden 
remnants  of  the  flowers  that  pity  had  heaped  for 
concealment  of  the  crude  fact  of  burial. 


1  HAT  was  a  Saturday  afternoon.  There  was  a 
letter  waiting  for  me  at  the  nursing  home  when  I 
got  back.  "Dear  Uncle  Bill" — I  glanced  at  the  signa- 
ture— "Maeve."  She  was  coming  to  see  me  tomor- 
row. "And  you've  got  two  things  to  thank  for  the 
pleasure — first,  Livia;  and,  secondly,  the  intelligent 
management  of  this  theater  which  doesn't  put  the 
play  on  on  Mondays.  That  gives  us  r>  lovely  Ion-' 
week  end.  Livia  is  dying  to  meet  you.  She's  read  all 
your  books,  and  I  don  t  think  she  quite  believes 
that  I  know  you.    How  wonderful  to  be  a  Person, 


whom  mere  people  want  to  know!  However,  I  live 
in  hopes.    It'll  come!" 

Livia.  .  .  That  would  be  the  girl  Dermot  had 
told  me  about  when  he  was  up  for  the  funeral, 
Maeve's  roommate  in  London. 

There  was  no  more  said  at  the  time.  Livia  Vaynol, 
I'd  gathered,  was  not  much  older  than  Maeve — 
twenty  or  so.  She  was  an  orphan  with  a  little  money; 
just  enough  to  allow  her  to  contemplate  with  humor 
a  series  of  failures.  She  had  scrounged  a  small  part 
in  the  Mary  Latter  Company.  That  was  where 
Maeve  had  met  her.  But  she  was  not  good  enough. 
Then  she  had  been  in  the  chorus  of  a  musical  com- 
edy and  had  hated  it  and  left.  She  had  dabbled 
with  writing.  She  had,  indeed,  had  a  few  short 
stories  published  in  magazines.  Now  she  was  trying 
both  to  compose  songs  and  to  do  what  Sheila  vaguely 
called  "designing."  "You  know,"  she  said,  "she  just 
draws  shapes— squiggles— that  look  as  if  they  meant 
something.    Dermot  says  they're  good." 

Well,  that  was  Miss  Livia  Vaynol;  that  was  all  I 
knew  about  her. 

JYlY  dear,  what  a  woman  you  are!" 

Maeve  had  come  impetuously  into  the  room. 
Crippled  as  I  was,  I  couldn't  get  up  quickly,  and 
she  stood  looking  down  at  me,  holding  both  my 
hands  in  hers,  as  I  sat  in  my  chair,  then  turned 
eagerly  at  the  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs. 
"Livia!"  She  opened  the  door,  and  Livia  Vaynol 
came  in.  "This  is  Uncle  Bill,"  said  Maeve,  "or,  if 
you  want  to  be  reverent,  William  Essex." 

As  she  came  into  the  room  Livia  Vaynol  pulled 
off  a  leather  motoring-helmet  and  at  the  same  time 
shook  her  hair  free  from  constriction.  I  think  that 
hair,  which  had  its  own  startling  quality  of  vitality, 
was  the  first  thing  anyone  noticed  about  Livia  Vay- 
nol. It  was  the  color  of  corn,  a  gold  that  was  almost 
white,  yet  sparkling  and  gathering  to  itself  any  light 
there  was.  The  sudden  apparition  of  that  golden 
hair  was  so  immediately  impressive  that  I  did  not 
at  once  notice  the  broad  white  brow,  the  eyes  that 
had  the  blue  color  of  a  cornflower,  the  compassionate 
mouth,  and  the  way  the  whole  face  was  shaped  like 
the  petal  of  a  rose. 

She  was  wearing  a  stained  leather  jerkin,  and 
below  that  a  tweed  skirt  and  brogues.  Her  clothes 
seemed  altogether  too  utilitarian  for  so  decorative  a 
person.  We  shook  hands,  and  I  said:  "Miss  Vaynol, 
you  look  like  a  fine  flower  in  a  jam  jar." 

"I've  brought  a  suitcase  with  me,"  she  said,  "con- 
taining one  or  two  porcelain  vases."  Her  red  mouth 
opened  in  a  smile,  revealing  the  even  whiteness  of 
her  teeth. 

That  afternoon  I  left  the  nursing  home  and  re- 
turned to  The  Beeches.  For  the  first  time  since  I 
had  left  it  to  drive  to  Wilmslow  with  Nellie  and  the 
Rev.  W.  Wilson  Wintringham,  I  sat  in  my  study. 
The  girls  were  to  share  the  bedroom  that  Nellie  and 
I  had  used  for  so  long.  They  were  there  changing 
now.  I  could  hear  them  laughing  and  talking,  then 
the  bedroom  door  opened,  and  Livia  came  out  alone. 

I  tried  to  get  up,  but  at  that  moment  she  saw  me, 
crossed  the  room,  and  placed  both  hands  on  my 
shoulders.  I  think  she  must  have  felt  the  tremor 
which  passed  through  me.  She  smiled,  and  said: 
"Please— don't  get  up." 

She  crossed  over  to  the  fireplace.  The  bookcase 
that  Dermot  had  made  to  contain  my  novels  was 
over  the  fireplace.  They  were  all  there  now.  The 
latest— the  twelfth — had  arrived  a  few  days  before, 
but  it  was  not  yet  published.  Livia  ran  her  slender 
fingers  along  the  titles.  "What  lovely  editions!"  she 
said.  "I  know  them  all."  And  then,  turning  to- 
wards me:  "I'm  really  very  proud  to  know  you.  I 
suppose  a  lot  of  people  tell  you  that?" 

"Not  many.    I  don't  know  many  people." 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  facing  mine  and  crossed 
one  knee  over  the  other,  and  considered  me  thought- 
fully. Her  regard  was  so  calm  and  inscrutable  that 
I  wondered  whether  I  was  blushing  like  a  schoolgirl. 
Presently  she  said:  "When  I  put  my  hands  on  your 
shoulders  just  now,  you  trembled.   Why  was  that?" 

What  answer  I  should  have  made  I  do  not  know. 
But  at  that  moment  the  bedroom  door  opened.  Livia 
put  a  finger  to  her  lips  and  whispered:  "Here's 
Maeve!"  There  was  something  conspiratorial  about 
the  gesture,  that  gave  me  a  queer  thrill  of  pleasure. 

"You're  lucky  to  have  two  such  handsome 
wenches  to  take  to  dinner,  Uncle  Bill,"  Maeve  said. 

"Nothing  like  it  will  be  seen  in  Manchester  this 
night,"  I  said.    "Get  your  cloaks  and  let's  be  off." 

We  had  not  gone  far  when  something  familiar  in 
the  appearance  of  a  cyclist  who  shot  past  us,  head 
down,  hatless,  struck  me.  At  the  same  moment 
Maeve's  grip  on  my  arm  tightened  and  she  ex- 
claimed: "Uncle  Bill!  Wasn't  that  Oliver?"  I  told 
Martin  to  turn  back  home. 

Oliver  stood  under  the  light  in  the  hall,  his  face 
pale  and  drawn,  his  golden  hair  wind-blown  about 
his  forehead.  He  was  wearing  no  hat  or  overcoat, 
and  his  clothes  were  mud-splashed.  He  was  alto- 
gether a  dreadful  apparition.  He  thrust  his  hands 
into  the  jacket  pockets  and  grinned  at  us  rather 
sheepishly.  "Hallo,  Dad!  Hallo,  Maeve!"  he  said. 
"I  feel  rather— ashamed.    You  all  look  so  gay." 

"This  is  Miss  Vaynol,"  I  said.  "My  son  Oliver.'- 
The  formality  of  it  struck  me  as  absurd. 


Oliver  and  Livia  Vaynol  looked  steadily  at  one 
another,  and  I  had  a  strange  feeling  of  exclusion — 
that  Maeve  and  I  were  both  excluded — from  that 
regard.  "Oliver,"  I  said,  "your  presence  requires 
some  explanation."  I  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  led 
him  towards  the  stairs.  At  the  turn  of  the  landing 
I  paused  and  looked  down.  Livia  Vaynol  stood  as 
if  rooted  to  the  ground,  watching  Oliver's  dragging 
progress.  He  smiled  down  at  her,  but  she  did  not 
return  the  smile. 

"That's  a  marvelous  girl,  Dad,"  he  said  as  he  came 
into  the  room. 

"Sit  down,"  I  said,  unable  to  keep  irritation  out  of 
my  voice.  "Would  you  rather  discuss  now  what  has 
brought  you  home,  or  wait  till  the  morning?" 

"I'm  very  tired,"  he  said.  "I've  been  riding  for 
hours." 

"Hadn't  you  better  go  straight  to  bed?" 

"I'm  very  hungry,"  he  said,  "and  I'd  like  a  bath." 

"Then  you'd  better  have  a  bath  quickly,  and  come 
with  us.    We're  going  out  to  dinner." 

"Oh,  may  I?"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  expect  that. 
That's  very  good  of  you." 

While  he  was  bathing  I  talked  with  the  head- 
master by  telephone.  I  told  him  that  Oliver  was  at 
home,  and  begged  him  to  excuse  discussion  of  a 
grave  matter  by  telephone.  I  would  bring  Oliver  to 
school  myself  in  the  morning.  The  headmaster 
sounded  grim,  and  reluctantly  he  left  it  at  that. 

The  girls  were  hovering,  restless  and  disturbed,  in 
my  study.    "What  a  beautiful  boy!"  Livia  exclaimed. 

"Don't  waste  your  sympathy  on  him,"  said  Maeve 
with  sudden  sharpness,  and  took  my  hands  in  hers. 
"You  poor  darling,"  she  said.  "I  do  hope  it's  noth- 
ing serious.  Oh,  dear!  I  couldn't  have  a  moment's 
peace  with  Oliver.    Forgive  me  for  saying  that?" 

I  nodded,  squeezed  her  hands,  and  gazed  rather 
miserably  into  the  fire.  We  said  nothing  more,  just 
sat  there,  till  Oliver  came  into  the  room.  With  the 
happy  ability  of  the  young,  he  had  recovered  his 
poise  and  his  looks.  He  at  once  addressed  Livia 
as  though  there  were  no  one  else  in  the  room. 
"Father  says  I  can  come  out  to  dinner  with  you!" 

She  did  not  answer  him,  but  said  to  the  rest  of 
us:    "Well,  shall  we  go?" 

At  nine  the  next  morning  I  went  to  Oliver's  room. 
He  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  eating  with  great  heart- 
iness. I  feared  to  open  the  matter  which  had 
brought  me  there.  Oliver  did  not  help  me.  He  went 
on  delving  into  the  shell  of  a  brown  egg. 

"Well — ?"  I  began  lamely. 

"It  was  Grimshaw,"  he  said.  "I've  told  you  about 
him.    I  don't  like  him.    His  father's  a  butcher." 

"You  should  feel  at  home  with  him,  seeing  that 
your  father  was  a  baker's  boy." 

"He's  always  getting  at  me." 

"Getting  at  you?  As  I  remember  him,  he's  a 
small  weak  boy." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  He  thinks  no  one  will  hit  him. 
Well,  he  was  getting  at  me  again,  and  I  saw  red,  and 
before  I  knew  what  I  was  doing  I  kicked  him — " 

"You  kicked  that  poor  wretched  child?" 

Oliver  burst  out  explosively.  "I  didn't  mean  to. 
It's  the  way  he  gets  at  me.  We  were  standing  at 
the  top  of  some  steps — I  kicked  him  in  the  shin  and 
he  went  backward  down  the  steps.  He  lay  quite 
still  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps." 

I  felt  sick,  took  the  tray  off  the  bed  to  give  myself 
something  to  do,  and  then  sat  down  again. 

"Well,  everybody  came  crowding  up.  They  took 
him  into  the  san.,  and  old  Foxey" — who  was  Fox 
the  headmaster — "went  tearing  along  there.  I  hadn't 
moved  off  the  steps,  and  when  Foxey  came  back 
he  said  as  he  passed  me:  'Come  to  my  study  in  ten 
minutes.'    I  couldn't  face  it.    That's  all." 

"I  see.  That's  all.  Without  knowing  whether 
Grimshaw  was  alive  or  dead,  you  cleared  out."  (But 
I  didn't  imagine  there  was  much  the  matter  with 
him,  or  Fox  would  have  told  me  on  the  phone.) 

"But  you  do  believe,  don't  you,"  he  pleaded,  "that 
I  just  acted  thoughtlessly?" 

"I  must  believe  that,  if  you  say  so." 

"And  you  won't  tell  Livia  what  happened?" 

"I  should  be  ashamed  to,"  I  said.  "You'd  better 
dress.    We  leave  here  at  ten." 


i  HE  interview  with  Fox  was  not  easy.  "The  fact 
is,  you  know,  Mr.  Essex,  that  Oliver  thinks  he's 
somebody.  What  I  mean,"  he  continued,  "is  that 
Oliver  seems  to  assume,  because  he  is  the  son  of  a 
distinguished  man,  that  he  may,  shall  I  say,  take  it 
out  of  a  boy  less  fortunately  circumstanced." 

"I  entirely  disagree,"  I  said.  "I  don't  think  that 
has  anything  to  do  with  it.  Don't  let's  get  all 
wrapped  up  in  theories  about  it.  The  facts  are 
simple:  There's  a  boy  with  an  annoying  tongue; 
Oliver  couldn't  stand  his  tongue,  lost  his  temper, 
and  kicked  him.  Now,  whatever  the  provocation,  it 
is  agreed  that  kicking  is  a  dirty  trick,  and  what  to 
me  seemed  worse  was  running  away  without  dis- 
covering what  were  the  consequences  of  the  kick." 

"As  you  know,  they  were  fortunately  light.  A 
bruised  shin,  a  superficial  head-cut,  a  brief  fainting." 

We  were  interrupted  by  a  knock  at  the  door.  It 
was  the  father  of  young  Grimshaw.  He  was  a 
sturdy  hale-looking  chap,  and  I  gathered  the  im- 
pression that  he  was  a  better  man  than  his  son  was 
likely  to  be.  He  shook  hands  with  me.  "Ah've  bin 
talking    to    yon    young    beggar    of    mine,"    he    an- 


36 


>>>>>>>> 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


nounced.  "an  'Ah've  told  'im  if'e  can't  keep  a  civil 
tongue  in  'is  'ead  Ah'll  put  'im  into  t'  butcherin'. 
'E  always  was  a  one  for  lip.  Ah  reckon  your  boy 
won't  be  'earin'  much  more  from  'im,  Mr.  Essex." 

After  Mr.  Grimshaw  had  departed  with  my  thanks 
for  his  very  generous  view  of  the  matter,  I  asked 
Fox  point-blank:  "Do  you  want  to  expel  Oliver,  or 
would  you  like  me  to  remove  him  from  the  school?" 
There  was  a  lot  of  tut-tut-tut-ting  and  deprecation 
of  overhasty  action.  Some  added  discipline,  no 
doubt,  would  meet  the  case.  When  I  left,  I  was 
wondering  not  whether  Oliver  was  good  enough  for 
Fox,  but  whether  Fox  was  good  enough  for  Oliver. 

T 

*  HERE  was  a  time  when  the  idea  of  spending  six 
months  or  more  out  of  England,  with  no  one  but 
myself  to  please,  would  have  fascinated  me.  Now  it 
would  fascinate  me  no  longer.    I  had  done  it. 

I'd  had  no  scheme,  no  timetable.  I  stayed  where  I 
liked  as  long  as  I  liked  and  then  passed  on.  By 
land  and  sea  I  visited  most  countries  in  Europe  and 
some  in  Asia.  In  Constantinople  I  decided  sud- 
denly to  take  a  ship  home.  I  had  avoided  tourist 
routes,  and  whenever  possible  had  traveled  on  cargo 
boats.  I  did  so  on  the  homeward  journey.  There 
was  one  other  passenger,  and  we  met  at  dinner  in 
the  captain's  cabin.  The  captain  introduced  us— 
'Mr.  William  Essex,  Mr.  Josef  Wertheim"— but,  so 
far  as  I  was  concerned,  there  was  no  need  for  the 
introduction.  I  should  have  known  Josef  Wert- 
heim anywhere.  His  reputation  was  tyrannical;  it 
was  said  that  he  worked  his  artists  to  the  bone. 
He  had  a  genius  for  finding  them  everywhere. 

He  had  read  a  number  of  my  books  and  showed 
an  understanding  of  life  in  the  north  of  England  that 
surprised  me.  He  had  put  on  several  big  shows  in 
Manchester,  and  confessed  that  Manchester  audi- 
ences frightened  him. 

I  said  that  I  felt  I  had  said  everything  that  I 
wanted  to  say  about  Manchester,  I  wanted  to  settle 
in  London  and  try  my  hand  at  a  play. 

"A  play,"  he  said,  looking  gravely  at  the  glowing 
end  of  his  cigar.  "That  is  something  now."  He 
pondered,  and  added:  "I  have  never  done  a  play. 
That  would  be  satisfying.  Musical  shows,  circuses, 
boxing— but  a  play— that  might  satisfy  something 
here— eh?"  He  tapped  his  enormous  chest.  "I  have 
thought  I  would  do  it  some  day." 

It  was  on  the  last  night  of  the  voyage  that  Wer- 
theim said:  "You  know,  Essex,  I  have  been  think- 
ing about  that  play  you're  going  to  write.  You  let 
me  see  it  when  it's  ready." 

1  HAD  told  nobody  I  was  coming  home,  and  the 
next  morning  I  walked  happily  about  London.  The 
only  thing  I  lacked  was  agreeable  company  for 
lunch.  With  that  idea  in  my  head,  my  footsteps 
automatically  made  their  way  up  the  house  where 
Maeve  and  Livia  shared  their  flat. 

Receiving  no  answer  to  my  knock,  I  pushed  open 
the  door  and  saw  Livia  standing  before  an  easel 
under  the  skylight.  Maeve  was  not  in  the  room,  and 
though  I  had  been  telling  myself  that  I  wanted  to 
take  Maeve  and  Livia  to  lunch,  I  was  aware  of  a 
leap  of  gladness  at  finding  Livia  alone. 

"Good  morning,"  I  said,  and  Livia  whirled  around 
in  surprise. 

"Oh,  the  brown  man!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  a  bit 
of  holiday  will  do!  Thinner,  if  anything,  and  greyer 
— but  most  handsomely  grey." 

"Thank  you.  That's  the  first  time  anyone  has 
called  me  handsome,  and  I  must  say  I  like  it." 

There  was  a  healthy  fire  burning  and  an  inviting 
divan  stretched  before  it.  I  sat  down,  and  Livia 
produced  sherry.  She  sat  at  my  side.  "You  know, 
I  had  no  idea  you  were  homeward  bound.  I  must 
be  the  first  person  you've  called  on." 

"You  and  Maeve.  I  wanted  to  take  you  both  out 
to  lunch.  But  I  seem  to  be  interfering  with  some 
work."    I  glanced  towards  the  easel. 

"Oh,  that!  Poof!"  And  Livia  gave  a  comical  push 
to  her  hair.  "You  wait  till  you  see  your  new  house," 
she  said  mysteriously. 

"Have  you  been  allowed  to  trespass?" 

"I've  seen  one  or  two  things — even,"  she  added, 
"designed  one  or  two  things — the  curtains." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  that,"  I  said,  genuinely 
pleased.  "I  shall  be  glad  to  have  something  by  you 
in  the  house.  And  now,  what  about  lunch?  Will 
Maeve  be  in?" 

"She  will  not,"  said  Livia.  "She's  in  Ireland, 
visiting  her  brother." 

"Rory!    How's  he  getting  on?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  him.  I've  never  seen  him, 
you  know.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  Maeve's  potty 
about  him.  They  write  to  one  another  two  or  three 
times  a  week,  and  not  long  ago  I  was  present  at  a 
pretty  little  row  between  Maeve  and  her  father.  She 
wants  the  boy  to  be  brought  back.  She  says  keep- 
ing him  in  Dublin  all  this  time  is  turning  him  into 
an  Irish  rebel." 

I  sighed.  "Yes,  I  know  all  about  that.  It's  an  old, 
old  story.    Well,  let's  lunch.    Cafe  Royal?" 

Livia  got  up  and  shook  her  head.  "Oh,  no- 
please,"  she  said.  "I've  just  got  you  back  and  now 
you  want  me  to  share  you  with  a  crowd.  Let's 
have  lunch  here.  There's  so  much  I  want  to  know — 
where  you've  been,  what  you've  done — " 

After   lunch,   when  we   were   sitting   in  front  of 


the  fire,  I  asked:  "What  about  Oliver?  Tell  me, 
how  did  you  get  on  with  him?" 

During  my  absence  that  summer  Dermot  had 
looked  after  Oliver's  holiday.  Rory  had  remained 
in  Dublin;  Maeve's  play  was  still  running;  so  the 
party  at  Heronwater  was  small— Sheila  and  Dermot 
and  Eileen,  Oliver  and  Livia  Vaynol.  I  gathered 
from  letters  that  Oliver  had  invited  Livia. 

"Who <( wouldn't  get  on  with  him?"  Livia  now 
asked.  "I  think  he's  the  most  marvelous  person  for 
getting  on  with  that  I've  ever  met." 

Once  she  was  launched,  she  talked  for  a  long 
time  about  Oliver.  There  was  one  adventure  that 
evidently  remained  vividly  in  her  mind.  Oliver  had 
taken  her  out  in  our  boat,  the  Maeve,  after  dinner, 
and  he  had  made  a  mess  of  things.  He  had  taken 
the  boat  up  the  Percuil  River  on  a  falling  tide. 

"The  tide  was  all  right  for  the  dinghy,"  Livia 
said,  "but  the  Maeve's  pretty  heavy.  She  was  on 
the  mud.  We  had  to  get  back  ashore.  It  was  lucky 
there  were  plenty  of  rugs." 

"Lucky!  It  sounds  providential,"  I  said.  Livia 
looked  up  sharply  at  the  tone  of  my  voice. 

"You  mean,  you  think  Oliver — ?" 

"Well,  one  doesn't  usually,  when  going  for  an 
after-dinner  run,  provide  for  a  night  out,"  I  said 
bluntly.  "You  must  have  been  there  all  night.  You 
know,  Livia,  this  seems  to  me  to  have  been  a  rather 
foolish  adventure." 

The  smile  faded  from  her  face.  "I  don't  think  it 
was  foolish,"  he  said.    "I'm  not  a  child." 

"But  Oliver's  little  more  than  a  child." 


When  I  went  to  Oliver's  room  to  see  him  in  his 
first  dinner  jacket  he  turned  proudly  from  his 
dressing  table.     "Well,  will  I  do?"  he  asked 

"Is  he?"  Her  brows  went  up,  and  there  was  a 
depth  of  meaning  that  shocked  me.  "He  must  have 
done  a  great  deal  of  growing  without  your  noticing 
it.  I  apologized  to  Dermot  and  Sheila  for  the  uneasi- 
ness I  caused  them,  and  I'm  sorry  for  that.  But  for 
the  rest,  I  regret  nothing  that  happened — nothing." 

The  strength  of  feeling  in  that  repeated  "nothing" 
made  me  feel  as  though  I  had  awakened  from  a 
nightmare  full  of  implications  that  were  the  more 
horrible  because  they  were  so  illusive. 

LET'S  have  a  look  at  you,"  I  said,  and  I  was 
pleased  with  what  I  saw.  Oliver  had  said  he  would 
whistle  across  the  landing  when  he  was  ready, 
he  had  whistled,  and  I  had  gone  to  his  room  to  see 
him  in  his  first  dinner-jacket.     He  was  sixteen. 

He  turned  round  proudly  from  his  dressing  table. 
He  was  shooting  up  in  the  most  astonishing  fashion. 
He  must  have  been  five-feet-ten,  slender,  graceful  as 
a  young  tree.  He  had  given  himself  a  lot  of  atten- 
tion. His  blue  eyes  had  an  almost  childish  diffi- 
dence as  he  stood  there  asking:  "Well,  will  I  do?" 

"Yes,  you  wear  evening  clothes  well." 

"Who's  coming  tonight?" 

"Your  Uncle  Dermot  and  Sheila.  A  man  named 
Wertheim — I've  mentioned  him  to  you,  haven't  I? — 
and  his  wife.  She's  an  actress.  They're  the  only 
people  you  don't  know.  Then  there'll  be  me  and 
Livia  Vaynol,  and  you  and  Maeve.  Are  you  ready? 
We  must  be  downstairs  when  people  come." 

As  we  went  out,  he  said:  "By  the  way,  guv'nor, 
Christmas  is  coming.  I  wish  you'd  give  me  a  good 
cigarette  case.  Something  you  can  offer  people. 
You  don't  mind  my  smoking,  do  you?" 

"So  long  as  you  keep  it  in  reason.  Were  you  really 
thinking  of  tonight?"  He  nodded.  "Well,  put  this 
in  your  pocket.  It's  full.  I  make  you  a  present  of 
it   now."     I   handed   him   my   gold   cigarette   case. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  protested.    "I  can't  take  yours." 

"Take  it.  I  don't  mind  offering  people  a  cigarette 
from  a  yellow  cardboard  packet." 

He  put  the  case  in  his  pocket.  "Normally,  of 
course,"  he  conceded,  "I  think  you're  right.  But 
when  one's  wearing  evening  clothes  it's  rather  dif- 
ferent, don't  you  think?" 

This  was  the  first  dinner  party  in  my  new  house. 


I  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table,  with  Wertheim  on 
my  left  and  Mrs.  Wertheim  on  my  right.  Next  tc 
Mrs.  Wertheim  sat  Oliver  with  Livia  beyond  him. 
He  was  very  attentive  to  Livia  all  through  the  meal. 
Everybody  seemed  happy,  Dermot  and  Wertheim 
swapping  stories  based  on  their  mutual  love  for 
modern  art;  Maeve  and  Sheila  hobnobbing  the 
more  happily  because  they  saw  little  of  one  another 
in  those  days;  Livia  and  Oliver  exchanging  heaven 
knows  what  sweetness;  and  Josie  Wertheim  and  I. 
She  astonished  me  by  saying:  "Jo  tells  me  you 
are  going  to  write  a  play  for  him.  Would  you  like 
to  tell  me  what  it's  about?" 

I  did;  and  Josie  said:     "You  must  call  it  'Every 
Street.' " 
''That's  splendid!    That  fits  it  perfectly." 
"Are  you  free  tomorrow?"  she  asked,  rummaging 
in  the  handbag  which  she  kept  on  her  lap.     She 
produced  an  engagement  book.     "Eleven  o'clock?" 
I  said  that  would  suit  me.    "Very  well,  then."    She 
made  a  note  in  the  book.    "Bring  the  play  with  you." 
I  had  imagined  that  Wertheim  and  I  would  have 
an  hour's  talk  about  the  play,  that  perhaps  I  would 
read  a  bit  here  and  there,  and  that  then  I  would 
leave  it  for  him  to  turn  over  in  his  mind.    I  hadn't 
known  my  Wertheim. 

We  were  at  it  from  the  word  Go.  Lunch  was 
brought  in,  and  I  stayed  to  dinner,  and  after  dinner 
we  were  at  it  again.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  I 
set  out  for  home.  In  my  pocket  I  had  a  sheaf  of 
notes,  in  my  mind  an  immense  respect  for  Wertheim. 
It  was  an  exhausting,  illuminating  day.  "And  now, 
Essex,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
now  we're  on  the  way  to  making  something  of  it." 
And  we  were.  "Every  Street"  went  on  in  the  fol- 
lowing spring— 1913— and  ran  till  the  war  broke  and 
killed  it.  But  by  then  Wertheim  knew  what  Maeve 
could  do,  and  that  was  the  important  matter. 

VV  HEN  I  look  back  across  the  gulf  of  horror— the 
world's  horror  and  my  own — to  the  years  before  the 
war,  that  April  of  1913  shines  with  an  especial 
radiance.  It  seems  now  as  though  there  was  some- 
thing fatal  about  it,  as  though  we  were  all  too  happy. 
Maeve,  I  think,  was  the  only  one  in  whose  heart 
there  was  a  premonition. 

There  we  incredibly  were,  she  and  I,  dining  in 
the  Cafe  Royal,  redeeming  the  ancient  vow  that  we 
would  dine  together  on  the  night  when  she  was  to 
make  her  first  appearance  in  a  play  I  had  written  for 
her.  We  had  to  dine  very  early,  so  that  she  could 
go  on  to  the  St.  John's  Theater,  where  "Every 
Street"  was  to  try  its  luck.  We  had  had  difficulty 
in  getting  away.  Everybody  had  wanted  us:  Jo  and 
Josie,  Livia,  Sheila,  and  Dermot,  Rory  and  Maggie 
Donnelly.  They  were  over,  those  two,  on  their  first 
visit  since  Rory's  Irish  apprenticeship. 

But  Maeve  and  I  had  got  away.  We  should  all 
meet  at  supper,  anyhow,  to  count  our  laurels  or  lick 
our  wounds.  We  leaned  back  on  the  red  plush,  with 
coffee  before  us.  I  gave  Maeve  a  cigarette  and  lit 
it  for  her.      "Nervous?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "You  did  really  write  'Every 
Street'  for  me?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  Isn't  Annie  Hargreaves  your  part — down  to 
the  bone?" 

"I'm  very  pleased  with  it.  Oh,  man,  I'm  so  glad 
this  moment  has  come  at  last.  But,  you  know," 
with  a  valiant  smile,  "I  didn't  think  that  when  the 
moment  came  you'd  be  engaged  to  another  woman." 

"My  dear — "  was  all  I  could  say. 

She  suddenly  put  out  her  cigarette.     "Let's  go." 

If  my  engagement  to  Livia  was  painful  to  Maeve, 
it  was  incredible  to  me.  It  had  happened  so  sud- 
denly. It  was  on  the  night  that  I  have  written  about, 
when  I  had  a  few  people  to  dinner,  that  I  knew  I 
loved  Livia.  I  had  loved  no  woman  before.  I  sup- 
pose I  had  come  as  near  to  loving  Maeve  as  a  man 
can  come  while  yet  feeling  an  affection  too  level 
and  kindly  for  passion. 

When  we  men  went  into  the  drawing  room  that 
night  after  sitting  for  a  while  over  our  cigars,  I  was 
conscious  that  the  first  face  I  looked  for  was  Livia's 
and  that  the  first  face  Livia  looked  for  was  Oliver's. 

No  one,  I  thought  to  myself,  could  fail  to  be  aware 
of  his  extraordinary  physical  attractiveness;  and  on 
the  thought  my  mind  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  Physi- 
cal? That  was  the  first  time  I  had  qualified,  even  in 
my  secret  thoughts,  Oliver's  attractiveness. 

It  is  a  fearful  thing  when  one  love  wars  with 
another.  Watching  him  and  Livia,  hearing  no  word 
they  said,  seeing  the  understanding  in  their  looks, 
their  smiling  acceptance  of  one  another  that  tor- 
tured me  with  implications  of  secrets,  experiences 
shared.  I  felt  my  heart  turning  over,  because  I 
knew  then  that  I  wanted  Livia  Vaynol  for  myself. 

Wertheim  and  the  play  kept  me  busy  throughout 
that  holiday  of  Oliver's.  I  didn't  see  much  of  Oliver 
except  at  meals.  We  went  to  a  pantomime  together 
and  once  or  twice  we  walked  together  on  the  Heath. 
But  he  was  at  a  stage  which  baffled  me. 

How  much  Oliver  was  seeing  of  Livia,  where  he 
saw  her,  I  never  inquired.  She  turned  up  at  St. 
Pancras  to  see  him  off  when  the  holiday  was  over. 
I  was  surprised  to  see  her  there. 

It  was  the  first  chance  I  had  had  to  speak  to  her 
since  the  night  of  the  dinner  party.  I  had  told  my- 
self that  I  would  wait  till  Oliver  was  gone,  and  now 
Oliver  was  gone — and  there  was  Livia  at  my  side. 


37 


*ywu  &€m,  *ywto  hf€m/ 


I  said:   "I've  been  working  over  a  play." 

"Yes.    Maeve  told  me  about  it." 

"Wertheim  and  I  have  done  all  that's  possible  to- 
gether. I  must  finish  it  alone.  I  shall  take  it  down 
to  Heronwater  tomorrow.  I've  never  been  there  in 
the  winter.    Would  you  like  to  come  with  me?" 

"You'd  never  work  with  me  about  the  place." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  should.  I  can  do  all  that's  necessary 
between  nine  in  the  morning  and  one  o'clock.  Au- 
thorship, you  know,  is  one  of  the  soft  jobs,  though 
authors  like  to  pretend  that  it's  arduous." 

We  stood  beside  my  car,  exchanging  this  banal 
chat,  while  my  heart  was  beating  so  furiously  that  I 
wondered  whether  it  could  be  heard  by  my  chauf- 
feur, Martin,  standing  there  with  face  averted. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  ought  to  come." 

I  led  her  away  from  the  car.  "Would  it  help  to 
regularize  the  position  if  we  were  engaged?" 

She  came  to  a  halt,  and  gave  a  restless  shake  to 
her  body.  "Oh,  send  that  car  away,"  she  said.  "We 
can't  talk  about  these  things  walking  like  a  couple 
of  fools  in  front  of  all  this — "  She  helplessly  waved 
a  hand  at  the  station  fagade.  So  I  sent  Martin  away, 
and  we  walked  out  into  Euston  Road. 

"For  the  best  part  of  last  year,"  I  said,  "I  was  gal- 
livanting about  the  loveliest  places  in  Europe.  If 
you  had  been  with  me,  I  could  have  proposed  to  you 
on  the  pont  d'Avignon,  or  on  the  ramparts  of  Mon- 
treuil.  As  it  is,  I  propose  in  a  gritty  January  wind 
in  the  Euston  Road." 

"Listen,  Bill,"  she  said,  taking  my  arm.  "Remem- 
ber— when  you  were  in  the  nursing-home  in  Man- 
chester and  I  motored  Maeve  up?"     I  nodded. 

"Well,  I  did  like  you.  I  knew  your  work,  and  I 
liked  that.  You  didn't  have  much  to  say  that  day, 
you  know.  You  were  not  brilliant,  and  I  liked  that, 
too.    I  couldn't  live  with  a  person  like  that." 

"That's  lucky  for  me." 

"But,  you  see,  that  was  just  an  elementary  first 
impression.  After  all,  we  were  only  together  for  a 
few  hours,  and  then  Oliver  came  along.  That 
altered  things." 

"Are  you — are  you — in  love  with  Oliver?" 

"I  think  all  day  about  his  beauty.  I  don't  know 
whether  I'm  in  love  with  him,  but  he  obsesses  me." 

We  walked  on  without  speaking  for  a  while,  and 
I  thought  of  the  night  long  ago  when  Dermot  and 
I  had  sat  up  late  in  his  workshop,  arranging  the  fate 
of  our  sons  who  were  not  born.  "If  I  have  a  son," 
I  had  said,  "I  just  want  him  to  have  everything. 
I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  to  give  him  every- 
thing he  asks  for  and,  seeing  him  enjoy  it,  I'll  enjoy 
it  myself  and  live  my  life  over  again."  Now  Oliver 
was  asking  for  Livia,  and  I  was  not  enjoying  it. 

At  last  she  said:  "I  didn't  know  you  were  so  seri- 
ous about  it,"  and  the  words  were  rather  strained. 

"I  have  never  been  so  serious  in  my  life,"  I  said 
unsteadily.  "I'm  terribly  in  love  with  you,  Livia. 
I've  never  loved  a  woman  before.  I've  never  known 
any  of  the  things  that  I  imagine  marriage  to  mean." 

"Why  do  you  think  I  shall  be  able  to  give  you  the 
things  you've  lacked?  If  I  married  you,  it  would 
be  because  I  liked  you  and  because  you  were  a  very 
distinguished  man.  I'm  vain.  But  you  see,  I'm 
honest.  Oh,  God,"  she  added,  "I  wish  you  weren't 
Oliver's  father!" 

"Can't  you  forget  Oliver,  or  think  about  him  dif- 
ferently?" 

"I  don't  know  how  I  think  about  him.  Why  don't 
you  wait?  We're  in  a  tangle.  It  will  clear  itself  up 
if  you  give  it  time.  Why  don't  you?  You  see,  you 
offer  such  tremendous  inducements.  It's  a  pressure 
upon  me.    I  don't  think  it's  fair." 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said.  "Forgive  me."  I  called  a  taxi, 
and  set  her  down  a  few  moments  later  at  her  door. 

MARTIN  drove  me  to  Heronwater  the  next  day. 
"A  bad  day,  sir,"  he  said.  It  was.  The  Heath  was 
a  cheerless  place  under  the  rain;  the  sky  seemed  to 
be  on  top  of  our  heads. 

When  we  arrived  at  Heronwater,  I  donned  gum 
boots  and  oilskins  and  went  for  a  tour  of  the  dark, 
rain-soaked  grounds.  I  turned  to  go  back  to  the 
house,  stood  as  if  rooted  to  the  ground. 

"It  can't  be  you!"  I  said  foolishly,  and  indeed  in 
the  darkness  it  was  hard  to  make  out  the  features 
of  the  face  that  glimmered  whitely  before  me. 

"Yes,"  said  Livia. 

"But,  my  child — my  dear — in  such  a  night!  What 
are  you  wearing?" 

I  reached  out  my  hand  and  felt  the  fragility  of 
the  dress,  sodden  with  rain,  gummed  to  her  body. 

"I'm  being  melodramatic."  Her  laugh  was  pro- 
voking. "I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  Have  I  done  it?" 

I  took  her  suddenly  in  both  arms  and  drew  her  to 
me.  She  threw  back  her  head,  and  I  crushed  my 
mouth  upon  her  wet  mouth,  and  upon  her  hair  and 
her  throat.  She  was  dripping  like  a  naiad,  and  I 
kissed  the  rain  out  of  her  eyes.  Then  I  picked  her 
up  and  waded  awkwardly  in  those  great  boots  of 
mine  through  the  wet  grass.  She  was  easy  to  carry 
for  all  her  height.  I  put  her  down  on  the  porch 
and  saw  that  her  eyes  were  starry.  "Go  and 
change,"  I  said.  "You'll  catch  your  death."  She 
kicked  off  her  soaking  shoes  and  ran  upstairs. 

I  took  off  my  gum  boots  and  oilskin,  and  went 
up  to  my  room  to  wash.  Livia  was  already  in  the 
study  when  I  went  down.  When  I  entered  the  room 
she  turned,  her  face  lighted  by  a  welcoming  smile. 
I  passed  her  a  glass  of  sherry. 


She  raised  her  glass.  "Here's  to  constancy.  There's 
nothing  I  admire  more." 

"Here's  to  Livia,  and  constancy." 

After  dinner  I  filled  my  pipe  and  settled  in  a  big 
chair  by  the  study  fire.  Livia  poured  out  the  coffee 
which  stood  on  a  small  table  between  us. 

"Ever  since  I  bought  Heronwater,"  I  said,  "I  have 
imagined  what  it  would  be  like  to  come  down  here 
in  the  winter,  work  all  day  long  with  no  one  but 
Sam  Sawle  to  look  after  me.  Well,  here  I  am.  But 
I  am  not  alone.    Why?" 

Livia  sipped  her  coffee.  "Of  all  the  men!  Didn't 
you  invite  me?" 

"I  formed  a  painful  impression  that  my  invitation 
had  been  refused." 

"But  I've  told  you,  I'm  a  very  inconstant  and 
changeable  woman.  You  must  learn  never  to  take 
me  at  my  word.     May  I  have  a   cigarette?" 

I  gave  her  one,  and  lit  it.  "Well,  tell  me — why 
did  you  change  your  mind  and  come?" 

She  considered  my  face  thoughtfully.  "You  are 
one  of  those  men  who  will  not  accept  the  accom- 
plished fact,  must  have  reasons.  Was  that  not  an 
accomplished  fact,  when  you  held  me  in  your  arms? 
Oh,  dear!  I  have  never  before  been  hugged  by  a 
man  in  oilskins.    I  should  hate  to  be  a  sailor's  bride." 

"You  are  not  serious,"  I  said  resentfully. 

Livia  got  up  and  threw  her  cigarette  into  the  fire. 
"Serious!"  she  cried,  suddenly  dead-white  with  seri- 
ousness. "Why  should  I  be  serious?  Is  there  any- 
thing to  be  serious  about?  Isn't  it  self-evident  that 
when  a  girl  has  to  choose  between  a  schoolboy  of 
sixteen  who  will  probably  be  nothing,  whom  she 
knows  to  be  as  conceited  as  the  devil  and  as  greedy 
as  hell — when  she  has  to  choose  between  that  and  a 
famous  wealthy  man,  I  ask  you,  isn't  it  self-evident 
that  she'll  choose  the  man?  Let  her  do  it  without 
worrying  her  for  reasons.  What  reasons  can  there 
be?  One  would  think  you  were  afraid  of  what 
Oliver  could  do  against  you.    You're  not,  are  you?" 

"No,"  I  said.    "It's  not  a  question  of  fear." 

"Right.  So  long  as  you're  sure  of  that.  Here  I 
am.    I'm  yours.    It's  your  job  to  keep  me." 

I  had  risen,  too,  and  I  put  my  arms  about  her  and 
felt  her  head  sink  onto  my  shoulder.  She  began  to 
cry  without  restraint  and  I  held  her  close  and  whis- 
pered comforting  words  to  her.  She  looked  up  with 
eyes  brimful  of  tears.  "Oh,  Bill!  I  do  like  you  so 
much.    If  I  loved  you,  it  would  be  wonderful." 

"You  will.    You  will,"  I  promised  her. 

She  managed  a  smile,  reached  up  her  lips  to  be 
kissed,  and  said:  "Let  me  go  to  bed.  I'm  tired  out." 

In  the  morning  there  was  no  sign  of  the  storm.  I 
went  down  to  breakfast  and  found  Livia  there  be- 
fore me,  already  busy  with  coffee  and  eggs  and 
bacon.  She  kissed  me,  rather  dutifully  I  thought. 
"Now,"  I  teased  her,  holding  her  tight,  "a  warmer 
kiss  than  that." 

"You're  lucky  to  get  a  kiss  at  all,"  she  said,  "com- 
ing down  to  breakfast  at  this  hour.  I  thought  I 
should  have  to  go  without  seeing  you." 

"Go!"  I  said  in  dismay.    "What  do  you  mean — go?" 

"Clear  out.  Partir.  Vamoose.  Abscond,"  she  re- 
plied, buttering  a  roll.  "Can  you  spare  Martin  to 
take  me  in  to  Truro  to  the  train?" 

"But  today!  The  first  day  of  our  engagement!  I 
thought  we'd  get  about — see  things." 

"You  see!  I  told  you  you'd  do  no  work  with  me 
about!  As  soon  as  I'm  gone,  you'll  settle  down 
to  your  work.    Please." 

"Will  you  make  a  habit  of  running  off  just  when 
I  want  you?"  I  asked  miserably. 

"I'm  the  most  impulsive  creature  in  the  world. 
I  don't  make  habits.  So  you  see,  you'll  never  be  just 
one  of  my  habits.  That  should  be  gratifying  to  a 
husband.    Now,  what  about  Martin?" 

I  ordered  the  car.  She  gave  me  a  warmer  kiss 
than  the  first  one,  and  a  moment  later  she  was  gone. 

WHILE  at  Heronwater  I  began  each  day  by  writ- 
ing to  Livia.  I  found  that  there  was  an  immense 
amount  to  say.  The  letter  usually  took  an  hour  to 
write. 

Livia  replied  regularly  every  day.  But  every 
time  I  read  one  of  her  letters,  I  had  that  feeling: 
That  it  was  a  reply. 

There  were  only  two  points  that  were,  so  to  speak, 
from  Livia  to  me.  "By  the  way,  Maeve  finds  the 
flat  rather  small.  She  has  decided  she  ought  to  have 
a  place  of  her  own.  I  told  her,  of  course,  about  us. 
You  wanted  that,  didn't  you?  Yours  with  much 
love,  Livia." 

That  was  one  point,  and  I  felt,  somehow,  I  would 
rather  have  told  Maeve  myself.  I  ought  to  have 
told  Maeve  myself. 

The  second  point  was  this:  "By  the  way,  I  have 
just  received  a  letter  from  Oliver,  and  it  is  pretty 
clear  that  he  knows  nothing  about  our  engagement. 
Will  you  tell  him,  or  shall  I?  Personally,  I'd  rather 
you  did.    Yours  with  much  love,  Livia." 

"My  dear  Oliver.  Livia  Vaynol  and  I  are  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  .  .  ." 

Dreadfully  abrupt!  "You  may  be  surprised  to 
know  that  Livia  and  I.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Oliver:  I  have  noticed  that  ever  since 
you  met  Livia  Vaynol  you  have  felt  affectionately 
towards  her,  and  I  think,  therefore,  you  will  be 
pleased  to  know.  .  .  ." 


Pleased!    My  God!    Would  he  be! 
"It  is  now  more  than  a  year  since  your  mother 
died.  .  .  ." 
I  tore  that  up,  too. 

Maeve  wrote  to  me. 

Dear  Bill:  Congratulations  on  your  engage- 
ment. Rehearsals  of  "Every  Street"  begin  to- 
morrow. I  suppose  you'll  be  there?  If  so, 
would  you  call  for  me  and  take  me  along?  It's 
only  a  sentimental  idea,  but  I  feel  I'd  like  to 
take  up  my  first  stroke  on  your  play  in  your 
company.  After  all,  we've  had  this  play  in  mind 
for  a  few  years  now,  haven't  we?  Besides,  I 
want  you  to  meet  someone  here  at  the  flat. 

It  is  a  grand  play,  Bill.  I've  been  in  plenty, 
and  I  know.  Wertheim  let  me  read  the  whole 
script,  and  I  loved  it.  And,  like  all  my  other 
blessings,  it  comes  from  you,  dear  Bill.  Love 
from  Maeve. 

Maeve's  new  flat  was  in  Bruton  Street.  I  rang  the 
bell,  and  stared,  struggling  with  recollection,  at  the 
portly,  rosy  dame  who  opened  the  door. 

"Tha's  forgotten  me,  Mr.  Essex,"  she  said. 

"Why,  Annie,  I'd  have  known  you  anywhere,"  I 
said.    "You  haven't  changed  a  scrap." 

Annie  Suthurst  smiled  delightedly.  Oh,  dear!  It 
must  be  the  best  part  of  twenty  years  ago,  that 
Annie  Suthurst,  a  young  widow,  had  become  the 
O'Riorden's  first  maid. 

Maeve  came  out  proudly  to  meet  me.  "Isn't  the 
apartment  lovely?"  she  asked,  and  when  I  said  that 
indeed  it  was,  so  far  as  I  had  seen  it,  she  took  me 
around  to  see  all  the  rest.  Finally  she  opened  the 
door  of  her  sitting  room.    "Here's  my  surprise." 

Rory  came  forward  with  a  smile  lighting  his  face, 
and  farther  into  the  room  stood  Maggie  Donnelly. 

"Well,  Rory,  my  dear  boy!"  I  placed  both  my 
hands  on  his  shoulders.  It  was  easy  to  do.  He  had 
not  very  much  grown  upwards  like  Oliver,  whose 
eyes  now  looked  at  me  almost  from  the  level  of  my 
own.  Rory  looked  up  at  me.  The  serious  grey-eyed 
face  had  not  changed  much,  except  that  it  was,  if 
anything,  more  serious. 

"This  is  Maggie  Donnelly,"  he  said  rather  timidly. 
She  had  a  strong,  resolute  look,  but  was  tall  and 
beautifully  feminine. 

"I'm  staying  over  Easter,"  Rory  said.  "It'll  be 
grand  meeting  Oliver  again.  Now  that  I  have  a  job, 
we'll  have  lots  to  talk  about." 

"I'm  sorry  you  won't  meet  him,  Rory.  He's  not 
coming  home  for  Easter.  I  wish  you  had  let  him 
know  you  were  coming.  Then  I'm  sure  he'd  have 
changed  his  plans.    He's  going  to  Scotland." 

"But — "  Rory  began,  his  face  clouding;  then: 
"Ach,  well,  there'll  be  another  time." 

I  walked  across  the  room  to  look  out  of  the  win- 
dow. With  my  back  to  him,  I  said,  "I'm  sorry,  Rory. 
You  mean,  Oliver  did  know  you  were  coming  over?" 

He  came  to  me  impulsively  and  put  his  arm 
through  mine,  looking  down  with  me  into  the  gar- 
den. "Ach,  now,  that's  nothing  at  all,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  good  chance  for  Oliver.  Scotland  doesn't  offer 
every  day.  Now  isn't  Maeve  the  lucky  one,  with 
this  flat,  and  this  bit  of  a  view  and  all?" 

"God  bless  the  boy!  He's  got  the  jargon  of  a  stage 
Irishman!" 

"And  why  not?"  Rory  grinned.  "You  just  wait 
a  bit,  and  all  Ireland  will  be  a  stage.    You'll  see." 

After  lunch  Rory  and  Maggie  left  us.  "She  doesn't 
know  the  first  thing  about  London,"  said  Rory,  "and 
all  I  know  is  what  I  learned  those  times  when  we 
were  on  the  way  to  Heronwater." 

AND  now  those  rehearsals  in  a  dreary  hall  in  a 
back  street  were  over,  and  the  later  rehearsals  at 
the  St.  John's  Theater  were  over;  and  Maeve  and  I 
got  up  from  dinner  in  the  Cafe  Royal  and  walked 
out  into  Regent  Street. 

The  play  was  all  right.  From  the  rise  of  the  cur- 
tain, as  I  sat  in  my  box  with  Livia  and  Rory  and 
Maggie  Donnelly  I  knew  it  was  going  to  be  all  right. 
There  was  a  laugh  in  the  first  line,  and  we  got  it. 
Soon  there  was  that  grand  satisfactory  silence  which 
means  that  everyone  in  the  theater  is  gripped  by 
the  play  and  is  intent  on  every  word. 

I  relaxed,  I  allowed  myself  to  look  about.  In  a 
box  opposite  were  Dermot  and  Sheila  and  Eileen, 
with  Josie  Wertheim.  Wertheim  himself,  a  stout, 
uneasy  ghost,  was  now  standing  at  the  back  of  the 
box,  now  vanished.  Towards  the  end  of  the  first 
act,  the  door  of  my  box  opened  quietly  and  his  soft 
heavy  hand  rested  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  felt  it  grip 
a  little  till  the  applause  started,  then  it  relaxed,  and 
he  joined  in.  It  was  applause  well  deserved.  The 
company  had  put  the  act  over  beautifully,  and 
Maeve  had  fulfilled  all  our  expectations. 

When  the  final  curtain  went  down,  the  audience 
remained  to  cheer  and  cheer  again.  Wertheim 
hustled  me  down  to  the  stage,  and  first  I  faced  the 
audience  in  the  midst  of  the  smiling,  weary,  gratified 
company,  then  with  Maeve  alone.  "This  is  it,  Bill," 
she  whispered.  "It'll  never  come  again — this  first 
night  of  your  first  play."  And  holding  her  hand  I 
told  the  audience  how  I  had  taken  Maeve  to  her  first 
play,  how  I  had  seen  her  grow  up  loving  the  theater, 
how  I  had  promised  that  someday  I  would  write 
her  a  play,  and  how  this  was  the  play. 


38 


~>^^^^V» 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


When  I  moved  into  the  wings,  Wertheim  ex- 
claimed: "What  a  story!  Every  paper  in  London 
will  print  it."  Every  paper  did  print  the  story. 
Some  called  it  a  "romance  of  dramatist  and  actress" 
and  printed  photographs  of  me  and  Maeve.  This 
"romance"  atmosphere  did  the  play  a  world  of  good 
and  kept  the  theater  full  till  "Every  Street"  settled 
down  to  run  on  its  own  merits. 

1HIS  seemed  to  me  the  perfect  opportunity  to 
further  my  acquaintance  with  Livia.  All  I  wanted 
now,  with  time  on  my  hands,  was  to  spend  as  much 
of  that  time  as  I  could  with  her.  And  then  things 
so  turned  out  that  she  had  not  much  time  to  spend 
with  me.  It  was  towards  the  middle  of  June  that  I 
had  taken  her  to  lunch,  and  at  another  table  in  the 
restaurant  was  Wertheim. 

"I  want  to  see  you,"  he  said.  "Where  can  we 
talk?" 

"Would  I  be  in  the  way?"  Livia  asked.  "There 
is  my  flat." 

When  we  got  to  Livia's  flat,  Wertheim  sank  into 
an  easy  chair,  and  asked,  "What  d'  you  think  of 
these  musical  revues,  Essex?" 

"I  like  them.  I  like  their  speed  and  color,  and 
some  of  the  sets  are  magnificent." 

"Well,  I've  never  done  a  revue,"  he  said,  "and  I 
want  to  do  the  best  one  there's  ever  been."  He 
smoked  for  a  while  in  silence,  then  said  suddenly: 
"Look  at  Maeve.  That  girl's  versatile.  There  she  is 
doing  a  magnificent  piece  of  straight  acting  in 
'Every  Street,'  and  she  has  a  grand  sense  of  comedy. 
There's  my  leading  lady.  Now  there's  her  father. 
He's  got  a  marvelous  sense  of  modern  design.  He 
could  do  me  some  grand  sets." 

"A  family  affair?" 

"Yes.    Here's  Miss  Vaynol." 

Livia  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  shin- 
ing.   "Do  I  come  into  it?" 

"You'll  have  a  chance,"  he  said.  "O'Riorden  tells 
me  you  design  dresses,  and  he  likes  them.  Mind" — 
waving  a  fat  finger  at  her — "I'm  making  no  promise. 
It's  a  chance — if  you  can  take  it." 

"And  do  I  come  into  it?"  I  asked  smiling. 

Wertheim  looked  at  me  for  a  long  time.  "I  don't 
know,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  you  to,  because  I've  liked 
working  with  you  on  your  play.  I  wondered  about 
the  book.    Does  it  appeal  to  you?" 

"Oh,  Bill,  yes,  yes.  Let's  keep  it  all  in  the  family!" 
Livia  cried  excitedly. 

I  shook  my  head.  "No.  I  don't  see  it,  Wertheim. 
It's  not  up  my  street  at  all." 

"Thank  you  for  knowing  your  mind,"  said  Wer- 
theim.   "It's  rare." 

And  when,  a  long  time  after  that,  "Choose  Your 
Partner"  went  on  at  the  Palladian,  I  had  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  it.  The  book  was  written  by  Clive 
Seymour  —  brilliantly  —  and  most  of  the  songs,  as 
well  as  the  dresses,  were  Livia's.  But  I  felt  glad, 
all  the  same,  that  I  had  been  present  at  that  small 
conference  of  three  which  first  discussed  the  spec- 
tacular affair  that  blazed  through  the  war  years,  that 
produced  songs  that  soldiers  whistled  and  sang  and 
played  on  gramophones  in  trenches  and  dugouts,  the 
gramophone  on  which  weary  eyes  are  strained  from 
tired  faces,  "When  it's  with  you,  it's  wonderful." 

And  every  man  thought  of  the  "You"  his  own 
heart  meant,  as  he  recalled  the  Palladian  spotlight 
dropping  its  blue-white  cone  on  Maeve,  stock-still 
as  if  bewitched  in  its  moony  circle. 

"Oh,  man,  I  hate  it!  What  must  they  think!  So 
many  of  them  going  back  tomorrow — tonight!" 

"Dear  Maeve!    I  know.    I  know." 

"I  can't  go  on  doing  it.  They  send  me  letters- 
flowers.  .  .  ." 

She  went  on  to  the  end. 

00  there  it  was.  High  summer  of  1913  was  on  us, 
and  my  dream  that  Livia  and  I  might  do  this  and 
that — go  to  Heronwater,  go  abroad,  perhaps  even 
get  married — faded  out.  Now  she  was  a  different 
woman.  Now  she  had  a  job  for  her  talents.  Now  it 
seemed  she  didn't  want  me  at  all. 

LlVIA  was  gone  away.  Oliver  would  be  home  soon 
for  the  summer  holidays. 

I  had  called  at  Livia's  flat  unexpectedly  and  found 
her  packing. 

"I'm  off,"  she  said,  trying  hard  to  be  casual. 

"Off?" 

"Yes.  Holiday.  I've  worked  hard  for  six  weeks. 
But  I  ought  to  have  told  you.  Well,  see,  there's  the 
letter.  I  should  have  posted  it  at  Victoria  this 
evening." 

"But — "  I  began. 

"If  I  had  told  you,  there  would  have  been  argu- 
ments, persuasions.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  why 
I'm  going.  Oliver  will  be  home  soon.  Oh,  don't 
stand  there  looking  anguished!  I'm  trying  to  help 
you.  I'll  write  to  you.  I'm  going  to  a  tiny  place 
in  France  where  no  one  ever  goes  but  me." 

She  stood  there  looking  at  me,  white,  defensive. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  said  except  that,  of  course, 

1  would  come  to  Victoria  and  see  her  off. 

The  evening  of  Oliver's  return,  we  had  tea  in  my 
study  He  balanced  a  cup  in  his  hand,  and  his 
eye  roved  round  the  room.  It  came  to  rest  on  a 
photograph  of  himself,  standing  on  a  low  bookcase. 


"You  haven't  had  me  done  lately,"  he  said,  nod- 
ding towards  the  picture  and  smiling.  The  white 
teeth  gleamed  in  his  sun-browned  face.  "I'd  like  a 
new  picture.    There's  a  practical  reason  for  it." 

Then  his  laughing  impudence  suddenly  broke 
down.  "Honestly,"  he  said,  his  color  mounting,  "I 
want  to  give  a  picture  to  Livia  Vaynol.  I'm  terribly 
fond  of  her."    He  said  it  with  a  rush. 

My  heart  gave  a  thump.  I  had  not  expected  him 
to  make  that  avowal. 

He  went  on:  "She  hasn't  written  to  me  all  this 
term.    She  used  to  write." 

Then  for  a  moment  he  could  again  say  no  more. 
At  last  he  said:  "I've  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about 
this,  but  it  hasn't  been  easy.  Of  course,  you  think 
I'm  only  a  boy.  I'm  not.  I  feel  quite  grown  up 
.  .  ."  He  stumbled  again,  confused,  unable  to  find 
the  words  he  wanted. 


Livia  admitted  that  her  real  reason  for  leav- 
ing was  to  avoid  seeing  Oliver  when  he  came 
home.   "I'm  trying  to  help  you,"  she  explained 


"Oliver,"  I  said,  "listen.  Don't  think  that  I  mis- 
understand the  feelings  of  a  young  man.  I  know 
how  sincere  and  real  they  can  be,  and  what  pain 
they  can  give.  But  they  pass.  They  change.  I'm 
sure  of  this.  Otherwise,  I  could  never  tell  you  what 
I  have  to  tell  you  now — what  Livia  has  asked  me  to 
tell  you — she  and  I  are  going  to  be  married  soon." 

He  gave  only  one  sign  of  emotion,  he  moistened 
his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  Then  he  said:  "I  knew 
you  were  very  fond  of  Livia.  What  you  say  doesn't 
surprise  me.  But  I  think  you  are  making  a  mistake." 

Only  when  he  had  spoken  the  words  very  calmly 
did  I  see  from  the  color  in  his  cheeks,  and  from  a 
pulsing  vein  in  his  neck,  that  he  was  deeply  affected. 

"What  do  you  mean — a  mistake,"  I  said,  half  ris- 
ing from  my  chair.  Then  I  sank  back  again. 
"Oliver,  do  please  understand — "  But  he  rose  and 
looked  down  at  me,  very  composed.  He  put  my  own 
thoughts  into  words.  "We  can't  discuss  it,  can  we? 
We  have  nothing  to  say  to  one  another." 

Eight  o'clock  was  our  time  for  dining.  Just  be- 
fore eight,  I  went  to  bring  him  down.  He  was  in 
bed,  a  dressing-gown  over  his  pajamas.  "Hallo!" 
he  said,  smiling  brightly.     "Want  me?" 

"My  dear  boy,  you've  forgotten  the  time,"  I  said, 
speaking  with  the  same  false  brightness  that  had 
been  in  his  smile.    "Aren't  you  coming  to  dinner?" 

"No,  thanks.  Not  a  bit  hungry."  Again  the  bright 
glassy  smile. 

"Shall  I  have  something  sent  up?" 

"Oh,  no — no,  really.    Don't  bother  about  me." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  them  to  be  very  quiet." 

"That's  awfully  good  of  you.  Good  night."  He 
turned  to  his  book,  dismissing  me. 

I  hesitated  at  the  door.    "See  you  at  breakfast?" 

He  smiled  again,  and  this  time  I  thought  there 
was  something  hard  and  mocking  in  it,  something 
which  said  to  me:  "Ah!    I've  got  you  jumping  now." 

"Breakfast,"  he  said,  considering  it.  "Ask  'em  to 
send  it  up." 

I  couldn't  stand  the  thought  of  dinner.  I  told  them 
to  take  it  away.  I  couldn't  stand  being  in  the  house. 
I  ate  in  a  crowded  restaurant. 

A  LETTER  from  Livia  at  Tour  des  Roches  in 
Provence  came  in  the  morning.  After  describing 
her  holiday  in  the  French  village  it  concluded  with: 

I  expect  Oliver  is  at  home  now.  Have  you 
told  him?  Give  him  my  love — if  you  think  you 
ought  to.  I  shall  stay  here  at  any  rate  till  the 
school  holidays  are  over.    Love,  Livia. 

I  refilled  my  coffee  cup,  and  was  twiddling  the  let- 
ter in  my  hand  when  the  maid,  looking  flustered, 
came  into  the  room.     "Mr.  Oliver  isn't  there,  sir." 

"Isn't  there?     But  he  said  he'd  have  breakfast  in 


bed.    Has  he  got  up?    Have  you  seen  him  about?" 
"No,  sir.     And  I've  asked  everybody.     Nobody's 

seen  him.    There's  this  letter,  sir." 

She  handed   me   the   letter,   addressed  to  me  in 

Oliver's  writing  and  I  strove  not  to  seem  excited. 

When  she  was  gone  I  opened  the  letter. 

My  dear  Father — I  am  now  just  over  seven- 
teen years  old — old  enough  to  know  my  own 
mind.  I  feel  much  too  old  to  be  at  school.  I 
am  tall  for  my  age,  much  taller  than  most  boys, 
and  this  makes  me  feel  uncomfortable.  I  should 
feel  worse  if  I  went  back  to  school.  I  should 
have  asked  you  to  let  me  spend  a  year  in  private 
study  or  something  before  going  on  to  the  uni- 
versity, but  now  it  may  turn  out  that  I  shall 
not  go  to  the  university  at  all.  You  may  not 
want  me  to,  and  if  I  find  a  satisfactory  job,  the 
university  may  not  be  of  any  use  to  me.  For  I 
am  going  to  try  and  find  something  to  do. 
There  is  no  need  whatever  for  you  to  worry 
about  me.  As  I  told  you  last  night,  I  am  a  man 
now  and  I  have  no  doubt  at  my  age  you  were 
looking  after  yourself.  I've  got  one  or  two 
things  in  mind,  though  unfortunately  I've  never 
been  brought  up  to  do  much  either  with  my 
hands  or  my  head.  I  will  let  you  know  what  I 
am  doing  as  soon  as  I  have  got  something.  I 
have  £10  by  me  which  will  keep  me  for  a  bit. 
Yours,  Oliver. 

Not  a  word  of  Livia.  Not  a  word  of  his  real  rea- 
son for  leaving  home.  .  .  . 

I  knew  in  my  bones  that  Oliver  would  never  live 
under  my  roof  again.    He  never  did. 

PART  IV 

SHORTLY  thereafter  Dermot  and  I  went  to 
Dublin.  We  stayed  at  the  Hamman  Hotel  in 
O'Connell  Street— the  great  flat-fronted 
building  that  was  doomed  to  death  by  bom- 
bardment and  by  fire. 

The  sense  of  such  things  to  come  hung  like  a  doom 
about  the  beautiful  filthy  city.  It  was  early  in 
August  when  we  arrived  and  late  in  October  when 
we  left.  For  three  month  I  lived  with  the  sense 
of  being  in  a  dream  that  must  have  an  evil  waking. 

A  letter  reached  me  from  Oliver,  sent  on  from 
Hampstead,  announcing  that  he  had  been  employed 
as  a  clerk  in  the  brewery  owned  by  the  father  of  his 
school  friend,  Pogson,  and  that  he  had  found  some 
lodgings  in  Camden  Town.  "I  enclose  no  address," 
he  wrote,  "because  this  is  not  the  sort  of  place  you 
would  like  to  be  seen  in." 

I  had  arranged  to  leave  Dublin  in  a  day  or  two, 
but  I  did  not  wait  till  I  got  home.  I  at  once  en- 
closed a  five  pound  note  in  a  letter,  addressed  to 
Oliver  at  Pogson's,  congratulating  him  on  the  cour- 
age he  had  shown  in  setting  out  on  his  own,  and 
wishing  him  luck.  I  suggested  that,  now  that  he  was 
a  wage-earner,  he  might  feel  differently  about  liv- 
ing at  home,  and  said  that  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
him  at  Hampstead  whenever  he  cared  to  call. 

There  was  a  letter  waiting  me  when  I  got  back.  It 
said  that  he  would  feel  happier  in  Camden  Town  if 
he  did  not  have  the  occasional  contrast  of  Hamp- 
stead, and  that  he  wished  to  rely  wholly  on  him- 
self.   The  five  pound  note  was  returned. 

Livia  had  got  back  to  London  while  I  was  in 
Dublin,  and  I  decided  to  call  at  her  flat  on  the  day 
after  my  return  and  take  her  out  to  lunch. 

But  first  I  must  see  Oliver.  I  would  not  attempt 
to  speak  to  him,  no  good  would  come  of  that.  Only 
to  see  Oliver;  that  was  all;  and  the  next  day  at  noon 
I  was  pacing  Holborn  on  the  side  opposite  the  pol- 
ished granite  facade  of  Pogson's  Limited.  For  a  long 
time  I  paced  up  and  down,  scanning  the  face  of 
everyone  who  left  Pogson's. 

Then  I  saw  him.  If  I  had  expected  to  find  some- 
one crushed  and  humiliated,  I  was  disillusioned.  In 
his  good-looking  clothes,  he  looked  content.  I  felt 
that  all  my  solicitude  was  needless. 

I  watched  the  tall  slender  young  man  going  down 
the  street.  Presently  he  paused  under  a  clock  hang- 
ing out  over  the  street  and  began  to  look  about  him. 
Evidently  he  was  expecting  someone. 

Suddenly  I  knew — knew  in  my  bones  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  happy  face  that  I  had  watched,  the 
poise  of  a  man  content.  I  saw  her  come,  bustling 
happily  along  the  crowded  street,  still  beautifully 
bronzed  from  her  long  stay  in  France,  her  hair 
bleached  like  a  ripe  harvest.  I  saw  how,  in- 
stinctively, each  held  out  both  hands,  and,  when  the 
hands  had  clasped,  how  they  stood  there  looking 
into  one  another's  eyes. 

I  wondered  whether  Livia  would  tell  me  that  she 
had  met  Oliver.  She  did.  I  rang  her  up  and  asked 
whether  I  might  look  in  for  tea. 

She  looked  heartbreakingly  beautiful  when  I 
called.  And  she  was  charming  to  me.  She  put  her 
arms  around  me  and  held  up  her  face  with  her 
mouth  pursed  like  a  bud  for  me  to  kiss. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  "and  let  me  make  a  fuss 
over  you.  You  look  tired  out.  I  suppose  it's  all 
this  business  of  Oliver  leaving  home?" 

"You  know  about  that?" 

"I  do,  indeed.  I've  just  been  having  lunch  with 
him.    Why  on  earth  didn't  you  let  me  know?" 

She  was  so  casual,  that  my  heart  began  singing. 


<  €  €  €  €  €  €  C4-U 


39 


*ywu  t/tm,  ^ww  &€m 


/ 


"I  didn't  want  to  disturb  you  with  a  thing  like  that 
while  you  were  on  holiday." 

"Well,  you  let  me  in  for  a  nice  disturbance  when  I 
got  back.  There  was  a  letter  waiting,  from  Oliver, 
telling  me  the  whole  rigmarole.  We  had  lunch  to- 
gether." 

I  smoked  in  silence  for  a  while,  then  said:  "He 
left  home  because  of  you.  He  left  the  night  I  told 
him  we  were  engaged.  He  told  me  frankly  that  you 
meant  a  great  deal  to  him.  Did  that  come  up?  Or 
would  you  rather  I  didn't  ask  that?" 

"No,  please  don't  ask  that,"  she  said  nervously. 
"I  can  manage  Oliver  all  right.    Don't  worry." 

JUST  before  Christmas  in  1913,  Oliver  wrote  to  me 
again,  asking  that  I  send  all  his  clothes  to  the 
Camden  Town  lodging  house,  which  address,  at  last, 
he  was  sending  me.  When  May  came,  Oliver's 
birthday  month,  I,  not  having  seen  him  in  the  inter- 
val, was  sorely  tempted  to  write  to  him  and  send 
him  a  present.  But  I  thought  of  the  five  pounds 
I  had  sent  him  from  Dublin,  and  of  how  it  had  come 
back,  and  that  made  me  hesitate. 

Being  convinced  that  Livia  knew  at  this  time  more 
of  Oliver's  mind  than  I  did,  I  resolved  to  take  her 
advice  about  this  business  of  the  birthday  present. 

"I  wonder  whether  this  might  be  a  chance  to  get 
in  touch  with  Oliver  again,"  I  suggested.  "Whether 
a  present  and  a  letter  might  help.  Have  you  any 
idea  what  his  feelings  about  me  are  now?" 

"Bitter,"  she  said  briefly.  "I  don't  think  anything 
you  could  do  would  help— at  the  moment." 

Then  I  burst  out:  "Why  is  it  that  he's  turned 
against  me  because  I'm  going  to  marry  you,  and  yet 
is  so  friendly  with  you,  though  you're  going  to 
marry  me?" 

Livia  crushed  out  her  cigarette.  "After  all,"  she 
said  lightly,  "I  am  the  bone  of  contention." 

"Contention!"  I  almost  shouted.  "What  conten- 
tion is  there  about  it?  Let's  get  married  and  settle 
this  wretched  business  once  for  all.  Once  we're 
married,  Oliver  will  come  to  his  senses." 

I  got  up  in  my  agitation  and  paced  towards  a  long 
mirror  and  pulled  up  short,  suddenly  appalled  at  my 
own  reflection.  Gaunt,  almost  haggard  with  the 
anxiety  of  the  last  six  months.  And  I  thought  of 
the  golden-haired  boy,  sauntering  with  self-posses- 
sion to  keep  his  appointment  with  Livia. 

I  turned  to  Livia,  who  was  watching  me  as 
though  she  divined  my  thoughts.  I  wanted  to  say: 
"You  don't  love  me.  You  have  never  loved  me. 
You  love  Oliver,  and  he  loves  you.  And  that  is 
right.  That  is  as  it  should  be."  But  I  could  not  say 
it.  Instead,  I  took  her  suddenly,  hungrily,  into  my 
arms,  as  I  had  never  taken  her  before,  all  the 
thwarting  I  had  endured  from  her  stimulating  a 
desperate  wish  to  possess  her.  She  remained  for  a 
time  rigid,  almost  resistant.  Then  her  body  relaxed 
and  she  gave  me  kiss  for  kiss. 

"Will  you  marry  me,"  I  asked,  "when  you  have 
finished  this  job  with  Wertheim?" 

"Yes.  I  should  be  through  in  two  months'  time — 
say  the  middle  of  July.    I'll  marry  you  in  August." 

It  was  the  next  day  that  I  poured  out  to  Dermot 
all  my  anxieties  and  worries. 

Dermot  was  aware  that  Oliver  had  left  home, 
though  we  had  never  discussed  that  matter.  He 
was  aware — but  I  am  not  sure  how  deeply  aware — 
that  all  had  not  gone  smoothly  with  me  and  Livia. 
At  the  end  of  an  hour  I  felt  much  better,  happier 
even.  This  was  the  relief  I  had  wanted.  Too  much 
had  been  bottled  up  in  me. 

Dermot  put  a  hand  over  mine.  "You  can't  have 
Oliver  wandering  about  at  a  loose  end  like  this. 
Send  the  young  fool  to  me.    I'll  give  him  a  job." 

"I  can't  send  him." 

"No,  of  course  not.  Well,  look,  I'll  advertise  in  the 
Daily  Telegraph.  See  that  Livia  calls  his  attention 
to  it  and  makes  him  answer.  We'll  hook  him  that 
way.  And  marry  the  woman!  Don't  wait  till 
August.     Marry  her  quick!" 

All  very  well  for  Dermot  to  say:  "Marry  the 
woman  at  once."  The  woman  would  not  be  married 
at  once.  But  Dermot's  scheme  for  Oliver  worked 
well  enough.  He  wrote  to  the  box  number  under 
which  the  advertisement  appeared,  and  when  a  re- 
ply came  from  O'Riorden's,  Livia  told  me,  he  at  first 
shied  away.  Then  the  idea  lit  him  up.  "But 
imagine!  Getting  a  job  off  his  own  best  friend! 
That  would  be  something,  Livia,  eh?" 

DERMOT  thought  that  a  definite  effort  should  be 
made  to  bring  me  and  Oliver  together.  So  he  in- 
vited Oliver  to  dinner,  not  letting  him  know  that  I 
would  be  present. 

It  was  not  a  success.  When  I  went  into  the  draw- 
ing room  Oliver  was  already  there  with  all  the 
O'Riordens.  He  kept  his  self-possession  marvel- 
ously.  A  quick  shock  of  surprise  flashed  over  his 
face,  and  then  was  subdued.  He  rose  with  easy  good 
humor,  and  shook  hands.  "Good  evening,  sir,"  he 
said,  and  as  he  uttered  that  formal  word  I  could 
have  sworn  there  was  mockery  in  his  eyes. 

When  Sheila,  Maeve  and  Eileen  got  up,  Oliver 
said:  "Will  you  all  excuse  me  if  I  go  now?  I  have 
an  appointment  in  town." 

It  was  in  June — on  Sunday,  June  21 — that  this 
dinner  was  given  by  Dermot.  It  was  a  warm  night. 
We  had  all  trooped  to  Dermot's  study  after  Oliver 


had  left  us,  not  one  of  them  referred  to  what  had 
happened.  The  silence  was  broken  at  last  by  Maeve 
saying  in  a  low  voice:  "The  longest  day  of  the  year. 
From  now  on  we  go  downhill." 

"I  sincerely  hope  not,"  said  Dermot,  shattering 
with  a  laugh  the  solemnity  that  had  come  upon  us. 
"I'd  rather  go  for  a  holiday.  What  about  you,  Bill? 
Can't  we  join  forces  at  Heronwater  this  year?" 

The  idea  appealed  to  everyone,  and  we  set  about 
making  plans. 

Livia  promised  to  join  us  at  Heronwater  as  soon 
as  she  was  able.  Dermot  and  Sheila,  Eileen  and  I, 
traveled  on  Sunday,  June  28.  It  was  a  lovely  day; 
and  we  were  all  in  the  best  of  spirits.  Ahead  of  me, 
things  looked  clearer  than  they  had  done  for  many 
a  day. 

We  clambered  out  of  the  car,  and  as  we  stood 
there  stretching  our  legs  on  the  gravel  a  wheeze  of 
rusty  music  came  drifting  up  from  the  river.  I 
turned  a  questioning  eye  on  Sam  Sawle,  who  had 
come  out  to  greet  us.  "That's  Captain  Judas,  Mr. 
Essex,"  he  explained.  "He's  been  holding  a  service 
on  the  Jezebel  every  Sunday  evening  this  summer. 
That's  his  harmonium  you  can  hear.  He  do  go 
through  the  whole  thing  proper,"  Sawle  said,  "and 
then  he  reads  the  anouncements  and  takes  a  col- 
lection from  himself." 

"What  announcements?"  I  asked. 

"Always  the  same  one,  Mr.  Essex.  'The  great  and 
terrible  day  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand.'  " 

"The  poor  man,"  said  Eileen,  and  started  for  the 
house.    We  all  followed,  somehow  subdued. 

But  we  did  not  feel  subdued  in  the  morning.  Af- 
ter an  early  swim  Dermot  and  I  joined  Sheila  and 
Eileen  at  breakfast.  Martin  came  in  at  that  moment 
with  the  Western  Morning  News.  Dermot  brusquely 
snatched  it  from  him.  I  didn't  bother.  Only  when 
I  had  taken  the  edge  off  my  hunger  did  I  ask:  "Well, 
what's  the  world  doing?" 

"Nothing  that  matters  to  us,"  he  said.  "An  Aus- 
trian grand  duke  was  assassinated  yesterday  while 
we  were  so  comfortably  driving  down  here.  At  Sara 
— Sarajevo.    Ever  heard  of  it?" 

"No." 

"Neither  have  I." 

Livia  joined  us  on  Saturday,  July  18.  That  was 
the  day  Oliver's  holiday  began.  A  week  before  this, 
Dermot  had  said  to  me:  "There  would  be  no  harm 
in  giving  Oliver  a  chance  to  join  us  here.  I  don't 
think  it's  likely  he'll  come,  but  anyway  I  shall  write 
and  tell  him  to  take  a  fortnight's  holiday." 

He  received  an  answer  from  Oliver  thanking  him 
cordially  for  the  holiday  but  saying  nothing  about 
his  intentions  in  any  way. 

On  the  eighteenth  I  took  the  Maeve  in  to  Falmouth 
to  meet  Livia.  Livia  looked  worn  out.  She  ex- 
plained it  by  saying  she  had  been  working  too  hard. 
She  was  glad  it  was  all  over.  "Oh,  it's  so  peaceful!" 
she  exclaimed,  breathing  deeply.  "You  simply  can't 
believe  in  war  with  all  this  about  you." 


Some  months  after  their  elopement  I  learned 
that  Livia  and   Oliver  were  living   in   London 

"War!"  I  exclaimed  in  surprise.  "What  on  earth 
is  there  to  go  to  war  about?" 

"It's  Wertheim,"  she  said.  "He  says  it's  here  now 
—a  matter  of  weeks." 

Speedily,  now,  we  were  turning  the  last  spit  of 
land.  I  slowed  down  the  engine,  pointed  the  Maeve's 
bow  to  the  landing-stage,  and  saw  that  Dermot, 
Sheila,  and  Eileen  were  all  standing  there,  gazing 
across  at  the  Jezebel.  A  small  motorboat  was  along- 
side the  black  hull  of  the  ship.  A  man  sat  at  the 
engine,  and  a  tall  stripling  stood  up  with  his  hand 
on  the  bell-pull.  We  were  a  good  way  off,  but  some- 
thing familiar  in  that  spruce  upright  figure  started 
my  heart  beating  quicker.  I  looked  at  Livia.  Her 
face  had  gone  white.  "He  must  have  been  on  my 
train,"  she  said  tensely,  "and  he's  hired  a  boat  to 
bring  him  on  from  Truro.  He  said  he  was  going 
to  do  it  but  I  thought  he  was  fooling." 

"But  I'm  glad,"  I  said,  "glad  to  have  him.  We'll 
all  have  a  great  holiday." 


She  looked  at  me  wearily.  "Will  you?  Oh,  Bill, 
you  fool!  He  hasn't  come  to  give  you  joy.  He's 
come  so  that  his  presence  may  taunt  you.  He's  not 
calling  on  Judas  for  fun.  He's  going  to  stay  with 
him."  And  then  savagely:  "Why  can't  he  leave  me 
in  peace!" 

She  was  trembling,  her  knuckles  white  as  she 
clutched  the  gunwale. 

There  were  times  during  the  following  week  when 
I  could  have  cut  and  run.  The  situation  was  agoniz- 
ing. Wherever  we  went  Oliver  appeared.  He  would 
appear  before  us  almost,  it  seemed,  out  of  the  blue, 
and  with  nonchalance  be  unaware  of  our  presence. 

I  knew  that  all  this  was  aimed  at  Livia,  and  it  had 
its  effect.  She  became  irritable  and  moody  and  at 
last  professed  herself  unwilling  to  join  our  outings 
because,  she  said,  she  could  not  stand  the  situation 
which  Oliver  had  forced  upon  us.  But  she  con- 
tinued to  accompany  us  until  the  Friday.  We  were 
all  going  to  Helston  that  day,  a  fairly  long  trip,  and 
Livia  at  the  last  moment — actually  when  some  of 
us  were  in  the  boat  and  the  rest  stood  by  the  dinghy 
loaded  with  lunch  and  bathing  things — shouted  to 
me  that  she  did  not  feel  up  to  coming. 

I  shouted:     "I'll  stay  ashore,  Livia." 

Her  voice  came  very  clear  over  the  water:  "No, 
no.    I'm  not  going  to  spoil  your  outing." 

Dermot  looked  towards  the  Jezebel,  and  said 
quietly:    "Stay  with  her." 

I  hesitated.  Livia  ran  lightly  down  the  steps  and 
put  her  foot  on  the  dinghy's  bow.  She  pushed  the 
boat  out.     "Go  on,"  she  said. 

Dermot  looked  grave,  but  he  did  not  speak  again 
for  a  moment.    Then  he  said:    "She  is  gone!" 

We  in  the  Maeve  had  no  sight  of  Oliver  that  day. 
We  did  not  get  back  to  Heronwater  till  just  before 
dinner  time.  Livia  was  waiting  for  us  at  the  landing- 
stage,  gay  and  full  of  fun,  eager  to  know  all  that  we 
had  done  and  seen.  She  said  that  the  rest  had  done 
her  good.  "Tomorrow,"  she  said,  "I'd  like  to  do  a 
lot  of  shopping  in  Truro.  Could  I  have  the  car  quite 
early,  Bill?    I'd  like  to  be  there  by  ten." 

I  was  delighted  to  find  her  in  such  excellent 
spirits,  and  told  Martin  to  have  the  car  ready.  She 
wrote  down  a  list  of  things  that  we  all  wanted: 
tobacco  for  me,  wool  for  Sheila,  and  so  on. 

In  the  morning  she  was  gone  without  my  know- 
ing it.  I  had  been  on  the  Maeve,  overhauling  the 
engine,  and  when  I  got  back  to  the  house  I  was  just 
in  time  to  see  the  car  disappearing  towards  the  road. 
It  was  a  pottering  morning.  We  had  made  no  com- 
munal arrangements.  I  went  back  to  the  river  and 
presently  Dermot  joined  me,  bringing  a  newspaper. 

"There'll  be  war  all  right  between  Austria  and 
Servia,"  he  said.  "The  Austrian  ultimatum  expires 
today." 

The  sound  of  engines  came  through  the  drowsy 
morning,  and  presently  the  Kay  of  Copenhagen, 
steamed  round  the  bend,  making  for  the  sea.  The 
Kay,  which  ran  between  Copenhagen  and  Truro 
was  almost  as  familiar  to  us  as  our  own  boats  for 
its  commander,  Captain  Jansen,  was  an  old  friend 
of  Captain  Judas,  and  we  had  often  talked  with  him. 
As  he  drew  near  to  the  Jezebel,  Jansen  set  the  Kay's 
whistle  screaming.  Captain  Judas  appeared  on  his 
deck,  with  his  hand  raised  to  his  cap  in  salute  as 
the  Kay  went  by.  Went  by,  though  I  did  not  know 
it  then,  a  coffin-ship  wherein  all  that  I  had  hoped 
for  and  worked  for  was  interred.  Livia  and  Oliver 
were  aboard  the  Kay.  Livia  had  made  her  decision 
at  last.  .  .  The  bone  of  contention  .  .  .  She  wrote 
to  me  when  they  reached  Copenhagen. 

She  did  not  call  me  "Dear  Bill."  She  just  plunged 
straight  into  the  letter  like  this: 

I  am  doing  this  because  I  must.  You  asked 
me  once  whether  I  loved  Oliver,  and  I  said  I 
did  not  know.  I  think  I  was  lying  to  myself 
even  then.  I  have  loved  him  from  the  moment  I 
first  set  eyes  on  him,  though,  God  help  me,  I 
expect  little  profit  from  it.  But  I  have  learned 
not  to  expect  profit  from  love,  and  I  have  loved 
more  than  one  man.  I  think  it  was  the  utter 
safety  you  offered  me  that  I  could  not  stomach, 
for  I  am  too  young  to  feel  the  need  of  safety. 
If  I  have  done  you  wrong,  it  is  not  in  robbing 
you  of  the  marriage  you  expected,  for  that 
would  have  been  small  comfort  to  you,  but  in 
ever  allowing  you  to  expect  it.  For  that  I  ask 
your  forgiveness.  Livia  Vaynol. 

That   was   all.     The   letter   was   addressed  from   a 
Copenhagen  hotel.    I  saw  no  reason  to  answer  it. 


IT  was  from  Wertheim  that  I  learned  of  their 
Odyssey  and  it  was  at  the  beginning  of  December, 
that  he  told  me:  "Livia 's  back.  She's  brought  him 
with  her." 

A  day  or  two  later  I  saw  Oliver.  I  was  crossing 
Waterloo  Bridge  on  a  raw  blustery  afternoon,  dark- 
ening towards  twilight.  Coming  towards  me  from 
the  north  side  was  a  marching  company  of  men, 
such  as  one  saw  then  at  almost  every  hour  of  the 
day.  I  could  not  have  overlooked  Oliver.  He  was 
the  tallest  man  there  and  he  carried  his  body 
straight  and  his  head  high. 

I  felt  my  throat  contract  with  emotion.  Oliver! 
If  I  had  called  his  name  he  would  have  heard  me. 
But  I  dared  not.  I  dared  not  risk  the  sightless,  un- 
acknowledging   turn   of   those   blue   eyes.     I   stood 


40 


>>>>>))»l^h 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


there  in  the  wind  whistling  up  from  the  river  till 
the  high  golden  head  was  gone  from  my  sight. 

The  encounter  emphasized  my  loneliness.  I  was 
forty-three.  There  were  men  of  my  age  dyeing  their 
hair,  scrounging  a  way  into  the  army  by  one  de- 
ception or  another.  But  I  did  not  do  it,  or  at  any 
time  feel  an  inclination  to  do  it.  Later,  my  reputa- 
tion as  a  writer  got  me  work  with  the  Ministry  of 
Propaganda.  There  is  no  need  to  go  into  any  of 
that  now,  but  I  write  this  to  show  that  I  had  an 
occupation  of  sorts  while  the  war  lasted.  But  at 
that  time  I  had  not  even  this  shadowy  consolation. 

I  had  been  suddenly  overcome  by  the  absurdity 
of  a  man  in  my  position,  with  no  family  and  no  hope 
of  a  family,  owning  two  large  houses.  So  I  shut  up 
both  of  them,  sold  my  car,  and  lived  in  a  small  ob- 
scure hotel,  rarely  venturing  out. 

Living  thus  alone,  I  fell  into  a  morbid  condition  of 
body  and  mind,  a  hypochondria  in  which  I  was 
hugging  my  griefs  to  me,  inviting  them  to  kill  me. 

The  encounter  with  Oliver  was  the  last  thing 
needed.  When  he  had  marched  by,  the  wind  seemed 
shrewder,  the  world  more  bitter,  and  I  made  my  way 
to  the  back-street  hotel  that  was  my  lair  in  a  spirit 
of  mental  and  physical  hopelessness. 

After  dinner  I  was  the  sole  occupant  of  the  lounge. 
Presently  I  gave  a  violent  shiver,  and  pulled  my 
chair  nearer  to  the  insufficient  fire.  I  asked  for 
whisky,  compounded  a  grog  of  sorts,  drank  it,  and 
went  to  bed,  dozing  fitfully. 

I  awoke  out  of  one  of  my  dozes  to  find  the  dreary 
room  lit  by  a  bedside  lamp.  I  was  aware  that  people 
were  in  the  room,  but  I  did  not  know  that  they  were 
a  doctor  and  Annie  Suthurst.  The  manager  knew 
that  I  was  the  author  of  "Every  Street,"  and,  being 
alarmed  about  my  condition,  he'd  decided  to  ring 
up  someone  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  an 
interest  in  me.  He  found  Maeve's  name  in  the 
telephone  book.  So  Annie  Suthurst  was  sent  for  a 
doctor,  under  whose  sedative  I  slept  clamly  that 
night,  and  I  awoke  in  the  morning  weak  and  feeling 
very  foolish. 

Three  days  later,  when  I  had  got  back  from  a 
tottering  walk  with  Maeve,  she  raised  the  question 
which  she  had  already  settled  for  me. 

"Where  are  you  going  to  live  now?  You  can't 
stay  in  this  place." 

I  said  I  would  think  about  it.  "I've  been  thinking 
for  you,"  she  told  me  sharply.  "It's  high  time  some- 
one did.  There's  a  furnished  flat  on  the  floor  below 
mine.    It'll  be  empty  at  the  end  of  the  month." 

"Thank  you.     I'll  go.     Who'll  look  after  me?" 

"Annie  Suthurst,  of  course.  My  place  doesn't  take 
all  her  time." 

"I'll  speak  to  her." 

"I've  done  the  speaking,  and  taken  the  flat,  too." 

I  kept  the  flat  as  long  as  the  war  lasted.  When 
Maeve  was  dead,  Annie  remained  with  me. 

As  we  lived  in  the  same  building,  Maeve  and  I 
developed  the  custom  of  always  lunching  with  one 
another.  On  a  Wednesday  in  March,  when  lunch 
was  over,  Maeve,  said:  "If  you  want  to  see  Oliver, 
be  at  Charing  Cross  about  half-past  three."  She 
closed  the  door  and  ran  down  the  stairs. 

This  was  the  first  time  she  had  mentioned  either 
Livia  or  Oliver.  I  was  not  aware  that  she  knew 
anything  of  their  movements,  nor  do  I  know  now 
whence  she  obtained  this  information.  I  put  on  my 
overcoat  and  walked  to  Charing  Cross,  with  my 
collar  turned  up  about  my  ears  and  the  brim  of  my 
hat  pulled  down  in  front.  Those  were  not  fashions 
I  was  accustomed  to.  I  admitted  an  instinctive  at- 
tempt at  disguise.    I  had  come  to  spy  on  my  son. 

It  was  Livia  whom  I  saw  first.  Her  cheeks  glowed 
with  happiness,  and  with  a  possessive  pride  that  she 
did  nothing  to  conceal. 

The  exercise  of  the  last  few  months  had  broad- 
ened and  toughened  Oliver.  Brown  boots,  shining 
like  chestnuts,  were  laced  up  his  calves,  and  the 
skirts  of  a  well-cut  overcoat  swung  as  he  strutted. 
I  could  not  avoid  the  word:   He  was  strutting. 

How,  even  then,  I  would  have  outdone  the  father 
in  the  parable  who,  when  his  son  was  yet  a  great 
way  off,  ran!  How  I  would  have  run,  and  abased 
myself  before  this  young,  jocund  Mars,  whose  love 
had  once  been  as  unquestioningly  mine  as  the  sun- 
shine and  the  rain!  But  I  knew  that  I  could  as 
soon  call  back  Nellie  from  the  grave  as  hope  to  see 
those  blue  eyes  smile  at  me,  as  they  were  smiling 
now  at  Livia,  not  turn  to  cold  indifference. 

So  I  lurked  behind  the  bookstall,  with  my  collar 
up  and  my  hat-brim  down.  The  engine  strained 
and  panted,  and  I  saw  Livia  Vaynol  running  back 
through  the  barrier,  not  smiling  now,  but  with  lone- 
liness and  desolation  upon  her  unmasked  face. 

That  was  in  March  1915.  In  memory  the  year  is 
strewn  with  fragments  like  bits  of  wreckage  seen 
on  a  beach  long  ago.  The  Dardanelles,  Tipperary, 
put  one  of  these  saccharine  tablets  in  your  coffee, 
Maeve  O'Riorden,  "When  It's  with  You,  It's  Wonder- 
ful," casualties,  shells,  casualties,  Lusitania,  white 
feather,  PUT  THAT  LIGHT  OUT!  ...  We  got  used 
to  everything.  There's  nothing  you  can't  get  used  to. 
It's  the  new  thing  that  shakes  you  up.  And  the  new 
thing  came. 

Dermot  rang  me  up  on  Monday,  the  seventeenth 
of  April  1916,  and  said  he  was  coming  round  to 
have  lunch  with  me  and  Maeve. 


"Don't  ask  me  how  I  am,  Dutch  Uncle,"  Maeve 
exclaimed  defensively,  coming  through  the  door. 
"I'm  just  suffering  from  ten  years  of  overwork. 
That's  all.  I  shall  get  over  it."  She  sat  sideways  in 
the  window  seat,  so  that  she  could  get  a  squint  into 
Berkeley  Square,  where  the  leaves  were  unfolding 
on  the  plane  trees,  delicate  and  beautiful  against 
the  brown  prickly  maces  of  last  year's  fruit. 

"Leaves,"  said  Maeve,  "and  flowers;  and  yesterday 
there  were  lambs — white  tottery  little  things — so 
lovely.    We  saw  them  in  a  meadow." 

"Who  were  we  this  time?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  you  wouldn't  know,"  she  said  wearily.  "I 
only  met  him  myself  on  Saturday  night.  Someone 
brought  him  round  to  my  dressing  room,  and  he 
besought  me  to  come  out  with  him  on  Sunday."  She 
got  off  the  seat  and  stood  up,  looking  out  of  the 
window.  "You  never  saw  such  a  boy,"  she  spoke 
over  her  shoulder.  "He  looked  about  sixteen,  with 
blue  eyes  and  smooth  round  cheeks.  He's  been  out 
once,  and  he's  going  again  today.  In  the  Air  Force. 
I  wished  him  luck,  and  d'you  know  what  he  said?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"He  said:  'I've  lasted  longer  than  Freddie  and 
Bunnie,  anyway,  so  I  feel  lucky.'  Freddie  and  Bunnie 
lasted  a  week.  They  were  at  school  with  him  a  few 
months  ago." 

I  almost  wished  she  would  cry,  or  show  some 
emotion.  But  she  went  on  in  a  flat  voice:  "He 
said:  "Those  lambs  made  me  think  of  something 
Bunnie  said.  It  was  the  first  time  we  ever  saw  anti- 
aircraft shells  bursting.  Bunnie  said:  "That's  a 
pretty  sight — like  white  lambs  in  a  blue  field."  Old 
Bunnie  was  a  bit  of  a  poet.  Or  d'you  think  that 
was  a  dappy  thing  to  say?'" 

Suddenly  I  stopped  her.  "For  God's  sake,  Maeve, 
shut  up!"  I  shouted.  I  hoped  it  would  be  like  a 
slap  in  the  face.  It  was.  She  spun  round  in  sur- 
prise, looked  at  me  for  a  moment  dreadfully  hurt, 
then  collapsed  into  my  arms  and  cried.  I  let  her 
have  it  out.  There  was  nothing  more  I  could  say.  I 
could  only  think:    "Dear  Maeve!     Dear  Maeve!" 

Annie  Suthurst  put  our  after  luncheon  coffee  on 
a  table  in  front  of  the  window  seat.  It  was  a  big 
seat — room  for  us  all.  When  Annie  was  gone  Der- 
mot put  on  his  spectacles  and  took  a  letter  from  his 
pocket.  "I  haven't  shown  this  to  Sheila,"  he  said. 
"She'll  know  soon  enough." 

He  unfolded  the  letter  and  handed  it  to  me.  Maeve 
read  with  her  chin  resting  on  my  shoulder.  The 
letter  was  from  Rory. 

My  dear  Father— I  wouldn't  be  such  a  fool 
as  to  post  this  to  you  in  the  ordinary  way  here 
in  Dublin.  We  don't  trust  the  Castle,  you  know, 
and  just  now,  I  think,  they're  particularly  busy 
steaming  open  letters.  A  friend  I  can  trust  is 
crossing  to  England  and  will  drop  this  into  some 
inconspicuous  letter  box. 

Well,  I  think  I  ought  to  let  you  know  that 
before  long  now  anything  may  happen.  I'm  only 
having  a  guess.  I  know  you  think  I'm  no  end  of 
a  person  in  the  movement,  but  I'm  small  beer 
really,  and  I'm  kept  pretty  much  in  the  dark. 
But  there's  something  in  the  air,  more  march- 
ing in  uniform  than  usual.  There's  plenty  of 
ammunition  flowing  in.    I  know  that. 

Another  thing  that  makes  me  feel  we  are  on 
the  verge  of  something  is  this:  Donnelly  is  so 
gay  and  yet  so  secretive.  Of  course,  he's  at  the 
heart  of  things.  He's  away  attending  conferences 
all  day  and  half  the  night,  and  he's  singing  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.    But  not  a  word  out  of  him. 

You  know,  my  dear  Father,  last  August  I  was 
with  the  multitude  that  followed  the  body  of 
O'Donovan  Rossa  to  his  grave  at  Glasnevin. 
Padraic  Pearse  was  there,  wearing  his  uniform, 
and  he  spoke  with  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his 
sword.  He  said:  "I  hold  it  a  Christian  thing,  as 
O'Donovan  Rossa  held  it,  to  hate  evil,  to  hate 
untruth,  to  hate  oppression,  and,  hating  them, 
to  strive  to  overthrow  them." 

I  thought,  as  I  heard  those  words,  that  they 
were  the  very  heart  and  soul  of  all  that  you 
yourself  have  ever  taught  me.  I  shall  go  into 
battle  remembering  them  and  remembering  you. 

One  thing  more.  I  hope  to  come  out  of  this 
alive.  The  chances  that  Donnelly  will  do  so 
are  slenderer  than  mine.  If  our  attempt  is  made, 
and  if  it  should  fail,  no  mercy  would  be  shown 
to  Donnelly.  I  have  learned  to  love  him,  Father, 
and  I  wonder  if  you  know  that  I  love  Maggie, 
too?  I  shall  marry  her  some  day  however 
this  matter  turn  out,  but  if  Donnelly  should  be 
taken  from  us  I  shall  marry  her  at  once. 

Give  my  love  to  my  Mother.  Kiss  Eileen. 
Kiss  Maeve. 

Rory. 

The  sheet  trembled  in  my  hand  as  I  put  it  down 
on  the  coffee  table.  For  a  moment  no  one  spoke. 
Then  Maeve  said  to  Dermot:     "Well?" 

He  sat  still,  looking  straight  before  him. 

"Well — are  you  happy?"  Maeve  demanded. 

Still  Dermot  did  not  move.  She  got  up  and  moved 
across  the  room  till  she  faced  him.  "I  ask  you,"  she 
said,  her  voice  rising  shrilly,  "are  you  happy  now? 
You've  got  what  you  worked  for.  Does  it  please 
you?  You've  killed  Rory,  that's  all.  You've  killed 
Rory!     You've  killed  Rory.  .  .  ." 


She  broke  down  hysterically.  Dermot  put  his 
hands  before  his  face  and  murmured  weakly: 
"Don't,  Maeve,  don't!" 

I  got  my  arms  round  her  shoulders  and  led  her, 
weeping,  upstairs  to  her  own  flat.  When  I  came 
down  again  Dermot  was  gone.  Rory's  letter  lay  on 
the  floor.    I  picked  it  up  and  put  it  away. 

DO  you  see,  when  the  new  thing  came — that  Easter 
Monday  rebellion  in  Dublin — Dermot  and  I  were  not 
surprised.  It  flamed  into  the  headlines  of  the  news- 
papers, it  staggered  the  unsuspecting  English  pub- 
lic; and  few  people  knew  what  a  pitiful,  bungled, 
lamentable  affair  it  was.  The  heart  was  gone  out 
of  an  army  that  had  been  ready  to  spring;  and  only 
a  remnant  paraded  on  the  fatal  morning  when  the 
visionaries  at  last  set  out  on  their  brief  pilgrimage 
to  the  grave. 

One  of  the  remnant  was  Michael  Collins,  a  thick- 
set playboy  with  a  wing  of  black  hair  tumbling  over 
his  brow,  almost  unknown,  but  destined  to  learn 
that  not  thus  must  Ireland  be  fought  for.  Not  with 
windy  proclamations  and  the  pretence  of  uniformed 
might.  This  became  clear  to  Collins  and  to  one 
other  of  the  remnant  who  paraded  on  Easter  Mon- 
day— Rory  O'Riorden. 

On  Monday,  May  1,  Dermot  brought  me  the  letter 
that  had  come  from  Rory.  It  had  been  written  on 
the  Wednesday  night  of  the  rebellion  week. 

When  I  had  read  the  letter  I  could  not  look  Der- 
mot in  the  face,  for  I  knew,  as  he  knew,  that  by 
then  Pearse  had  handed  in  his  sword.  It  was  not 
easy  to  make  some  of  the  men  obey  his  order  to 
surrender.  Some  smashed  their  rifles  rather  than 
hand  them  in.  Among  those  who  did  so  was  Rory 
O'Riorden. 

Rory  had  told  his  father  in  a  letter  that  if  Don- 
nelly were  executed  he  would  marry  Maggie  at 
once.  Donnelly  was  executed,  but  Rory  did  not 
marry  Maggie  then.  Rory  was  one  of  the  thousands 
who  were  sent  to  English  jails.  He  went  to  Frongoch 
where  one  of  his  fellow-prisoners  was  Michael  Col- 
lins. It  was  late  in  1916  that  Dermot  received  a 
letter  from  Rory  containing  the  phrase:  "I  am  bound 
to  Michael  Collins  by  the  most  solemn  and  fearful 
oath." 

The  page  fluttered  in  Dermot's  nervous  fingers. 
"I  hoped  it  would  be  ended  when  Donnelly  died," 
he  said.  Then  he  folded  the  letter  and  went  away. 
He  looked  old  and  very  tired. 


1  HAT  was  on  an  autumn  afternoon.  When  I  had 
left  Dermot  I  walked  in  the  streets  that  were  be- 
ginning to  fade  into  a  gloomy  dark,  bought  an  eve- 
ning paper,  and  took  it  into  Gunter's  teashop.  I 
spread  it  open  and  my  heart  gave  a  bound  as  I  saw 
Oliver's  face  looking  at  me  from  the  page.  I  hardly 
dared  read  the  letter-press.  Killed  in  action? 
Wounded?  Then  I  saw  beneath  the  picture:  "Cap- 
tain Oliver  Essex,  V.C." 

The  room  had  been  swimming.  Now  things  took 
focus  again.  I  filled  my  cup,  drank,  and  then  read 
the  paragraph.  It  announced  that  the  King  had 
conferred  the  Victoria  Cross  upon  Captain  Essex, 
M.C.,  Croix  de  Guerre.  "The  action  which  earned 
Captain  Essex  the  highest  award  for  valour  took 
place  during  the  Somme  offensive,  which  still  con- 
tinues. Captain  Essex  is  the  son  of  the  famous  nov- 
elist and  dramatist,  William  Essex." 

I  looked  at  the  picture  staring  at  me  out  of  the 
paper.  It  was  of  no  Oliver  that  I  had  ever  known. 
The  eyes  were  incredibly  hard,  staring  straight  out 
of  the  face  with  a  fanatic  and  inhuman  regard. 

"God!    Doesn't  he  look  a  killer!" 

It  was  almost  as  though  my  own  reluctant  heart 
had  spoken.  Then  I  saw  that  two  young  officers  at 
a  table  next  to  mine  were  considering  the  same  pic- 
ture that  had  captured  my  fascinated  regard.  "A 
killer,  all  right,"  he  said.  "I  was  with  his  mob  for 
a  time  before  I  transferred." 

"Well.    He's  a  damned  good  soldier." 

"Oh,  he's  a  good  soldier,  all  right.  But  I  didn't 
like  him.  Something  about  him — I  don't  know.  He 
enjoyed  it.  I've  seen  him  as  bloody  as  a  butcher 
with  his  white  teeth  laughing." 

I  paid  my  bill,  and  went  out.  I  walked  round 
Berkeley  Square  with  the  Air  Force  man's  phrase 
vivid  in  my  mind:  "Bloody  as  a  butcher  with  his 
white  teeth  laughing."  Oliver!  Twenty.  Twenty 
last  May.  Captain  Oliver  Essex,  V.C,  M.C.,  Croix 
de  Guerre. 

IT  was  a  fortnight  later  that  Maeve  said:  "Oliver 
will  be  at  the  Palladian  tonight.  Did  you  know  he 
was  on  leave?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Wertheim  told  me.    He's  invited  Oliver  to  a  box." 

Wertheim  would.  He  knew  the  publicity  value  of 
personalities,  and  Oliver  was  a  personality. 

"Will  you  be  there?"  Maeve  asked. 

"Not  much  good  trying  to  get  a  seat  at  this  time 
of  night,"  I  said. 

"I've  got  a  ticket.  I  took  it  for  a  friend  and  now 
she  can't  come."  Maeve  laid  the  ticket  on  the  table. 
"You  do  want  to  see  him,  don't  you?"  she  asked. 

I  nodded,  unable  to  speak. 

What  an  incredibly  different  Maeve  it  was  I  looked 
at  few  hours  later!     And  what  incredible  circum- 


<<<<<<<<<< 


41 


^§P  Qtm,  *y^r  Qtw/ 


stances  they  were  in  which  I  looked  at  her! 

I  entered  the  theater  just  before  the  rise  of  the 
curtain,  just  in  time  to  catch  the  animated  buzz  of 
talk  that  contended  with  the  music  of  the  orchestra 
dashingly  dispensing  the  opening  airs  of  "Choose 
Your  Partner."  The  principals  of  the  show  came 
one  by  one;  Maeve  appeared  last  of  all.  In  scene 
after  scene,  she  was  the  focal  point,  the  personality 
on  which  all  pivoted,  and  she  threw  herself  into  it 
that  night  with  all  that  was  in  her.  I  felt  that  all 
the  passionate  sorrow  that  was  in  her  heart,  all  the 
grief  for  dead  men  and  for  those  who  were  about 
to  die  that  I  knew  obsessed  and  burdened  her,  was 
here  transmuted  into  the  provision  of  the  most  per- 
fect moments  which  she  had  it  in  her  to  create. 

Only  once  did  she  come  onto  the  stage  alone,  and 
that  was  when  she  sang  "When  it's  with  you."  The 
stage  was  darkened  of  all  light  save  the  blue  cone 
that  fell  upon  her  white,  still,  lonely  figure. 

All  by  myself  the  night  seems  long. 

And  the  stairs  are  hardly  worth  climbing. 

But  when  it's  with  you,  it's  wonderful! 

It  was  on  that  third  line  that  the  spotlight  rayed 
through  the  dark  of  the  theater,  found  a  box,  and 
lighted  up  the  face  of  Oliver. 

There  they  were,  the  two  who  had  played  to- 
gether as  children,  each  famous  now.  On  each  a 
spotlight  rested.  But  between  them  was  a  great 
space  of  darkness. 

I  could  see  that  Livia  Vaynol  was  sitting  at 
Oliver's  side.  There  was  something  frightening 
about  Oliver  now.  What  had  been  good  looks  of  a 
most  melting  sort  had  been  changed  to  a  startling 
mature  beauty,  scratched,  damaged,  and  half  ef- 
faced, sinister  even.  Maeve  sang  on,  and  now  she 
opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  Oliver,  seemed  to  be 
singing  to  him  alone. 

The  song  ended,  the  curtain  swung  down,  and 
pandemonium  broke  loose.  Half  the  crowd  shouted: 
"Maeve!  Maeve!"  and  half  shouted:  "Essex!"  The 
curtains  parted  and  Maeve  appeared.  The  house 
lights  were  still  dimmed.  The  spotlight  remained 
upon  Oliver's  box.  He  sat  for  a  long  time,  impas- 
sive, then  stood  up,  unsmiling  still,  and  raised  a 
hand  in  a  stern  greeting  to  the  mob.  Then  he 
turned  and  bowed  stiffly  towards  Maeve.  She 
dropped  in  a  curtsy,  then  blew  him  a  kiss,  which  set 
the  house  howling  with  delight,  and  then  the  curtain 
fell.  Certainly  Wertheim  knew  what  a  hero  was 
worth. 

Her  dressing-room  was  cluttered  with  flowers 
when  I  went  round,  and  cluttered  with  the  custom- 
ary mob  of  men  and  women.  I  put  my  arm  through 
hers  and  drew  her  aside.  "Come  along  home,"  I 
said.    "Leave  all  these  people  for  once." 

I  don't  know  what  she  would  have  answered,  but 
at  that  moment  Wertheim  came  bustling  into  the 
room.  With  him  were  Oliver  and  Livia  Vaynol  as 
well  as  three  or  four  men  and  women.  Oliver  spoke 
to  no  one,  he  smiled  at  no  one,  but  the  chattering 
crowd  intinctively  parted  to  give  him  passage. 

Maeve  greeted  him  radiantly,  as  though  he  were 
a  long-lost  lover.  She  had  never  looked  more  charm- 
ing. "I'm  so  glad  you  came  round,"  she  said.  "I 
hoped  you  would." 

"It  was  a  good  show,"  he  said  brusquely.  "I  con- 
gratulate you." 

"Oliver,  old  boy,  introduce  your  pals,"  one  of  the 
men  said.  "I've  never  met  Miss  O'Riorden,  you 
know."  He  screwed  the  glass  into  his  slightly  bulg- 
ing eye  and  ogled  Maeve. 

"Major  Pogson,"  Oliver  said  briefly,  and  intro- 
duced the  other  people  who  were  with  him. 

"Look,  Maeve,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  take  you  out 
to  supper.    Can  you  manage  it?" 

"But  I'd  love  it!"  Maeve  cried. 

"Bravo!"  Pogson  shouted.   "We'll  make  it  a  party." 

Oliver  looked  at  him  with  a  cold,  almost  insolent, 
stare.    "Excuse  me,  Poggy,  I  don't  feel  like  a  crowd." 

Again  the  crowd  opened  for  him.  Maeve  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm.    "Good  night,  Livia,"  she  said. 

I  watched  Livia's  face,  saw  her  eyes  narrow,  scru- 
tinizing Maeve  and  Oliver  with  the  quiet  vigilance 
of  a  cat.  Oliver  seemed  unaware  of  the  scrutiny. 
He  seemed  unaware  of  Livia.  But  Maeve  saw  all. 
She  must  have  seen  the  spasm  of  hatred  that  shot 
across  Livia's  face  when   she  said:    "Good  night." 

U  LIVER  and  Maeve  made  an  even  more  attractive 
pair  for  the  picture-papers  than  Oliver  and  Livia 
had  done.  "Captain  Oliver  Essex,  V.C.,  and  Miss 
Maeve  O'Riorden,  the  popular  star  of  'Choose  Your 
Partner',  somewhere  in  Soho." 

They  were  everywhere  together.  "You  see," 
Maeve  said  to  me  with  frank  pride,  "I'm  someone. 
Who's  ever  heard  of  Livia  Vaynol,  except  a  few 
people  in  the  theater?  It  flatters  him  to  be  seen 
about  with  Maeve  O'Riorden." 

I  suppose  that  was  how  she  did  it.  Oliver  had 
been  given  a  temporary  job  at  home.  It  seemed  to 
leave  him  plenty  of  leisure  for  suppers,  dances, 
dinners,   and  all  the  flim-flam   of  the  time. 

Maeve  and  I  had  been  shifted  by  the  war  into  dif- 
ferent worlds.  We  rarely  met  now  at  lunch,  as  we 
had  been  used  to  do:  There  were  so  many  other 
claims  on  her  time.  There  was  nowhere  else  where  I 
might   meet  her.     I   did  my  job   each  day  at  the 


Propaganda  Ministry  —  Information  I  think  they 
called  it — and  at  night  I  was  glad  enough  to  with- 
draw into  my  own  thoughts. 

On  a  morning  of  early  January  1917,  I  was 
awakened  by  a  banging  on  my  bedroom  door. 
"Who's  there?"  I  shouted. 

"Me — Annie." 

I  stepped  out  of  bed,  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown 
and  opened  the  door. 

"Eh,  Mr.  Essex!  Ah'm  that  scared.  Miss  Maeve 
hasn't  come  home." 

Her  fear  communicated  itself  to  my  own  heart, 
but  I  said  reasonably:  "She's  often  late,  Annie.  I 
expect  she's  dancing." 

"Dancing!  Who'd  be  dancing  a  five  in  t'morning?" 

"You'd  better  go  to  bed,"  I  suggested. 

"Ah'll  not  go  to  bed,"  she  said  obstinately.  "Ah'll 
sit  here  till  Ah  know  what's  happened  to  Maeve. 
No  good.    Ah  reckon." 

MAEVE  came  in  at  seven  o'clock.  She  looked 
dead-tired,  yet  excited,  almost  exalted.  "For  the 
love  of  Mike,  Annie,  give  us  a  cup  of  tea,"  she  said. 
Then  with  a  pale  smile:  "I  find  you  two  in  very 
compromising  circumstances." 

Neither  Annie  nor  I  spoke.  The  silence  made 
Maeve  uneasy.  She  got  up  and  walked  about  the 
room  for  a  while,  then  burst  out:  "Oh,  why  do 
they  send  troop  trains  away  at  such  a  godless  hour 
of  the  morning!" 

"Troop  trains?" 

"Yes."  Then  the  strength  seemed  to  go  out  of 
her.  She  sank  into  a  chair  and  murmured:  "I've 
just  been  seeing  Oliver  off." 

"So  Oliver's  gone  back?" 

She  nodded.  "I  knew  it  was  coming,  but  I  didn't 
want  to  bother  you  with  it,  Bill.  You  don't  mind, 
do  you?    It  would  have  been — no  good,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  see.  Would  you  like  to  tell  me  anything 
about  Oliver?     You've  been  seeing  a  lot  of  him." 

"Every  day.  You  know  how  it  started,  don't  you? 
That  night  at  the  theater?  I  wanted  to  take  him 
away  from  Livia.     Because  you  wanted  Livia." 

So  that  was  it!  Of  course  that  was  it,  you  fool! 
Couldn't  you  see  it  without  having  it  put  into 
words?     And  I  hadn't  wanted  Livia  after  all. 

She  pushed  me  down  into  my  chair,  then  said: 
"I  know  I  made  a  mistake.  You  don't  love  Livia. 
Vou  don't  want  Livia." 


"Maeve,  my  love,"  I  said,  and  took  her  into 
my  arms.  "My  love,"  she  whispered.  "You've 
never  called  me  that  before  ...  my  love.  .  .  ." 

I  shook  my  head  miserably. 

"You've  been  a  long  time  finding  it  out,"  she  said. 

"I  didn't  think  you  knew." 

She  almost  snorted  in  her  impatience.  "You 
didn't!  Does  it  take  much  finding  out?  Does  a  man 
who  loves  a  woman  and  is  pursuing  her  spend  all 
his  leisure  time  stewing  in  a  flat?  Give  me  credit 
for  a  little  commonsense.  And  there  I  was  landed 
with  Oliver  for  weeks  and  weeks.  He  wouldn't  go 
back  to  Livia.  Heavens,  no!  There  you  are.  Grand 
theater,  isn't  it?  Heroine's  generous  gesture  recoils 
on  her  own  head.  How  do  we  go  on  from  there? 
You're  a  playwright.    Tell  me." 

What  was  there  to  tell?  Abased,  I  had  nothing  to 
say.  Presently  Maeve  sat  down  and  lighted  a  cig- 
arette, more  composed.  "Don't  think  I've  been  suf- 
fering," she  said,  "except  from  a  flat  feeling  that  I 
had  made  a  fool  of  myself.  You've  done  a  great  deal 
for  me  in  your  time,  Bill,  and  here  was  the  golden 
opportunity  to  do  something  for  you.  It  wasn't  nice 
to  see  it  wasted.    But  Oliver's  not  bad." 

I  looked  up  at  that  more  hopeful  note.  She  smiled 
at  me  like  someone  encouraging  a  despondent  child. 
"Light  your  pipe,"  she  said.  "No,  he's  not  bad,"  she 
went  on.  "You  know  I  never  really  liked  him,  but 
at  least  I've  liked  him  better  these  last  few  weeks 


than  ever  before.  He's  more  real  now.  There's 
something  rather  terrifying  in  his  realness.  At 
times  I  felt  frightened  with  him.  He  would  be  silent 
and  brooding  for  hours  together,  melancholy — mad." 
I  asked,  "Does  Oliver  want  to  marry  you?" 
"They  all  do,"  she  said  wearily,  "but  I  suppose 
I'm  not  a  marrying  sort." 


1  OWARDS  the  end  of  February  I  received  a  letter 
from  Dermot.  It  contained  some  trivial  message 
which  he  asked  me  to  pass  on  to  Maeve.  After 
breakfast  I  ran  up  to  her  flat,  and  went  straight 
into  the  sitting-room.  The  door  leading  thence  to 
the  bedroom  was  open,  and  I  could  see  Annie  Sut- 
hurst  standing  outside  the  door  of  the  bathroom 
which  opened  off  the  bedroom.  Her  face  was  drawn 
and  haggard.  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  faint  moan, 
followed  by  painful  retching. 

Annie  took  my  arm,  walked  me  through  the  bed- 
room to  the  sitting-room,  and  then  sank  into  a  chair. 
She  rocked  to  and  fro,  stricken  with  grief.  "The 
same  yesterday  morning,  Mr.  Essex.  God  help  us! 
Oh,  Miss  Maeve!     Miss  Maeve!" 

I  stood  looking  down  at  Annie  Suthurst  crumpled 
in  a  chair.  I  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  shook 
her  gently.  "Annie!  Pull  yourself  together!  Re- 
member, Maeve  wants  your  help  now  more  than 
ever  she  did.    We'll  manage  this  between  us." 

"Eh,  Mr.  Essex,  it  looks  to  me  like  summat  that's 
got  to  manage  itself  this  time." 

Uncomfortable  words!  They  were  in  my  head  as 
I  sat  at  the  table  facing  Maeve  a  few  hours  later. 
She  was  pale  as  usual,  but  quite  composed. 

"Have  you  heard,"  Maeve  asked,  "that  Livia's 
gone  away?" 

I  poured  out  her  coffee,  shaking  my  head. 

She  looked  at  me  gravely  and  said:  "So  wasteful! 
So  wasteful!  What  a  bad  schemer  I  make!  My 
parts  should  always  be  written  for  me." 

"Perhaps  they  are,"  I  said  sententiously. 

"You  mean  predestination  and  all  that?  It  would 
be  such  a  comfortable  doctrine,"  she  said,  "that 
whatever  I  did  had  been  prearranged — that  I 
couldn't  personally  be  blamed  whatever  I  did." 

There  was  something  tragical  in  her  stillness,  in 
the  way  her  beloved  mouth  let  drop  those  words; 
but  all  I  did  was  to  say:  "My  dear  child,  I  cannot 
imagine  you  doing  anything  very  terrible." 

She  turned  away  suddenly,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 
"I  just  wanted  you  to  tell  me  that  I  haven't  disap- 
pointed you,"  she  sobbed.  "You  expected  so  much 
of  me,  I  know." 

I  sprang  out  of  my  chair.  "Disappointed  me?"  I 
shouted.  And  I  knew  that  in  all  the  sad  tangle  I 
had  made  of  my  life,  Maeve  stood  clear  and  uncom- 
plicated, the  one  thing  that  had  never  given  me  a 
pang,  the  one  presence  in  which  disappointment 
could  never  be  felt.  I  crossed  the  room  to  her  and 
took  her  in  my  arms.    "Maeve,  my  love,"  I  said. 

She  looked  up  at  me  in  wonder.  "My  love,"  she 
whispered.  "You've  never  called  me  that  before 
.  .  .  my  love.  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  call  you  that  always.    My  love." 

I  tried  to  get  my  face  upon  hers.  She  forced  her 
head  backwards,  away  from  me,  gazing  deep  into 
my  eyes;  and  suddenly  I  saw  a  look  of  horror  born 
into  her  face.  She  gave  a  little  cry  and  dragged 
herself  free.    She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"My  love,  my  sweet,"  I  besought  her.  "What  is 
the  matter?     Maeve,  I  love  you.    I  love  you." 

"God  help  me,  Bill,"  she  said  in  a  sobbing  whisper, 
"I  love  you  so  that  I  could  lie  down  and  let  you 
walk  on  me  and  the  child  that's  in  me." 

"I  know  about  that;  don't  be  afraid  about  that." 

"It's  not  that  I'm  afraid  of.  It's  you.  You  didn't 
want  Livia  till  Oliver  wanted  her.  You  didn't  want 
me  till  Oliver  wanted  me.  What  is  it  about  you 
that  seems  to  prey  on  young  lives?  There  was  some- 
thing ...  in  your  face  ...  It  frightened  me." 

"My  dear,  you're  ill.  You're  imagining  things. 
God  forgive  me  if  my  face  could  bear  anything  but 
love  for  you" 

"No,  no!  It's  the  look  that  Oliver's  got  now — 
hungry — a  look  that  wants  to  consume  lives.  This 
is  Oliver's  child.  You  can't  have  me.  You  can't 
pretend  to  be  the  father  of  your  grandchild." 

She  reached  a  hand  out  blindly  across  the  table, 
and  I  took  it  and  as  blindly  stroked  it.  Presently 
she  raised  her  head  and  I  could  have  cried  at  the 
wreckage  of  her  face,  especially  when  a  pale  wisp 
of  smile  waked  like  a  ghost  amid  its  desolation.  "So 
there  we  are,  Bill,"  she  said.    "There  we  are." 

"Maeve,  we  must  talk  about  this  child.  What  are 
you  going  to  do?    How  can  I  help  you?" 

"You  can't  help  me.  You  can't!  But  you  do  un- 
derstand, don't  you,  Bill?     You  don't  despise  me?" 

I  stroked  her  hand.    "Hush,  my  dear." 

But  she  went  on  rapidly:  "You  know,  it  had  to 
come.  There  have  been  so  many  men  who  wanted 
me.    Well,  it  happened  with  Oliver." 

I  looked  at  the  white  wreck  of  Maeve.  "Don't 
think  about  it  any  more.  Let's  consider  the  pres- 
ent." 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  be  done  at  present. 
That's  go  to  bed." 

At  seven  the  next  morning  Annie  Suthurst  came 
knocking  at  my  door.  One  look  at  her  distraught 
face  set  my  heart  racing.  She  could  not  speak;  she 
just  stood  there  with  her  shaking  fingers  fumbling 


42 


>>>>>>>>>> 


BY  HOWARD  SPRING 


at  a  shaking  mouth.  I  pushed  past  her  and  ran  up 
the  stairs,  through  the  sitting-room  to  Maeve's  bed- 
room. She  lay  with  one  long  white  arm  hanging  out 
of  the  bed.  Her  head  was  fallen  a  little  to  one  side. 
The  face,  framed  by  the  black  hair,  looked  childish 
and  hurt  and  puzzled. 

PART  V 

ON  Armistice  Night  Annie  Suthurst 
asked:  "Will  you  be  going  out  tonight, 
Mr.  Essex?" 
I  shook  my  head.  "I  don't  think  so, 
Annie.  No;  I  really  don't  think  I  could 
stand  it.  They  cheered  and  went  mad  when  the  war 
started.  Now  they  cheer  and  go  mad  because  it's 
ended.    The  two  things  don't  make  sense  to  me." 

When  I  went  to  my  study,  I  found  the  curtains 
drawn,  my  chair  pulled  up  to  the  fire,  and  my  slip- 
pers on  the  fender.  Alongside  the  chair  was  the 
little  table  with  my  pipes  and  tobacco-jar  and 
spectacles.    Annie  looked  after  me  well. 

The  fact  was,  of  course,  that  Annie  would  always 
spoil  me  because  she  had  never  got  over  the  miracle, 
as  she  thought  it,  that  I  had  achieved,  in  having 
Maeve's  death  listed  as  a  heart  attack  rather  than 
suicide.  The  shame  that  had  been  averted  from  the 
memory  of  her  dear  Maeve  .  .  .  Annie  had  proved 
utterly  reliable.  Not  even  to  me  had  she  ever  men- 
tioned what  had  happened. 

It  all  surged  upon  my  memory  as  I  sat  in  my  room 
that  Armistice  night  and  listened  to  the  jubilation. 
All  through  the  evening  the  songs  came  up  to  me: 
"Tipperary,"  "When  It's  with  You,  It's  Wonderful," 
"Till  the  Boys  Come  Home." 

There  wov'  be  that,  too.  Oliver  would  be  com- 
ing home.  .  lund  the  chill  of  my  heart  a  faint 
warmth  awakened  at  the  thought.  Livia  .  .  .  would 
he  want  Livia  now?  Would  Livia  want  him?  I 
saw  nothing  there.  And  Maeve  was  gone.  Did  I 
remain?  Did  I  count?  I  had  yet  to  find  out.  I  had 
written  him  when  Maeve  died.  Twenty  months  ago. 
There  was  no  answer.  I  waited  for  six  months,  then 
sent  him  food  and  tobacco.    There  was  no  answer. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door  of  the  flat.  I  heard 
Annie  shuffle  out  from  her  bed-sitting-room  and 
break  into  cries  of  pleasure.  She  came  bustling  into 
my  room,  so  overcome  that  she  forgot  to  knock  at 
the  door.     "Coom  in,  Mr.  Rory.     Coom  in." 

Yes,  it  was  Rory.  "I'll  see  you  later,  Annie,"  he 
said,  seeing  that  she  hovered  there,  making  ecstatic 
noises,  unwilling  to  take  her  eyes  off  him. 

"Well,  Uncle  Bill?" 

He  stood  grinning  in  his  old  diffident  fashion. 

Our  hands  met  in  hard  grip.  "Sit  down,"  I  said. 
"You  don't  change  much,  Rory." 

"No,  so  Maggie  says.    She  says  I  just — deepen." 

"How  is  Maggie?" 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected,"  he  said  grimly.  I 
knew  he  was  referring  to  Donnelly's  death. 

"You'll  be  able  to  marry  Maggie  now,"  I  said. 

"We  are  already  married.  She  is  staying  at 
Father's  house.  We  thought  there  was  no  need  to 
make  a  fuss,  so  we  just  got  married,  as  soon  as  I 
was  released  from  prison." 

"I  wish  you  joy,  Rory,  Maggie's  a  fine  girl." 

"Uncle  Bill,  I  believe  we  do  understand  some- 
thing of  one  another,  you  and  I.  Otherwise,  I 
couldn't  say  what  I'm  going  to  say  now.  But  I  came 
to  say  it,  so  here  goes.  Thank  you  for  what  you  did 
for  Maeve." 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  I  did  nothing.    I.  .  .  ." 

His  grey  candid  eyes  were  looking  me  through 
and  through.  I  hesitated,  flustered.  "I  don't  know 
how  you  did  it  or  exactly  what  it  was  you  did,"  he 
said.  "But,  you  see,  I  know  that  Maeve  committed 
suicide.  And  I  know  that  no  one  knows  that — not 
even  Father  and  Mother." 

I  felt  perspiration  trickling  on  my  forehead.  1 
wiped  it  away  with  a  handkerchief,  got  up,  and 
poured  myself  a  drink.  There  was  utter  silence  in 
the  room,  broken  only  by  the  light  tinkle  of  the 
decanter  against  the  whisky  glass. 

"She  was  going  to  have  a  child  by  Oliver." 

I  had  taken  a  drink,  and  turned  to  face  him  as  he 
said  this.  His  eyes  seemed  to  have  shrunk  to  little 
points  having  the  hard  grey  glitter  of  granite.  "She 
wrote  to  me  from  the  theater  the  night  she  died. 
She  must  have  scribbled  the  note  in  an  interval  and 
given  it  to  someone  to  post.  She  told  me  what 
she  was  going  to  do  and  why  she  was  going  to  do  it." 
He  added  simply:  "You  see,  we  were  very  fond  of 
one  another,  and  I  was  proud  of  Maeve.  We  told 
one  another  everything." 

He  glowered  at  the  fire  for  a  while,  then  went  on: 
"I  expected  the  papers  to  be  full  of  it — the  inquest 
and  all  that.  And  there  was  nothing — nothing  ex- 
cept that  Maeve  was  dead,  and  all  the  columns  of 
praise.  Then  I  knew  that  somebody  had  cooked  it, 
and  I  guessed  it  was  you." 

I  broke  in  eagerly:     "Yes,  I — " 

He  interrupted  me  with  the  holding  up  of  one  big 
hand.  "Please!  Say  nothing.  I  only  want  to  thank 
you.    I'm  glad  you  did  it.    I  should  have  hated.  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  frowning.  Presently  he  said:  "I 
did  you  an  injustice.  At  first  I  thought  in  my  bitter- 
ness that  what  you  had  done  was  to  save  Oliver's 
skin.  I  apologize  for  that.  You  did  it  because  you 
loved  Maeve.  Always  and  always.  Those  are 
Maeve's  words:  Always  and  always.    I  want  you  to 


know  that,  too.  She  always  loved  you,  and  believed 
that  you  loved  her  but  that  you  were  too  blind  to 
know  your  own  heart.  It's  a  pity.  I  wish  you  had 
married  Maeve.  So  much  would  have  been  so  dif- 
ferent.   Because  now.  .  .  ." 

He  got  up,  leaving  the  sentence  unfinished,  but  my 
own  heart  finished  it  for  him.  Because  now  Oliver 
and  I  have  a  matter  to  settle. 

EVER  since  leaving  Manchester  I  had  continued  to 
read  the  Manchester  Guardian.  It  was  towards  the 
end  of  the  following  winter — in  March  of  1920 — that 
I  came  upon  a  paragraph  in  that  paper  which  threw 
the  next  beam  of  light  upon  Oliver's  affairs.  It  was 
a  report  of  bankruptcy-court  proceedings,  and  the 
Official  Receiver  was  frank  about  the  affairs  of 
Messrs.  Newbiggin  and  Essex.  Books,  he  said,  had 
been  improperly  kept  and  the  whole  conduct  of 
the  business  had  shown  a  reckless  disregard  for 
customary  commercial  procedure,  but  in  view  of  the 
splendid  military  record  of  one  of  the  partners  he 
would  give  them  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  assume 
that  ignorance  of  business  practice  had  led  them 
to  their  present  position.    The  inquiry  was  closed. 

It  was  this  which  led  me  at  last  to  visit  Man- 
chester.   Perhaps  now  was  the  time.  .  .  . 

But  all  I  got  out  of  my  visit  to  Manchester  was 
the  news  that  Oliver  had  joined  the  Black  and  Tan 
Auxiliaries  and  was  then  on  service  in  Ireland. 

When  I  got  back  to  town,  I  rang  up  Dermot  and 
asked  him:  "Do  you  know  anything  about  these 
Black  and  Tans  and  Auxiliaries  that  are  going  to 
Ireland?" 

"Yes,  Bill,  I  can  tell  you  in  a  nutshell.  They're 
the  dirty  scum  and  off-scouring  of  England  sent  to 
demonstrate  what  this  government  thinks  of  the 
rights  of  small  nations.    Why?" 

"Oliver's  joined  the  Auxiliaries." 

Dermot  didn't  answer  that.  There  was  a  silence; 
then  I  heard  the  receiver  click  back  onto  its  hook. 

I  HAD  been  writing  for  an  hour.  The  room  was 
full  of  the  extraordinary  silence  that  accompanies 
a  fall  of  snow.  The  scratch  of  the  pen  over  the 
paper,  the  flames  in  the  grate  flapping  like  little 
blown  banners;  that  was  all  I  could  hear. 

The  telephone  bell  shrilled,  bringing  me  back  with 
a  heart-thump  to  the  moment:  to  nine  of  a  snowy 
March  night  in  1921.  It  was  young  Guy  Langdale. 
He  had  married  Eileen  in  the  autumn  and  they  had 
a  small  house  at  Richmond.  He  was  speaking  from 
there  in  great  agitation.    Could  I  come  at  once? 

''But  what  is  it,  man?    Is  Eileen  ill?" 

"No,"  he  said,  "it's  not  Eileen — it's  Maggie." 

"Maggie?     You  mean  Rory's  wife?" 

"Yes.    Rory's  dead." 

I  put  down  the  receiver  and  looked  dazedly  about 
my  familiar  room.  Just  there  Maeve  had  stood 
that  day,  confronting  Dermot. 

You've  killed  Rory!  .  .  .  You've  killed  Rory! 

God  help  you,  Dermot,  now. 

Guy  himself  opened  the  door  and  led  me  to  a 
small  room  at  the  back  which  he  used  as  a  study. 
"You  know  what  these  people  are  when  for  years 
they've  been  sleeping  and  waking  for  a  cause.  We 
don't  know  yet  what  it  is,  but  there's  something 
terrible  on  that  girl's  mind.  She  was  delirious. 
She  kept  shouting:  'I  betrayed  him!'  and  then  there 
was  a  lot  of  babble  about  Essex.  That's  why  Eileen 
wanted  you  to  come.  We  thought  there  was  some- 
thing she  wanted  to  tell  you,  and  that  if  you  were 
here  and  she  became  sensible  it  might  help.  But 
now  she's  asleep.  The  doctor's  been  and  seen  to  that. 
He  says  she  should  sleep  till  morning.  There's  an- 
other thing.  We  gathered  that  she  came  to  Eileen 
because  she  dared  not  go  to  Rory's  father.  She 
couldn't  face  that.  So  you  see,"  said  Guy,  his 
knuckles  white  as  he  clutched  his  glass,  "someone 
has  to  tell  O'Riorden  that  his  son  is  dead."  He  added 
after  a  while:  "Eileen  is  in  no  condition  to  see  her 
father.  And  frankly  I  loathe  the  job.  Will  you  do 
it?" 

MAGGIE  was  sitting  up  in  bed.  She  was  alone 
when  Dermot  and  Sheila  and  I  went  in.  She  was 
in  possession  of  herself;  her  hysteria  was  ended;  but 
a  world  of  woe  looked  from  her  grey  eyes. 

While  Dermot  and  I  stood  just  within  the  door- 
way, Rory's  mother  crossed  the  room  and  kissed 
Rory's  widow.  It  was  a  cold  perfunctory  kiss,  and 
suddenly  I  knew  that  Sheila's  heart  was  burning 
with  hate.    I  knew,  too,  that  Maggie  felt  this. 

Tears  grew  in  her  eyes,  flowed  out  onto  her 
cheeks.  She  wiped  them  away  and  said:  "I  mustn't 
cry." 

"It  doesn't  do  much  good,"  Sheila  said.  "I've  lost 
two  children,  and  I  know."  That  was  the  only  visit 
she  made  to  Maggie. 

A  few  days  later  I  called  alone,  and  found  that 
Maggie  was  up  and  dressed.  So  I  took  her  out  to 
lunch,  and  then  we  went  for  a  walk  in  Richmond 
Park.  We  had  not  been  walking  for  long  when  she 
put  her  hand  shyly  on  my  arm  and  said:  "Rory  was 
very  fond  of  you." 

"I  believe  he  was,"  I  said,  "and  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"Do  you  think  I  was — good  enough  for  him?" 

"I  knew  Rory  well  enough  to  know  that  he 
wouldn't  have  chosen  anything  second-rate." 


"His  mother  thinks  I'm  a  coward — that  I  ran 
away." 

"It's  difficult  just  now  for  Rory's  mother  to  be  as 
fair  as  she  usually  is." 

Suddenly  Maggie  sat  down  on  a  seat  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  "I  did  run  away,"  she  sobbed. 
"I  did.    I  did.    I  was  a  coward." 

I  tried  to  comfort  her.  "My  dear,  who  can  blame 
you?     You  have  been  through  so  much." 

But  Maggie  needed  the  comfort  of  words,  needed 
at  last  to  break  the  silence  she  had  so  long  main- 
tained about  Rory's  death.  Rory,  she  said,  was  the 
leader  of  a  group  of  four  lads  who  had  withstood 
for  a  long  gruelling  day  a  siege  from  a  Black  and 
Tan  contingent.  Towards  evening,  Rory  had  been 
wounded  and  Maggie  and  Dan  Conroy,  whose  wrist 
had  been  shattered,  had  managed  to  half  carry,  half 
drag  him  to  an  old  barn  in  the  loft  of  which  the 
men  had,  weeks  before,  built  a  narrow  secret  room, 
stocked  with  a  little  food  and  first  aid  equipment. 
Here  Maggie  began  to  bandage  Rory's  wounded 
knee,  and,  lacking  splints  for  the  job,  she  crept  back 
downstairs  in  search  of  wood  that  might  serve. 

SITTING  on  the  beach  in  Richmond  Park,  Maggie 
paused  and  looked  round  in  wonder,  as  though  from 
the  horrors  she  had  been  recounting  she  had  stepped 
suddenly  into  an  awareness  of  the  graciousness 
about  her.  "I  must  go  on,"  she  said.  "It  will  hurt 
you."    I  nodded,  and  she  continued: 

"When  I  got  downstairs  to  the  floor  of  the  barn,  I 
was  afraid.  I  had  the  tiny  light  with  me,  and  it 
made  the  shadows  more  frightening  than  if  there 
had  been  no  light  at  all.  I  felt  as  though  someone' 
were  walking  behind  me,  and  someone  was.  He 
said  suddenly:  'I  was  sure  there  were  three  of  you. 
Where  are  the  others?' 

"I  stopped  quite  still.  He  said:  'Don't  move.  Don't 
turn  round.  There's  no  reason  for  you  to  see  me.' 
Then  he  took  the  little  light  from  my  hand  and 
stuck  the  end  of  the  torch  in  a  truss  of  hay.  "That's 
excellent,'  he  said.  'Now  I  can  see  you,  but  I  can 
remain  invisible  as  I  have  been  ever  since  you  left 
the  house.     Where  are  the  others?' 

"He  had  a  beautiful  voice.  He  spoke  so  pleas- 
antly that  I  was  almost  bewitched  into  answering. 

"He  reached  out  his  arm  from  behind  me  so  that 
I  could  see  he  held  a  revolver.  Then  he  drew  it 
back,  and  there  was  nothing  but  the  voice. 

"  'Well,  'pon  my  soul,'  he  said  at  last,  'if  you  don't 
speak  soon,  then  by  the  word  of  an  Essex — ' 

"And  then  I  knew.  All  the  time  he  had  been 
speaking,  that  voice  coming  out  of  the  dark  seemed 
to  be  coming  out  of  the  darkness  of  years  and  years 
ago.  It  had  been  puzzling  my  memory,  and  when 
he  said  the  name  everything  lit  up.  And  I  thought 
of  swimming  and  sailing  and  fishing,  and  he  and 
Rory  loving  one  another.  And  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break  with  joy,  because  I  knew  I  had  only  to 
turn  round  and  see  a  face  I  remembered  and  say: 
'But,  Oliver,  it's  Rory.  He's  upstairs.  You  won't 
want  to  hurt  him.' 

"And  then  I  turned  round,  and  he  said:  'Humph! 
Inquisitive?  Well,  here  I  am.'  And  with  that  he 
turned  a  strong  torch  of  his  own  full  on  his  face. 
And,  oh,  dear  God,  it  wasn't  the  face  I  knew.  It 
was  cold  and  cruel.  .  And  my  heart  dried  up,  and 
fear  came  on  me,  and  suddenly  I  shrieked. 

"And  that  was  how  I  betrayed  Rory. 

"There  was  silence  after  I  shrieked,  and  then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said:  'That  ought  to 
fetch  'em.'     He  didn't  know  me. 

"And  then  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  He 
had  snapped  out  his  torch.  I  could  hear  a  creep- 
ing and  crawling  along  the  floor  of  the  loft.  He 
could  hear  it,  too.  It  went  on  for  a  long  time,  till 
I  knew  that  Rory  was  at  the  opening  over  the  ladder. 
Then  suddenly  a  big  electric  torch  flashed  from  up 
there  down  into  the  floor  of  the  barn  and  began 
searching  for  us.  It  was  Conroy  holding  it,  so  that 
Rory  could  shoot.  When  the  shot  came  I  screamed 
again,  and  the  thunder  in  my  ears  drowned  the  noise 
of  my  own  cry.  Oliver  had  fired  over  my  head. 
Rory  slipped  head  first  down  the  ladder,  his  arms 
sprawled  out,  his  wounded  leg  folded  up  under  him 
when  he  came  to  rest.  Conroy  watched  from  above. 
He  had  no  revolver. 

"First,  Oliver  took  the  revolver  out  of  Rory's  hand 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  turned  him  over. 
He  knew  at  once.  His  own  revolver  fell  from  his 
hand.  All  the  marks  seemed  to  go  out  of  his  face 
as  though  a  sponge  had  cleaned  them  off.  He  looked 
soft  and  young  and  gentle.  Then  they  flowed  back. 
He  picked  up  his  revolver  and  turned  to  me.  'Mag- 
gie Donnelly?'  he  said. 

"  'Maggie  O'Riorden.' 

"  'Christ!'  he  said.  'Christ!'  and  ran  out  of  the 
barn. 

She  had  stayed  in  the  bain  all  night,  sitting  with 
Rory's  head  in  her  lap,  her  hands  stroking  his  hair. 
Towards  dawn  she  crawled  behind  the  hedge,  and 
what  was  left  of  the  flying  column  of  Black  and  Tans 
trailed  past  her  in  the  dawn.  Oliver  marched  at  the 
head  of  them.  Suddenly  one  of  the  men  began  to 
sing.  Oliver  turned  upon  his  savagely:  "Shut  your 
blasted  mouth!"  he  said. 

The  man  protested:     "Can't  a  feller  sing?" 

Maggie  said,  Oliver's  face  went  blind  with  fury. 
He  was  carrying  a  heavy  stick  and  he  turned 
and  belaboured  the  man  over  the  head  till  he  reeled 


CCCCC€€€€U 


43 


iswfo  z/trn,  ^>Ww  i^cm 


/ 


and  fell.  The  others  closed  about  him,  muttering. 
Oliver  took  a  revolver  from  his  belt,  formed  them 
into  ranks,  and  marched  them  off. 

"So  you  see,"  Maggie  said,  "that  I  couldn't  tell 
Mrs.  O'Riorden  how  it  was.  And  if  I'd  talked  about 
it,"  she  added,  "it  would  have  been  very  hard  not 
to  mention  Oliver.  And  I  didn't  want  to  do  that, 
because  Rory  was  very  fond  of  you,  and  he  loved 
Oliver  once.  He  wouldn't  have  wished  it.  There's 
sorrow  enough  in  the  world,  without  my  coming 
between  friends." 

Then  I  cried,  cried  as  I  had  never  cried  before, 
as  I  shall  never  cry  again,  tears  of  anguish  for  the 
wrong  that  had  been  done,  tears  for  Rory  lying  be- 
yond the  reach  of  tears  in  a  far-off  draughty  barn, 
tears  for  Oliver  venting  his  savage  sorrow  as  he 
marched  hopelessly  along  the  road  of  twilight,  tears 
of  humiliation  at  the  wisdom  and  steadfastness  of 
the  girl  at  my  side.  She  walked  along  quietly,  em- 
barrassed by  the  sobs  that  shook  me,  looking  shyly 
into  my  face  from  time  to  time. 

"You're  too  good,  too  good,"  I  managed  to  say  at 
last.     "Why  should  you  protect  me  like  this?" 

"Good?"  she  said.  "No,  I'm  not  good.  I'm  trying 
to  be  sensible,  that's  all.  Aren't  you  sad  and  lonely 
like  the  rest  of  us?     Very  well,  then." 

We  walked  in  silence  for  a  while,  and  then  I  asked 
her:     "What  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 

"Do?"  she  asked  with  surprise.  "Why,  I  must 
go  back." 

MAY  it  please  your  lordship;  ladies  and  gentle- 
men of  the  jury.  On  the  first  Monday  in  Decem- 
ber last,  Percy  Lupton,  a  young  man  of  twenty- 
seven,  went  out  to  his  work  in  the  district  of  Higher 
Broughton  in  Manchester. 

"Lup ton's  work  was  this.  His  uncle  was  a  builder 
who  owned  a  great  deal  of  house  property.  On 
Monday  afternoons,  he  was  to  make  the  rounds  of 
houses  which  his  uncle  owned  and  collect  the  rents. 

"You  will  hear  that  Oliver  Essex,  who  stands 
there  before  you  accused  of  the  murder  of  Percy 
Lupton,  lodged  in  one  of  the  houses  at  which  Lupton 
collected  the  rent,  that  he  was  aware  that  Monday 
was  the  day  for  the  collection,  because  his  land- 
lady, Mrs.  Newbiggin,  had  once  left  the  money  and 
asked  him  to  pay  it  when  the  collector  called. 

"Evidence  will  be  given  that  Essex  had  done  no 
work  for  a  long  time,  that  he  was  in  debt  not  only 
to  his  landlady  but  also  to  many  tradespeople.  One 
of  these  tradespeople,  a  tailor  to  whom  he  owed  fif- 
'.een  guineas,  had  pressed  him  for  payment  the  week 
before  Percy  Lupton  was  killed.  He  will  tell  you 
that  Essex  said:  'Don't  worry.  You  shall  have  the 
money  soon  if  I  have  to  do  someone  in  to  get  it.' 

"Well,  now,  let  us  return  to  Percy  Lupton.  Just 
as  he  was  leaving  the  last  house  at  which  he  had  to 
call,  he  met  an  acquaintance  and  old  army  comrade, 
Henry  Sugden,  and  Sugden  will  tell  you  the  exact 
time  at  which  he  parted  from  the  dead  man,  be- 
cause he  looked  at  his  wrist  watch,  and  he  remem- 
bers saying:     'I  must  push  off.    It's  twenty  past  six.' 

"As  it  happens,  we  have  a  check  on  time  a  little 
later.  A  young  waiter  named  Daniel  Kassassian 
had  arranged  to  meet  his  sweetheart,  at  a  street  cor- 
ner opposite  Lupton's  office,  at  six-thirty.  Kassas- 
sian, as  soon  as  he  arrived  there,  looked  at  his  watch 
to  see  if  he  were  on  time  for  his  appointment.  He 
will  tell  you  that  he  noted  he  was  dead  on  time— 
six-thirty;  and  that  at  that  very  moment  he  heard 
a  terrible  cry. 

"It  is  the  contention  of  the  prosecution  in  this 
case  that  in  those  ten  fatal  minutes  Oliver  Essex 
murdered  Percy  Lupton. 

"Now  Kassassian  proceeded  to  investigate  the  cry, 
colliding  near  Lupton's  office  with  a  man  with  such 
violence  that  the  man's  hat  was  knocked  off.  A 
black  felt  hat,  within  which,  as  you  will  hear  from 
the  hatter  who  sold  it  to  Oliver  Essex,  were  the  ini- 
tials 'O.E.'  Kassassian  entered  the  office,  and  to  his 
horror,  stretched  before  the  open  door  of  the  safe, 
he  discovered  the  body  of  a  man,  later  identified 
as  Percy  Lupton,  and  he  rang  up  the  police.  .  .  ." 

The  grey  wig  surmounting  the  unmoving  blur  of 
scarlet;  counsel  twitching  his  gown  as  he  wove  mesh 
after  mesh  of  the  net;  twelve  intent  faces  of  jurors; 
all  about  me  here  in  the  public  gallery  the  livid 
eager  faces  of  men  and  women  in  at  the  kill. 

Suddenly,  it  all  seemed  meaningless,  a  staged  fan- 
tastic show,  nothing  to  do  with  me,  nothing  to  do 
with  Oliver.  I  got  up  and  stumbled  down  the  stairs, 
my  heart  crying:     "O,  Oliver,  my  son,  my  son!" 

He  had  destroyed  so  much  that  I  had  loved:  Livia 
Vaynol,  and  Maeve,  and  Rory,  and  Maggie;  but  he 
had  called  me  "Father"  again;  not  "Sir"  as  in  that 
time  when  there  was  ice  between  our  hearts.  Oh, 
why  should  I  sit  there  and  listen  to  the  words 
and  the  words  and  the  words,  when  I  knew  better 
than  any  of  them  what  had  happened?  He  had  told 
me  himself,  and  somehow,  God  help  me,  there  was 
comfort  in  that. 

He  ran  into  the  fog,  and  as  he  ran  a  voice  kept 
crying  in  him:  "You've  left  your  hat,  you  fool; 
you've  left  your  hat."  But  even  if  he  had  known 
incontrovertibly  that  the  hat  would  hang  him,  the 
impulse  to  run  was  now  stronger  than  the  impulse 
to  go  back.  "I  had  killed  so  many  men,"  he  said 
with  brutal  candor;  "I  had  been  applauded  for 
killing    them,    promoted    for    killing    them,    given 


medals  for  killing  them;  but  don't  let  any  fool  tell 
you  there's  no  difference  between  killing  in  peace 
and  war.  In  three  seconds  after  I  had  killed  that 
man  I  knew  the  difference.  I  knew  that  I  had  killed 
one  man  too  many." 

So,  panic  in  his  heart,  he  ran. 

I  read  of  the  murder  of  Percy  Lupton;  I  read  that 
a  black  felt  hat  had  been  handed  to  the  police  by  a 
man  named  Kassassian,  and  that  the  initials  "O.E." 
were  on  the  lining-band.    It  meant  nothing  to  me. 

By  the  afternoon  the  murder  was  a  big  affair.  It 
was  on  the  front  pages.  "Famous  V.C.  and  mur- 
dered Cashier."  The  hatter  had  identified  O.E.  Yes, 
he  remembered  selling  the  hat,  only  a  week  before, 
to  Major  Oliver  Essex,  whose  "present  whereabouts 
are  unknown." 

In  the  morning  I  went  to  Paddington  and  took 
the  train  to  Truro. 

So  far  as  I  knew,  there  was  only  one  man  in  Eng- 
land to  whom  Oliver  could  turn  now,  and  that  was 
Captain  Judas.  I  didn't  know  what  I  intended  to 
do,  except  that  I  must  get  to  Heronwater.  I  told 
nobody  where  I  was  going — not  Dermot;  not  Annie 
Suthurst.  Just  to  go,  just  to  feel  that  at  this  last 
desperate  moment  I  might  get  near  to  Oliver. 

No  light  was  visible  in  the  Jezebel.  I  tied  up  the 
boat  to  the  ring  in  the  hull  and  pulled  on  the  bell- 
cord. 

"That  you,  Judas?"  The  voice  was  a  cautious, 
fearful  whisper. 

"No,  Oliver.  I  am  your  father.  Let  down  the 
ladder." 

He  let  down  the  ladder  and  I  climbed  up  and  stood 
beside  him  on  the  deck.  He  was  the  first  to  speak. 
He  said:   "I'm  glad  you've  come,  Father." 

I  could  not  answer  him,  because  I  knew  I  had 
come  too  late.  I  looked  at  him  with  my  heart  break- 
ing. He  is  twenty-six,  my  thoughts  kept  saying.  .  .  . 
He  looked  ageless:     Haggard,  drawn,  and  dissolute. 

At  last  he  spoke.     "Why  did  you  bother?" 

"I  want  to  help  you." 

"Why?    What  am  I  to  you?" 

"You  are  my  son." 

He  said  with  his  lips  twisted  into  a  grin:  "  'This 
is  my  beloved  son,  in  whom  I  am  well  pleased.'  " 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said  to  that.  After  a 
while  he  said:  "There's  nothing  you  can  do — 
nothing  at  all.    But  I'm  glad  you  came." 

I  thought  of  practical  things.  "What  about  Cap- 
tain Judas?" 

"He  won't  be  back  till  the  morning,"  Oliver  said. 
"His  friend  Jansen  is  in  at  Truro,  and  he's  gone  to 
spend  the  night  with  him." 

"Does  he  .  .   .?" 

I  couldn't  say  it.  The  words  stuck  in  my  throat. 
Oliver  helped  me  out.  "You  mean  does  he  know 
the  police  are  after  me?"  He  pushed  his  hand 
wearily  across  his  brow  again.  "God  knows  what 
the  old  fool  thinks.  He  expected  me.  I  know  that. 
I  didn't  surprise  him.  He  swears  they  shan't  take 
his  Lord  this  time.  He'll  show  'em  whether  Judas 
is  a  betrayer.    And  that's  all  I  can  get  out  of  him." 

He  sprawled  down  on  the  timbers,  and  I  sat  beside 
him.  I  took  out  my  tobacco-pouch  and  pipe.  Oliver 
produced  a  pipe  and  blew  through  it.  I  handed 
him  the  pouch.     Soon  we  were  both  smoking. 

"D'you  remember  writing  to  me  about  Maeve?" 

I  nodded. 

"I  got  that  letter  all  right.  And  the  tobacco  and 
food  later.  I  wish  that  I  had  come  straight  back 
to  you  when  the  war  was  over.  But  I  was  too 
proud.  I  wanted  to  go  on  hurting  you.  I  wanted 
to  go  on  hurting  everybody."  He  buried  his  face 
in  his  hands.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  come  here,"  he 
said.  "This  place  is  too  full  of  Rory."  And  then: 
"Let  me  tell  you — " 

"No,  no.  Don't  distress  yourself.  I  know  all  about 
that.  Maggie  told  me — told  no  one  but  me.  She 
knew  that  you  didn't  know  it  was  Rory  when  you 
shot  him,  and  she  said  that  Rory  himself  wouldn't 
have  wished  anyone  to  know.  She  seemed  to  under- 
stand." 

"I  wasn't  in  their  class,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  wasn't 
in  the  same  class  as  Rory  and  Maggie.  Or  Maeve, 
for  that  matter.  Sorry,  Father.  God  gave  you  the 
one  bad  lot  of  all  the  bunch." 

I  N  the  pitch-darkness  I  could  feel  Oliver's  head 
resting  against  my  shoulder.  We  had  talked  and 
dozed,  and  waked  and  talked  again,  far  into  the 
night. 

I  moved  my  hand  and  felt  his  hair,  long  and  silky. 
I  fondled  it  very  softly,  fearing  to  wake  him,  and 
tears  scalded  my  eyelids  and  then  began  to  flow 
quietly  down  my  face.  I  wished  we  could  both  die 
there,  in  the  darkness  below  the  Jezebel's  decks, 
with  his  head  on  my  shoulder,  his  soft  hair  under 
my  hand. 

Suddenly  his  whole  body  twitched  violently  and 
his  head  was  wrenched  away.  Then,  as  though  he 
had  recollected  where  he  was,  he  sighed  and  leaned 
back  against  me.     "Hallo,  Father,"  he  said. 

I  could  see  by  the  illuminated  dial  of  his  wrist 
watch  that  it  was  seven  o'clock.  I  wiped  my  eyes 
furtively. 

I  lit  the  galley  fire  and  made  some  coffee,  cut 
bread  and  butter.  It  was  not  much  of  a  meal,  but 
it  was  many  years  since  we  had  eaten  together.  He 
recurred  to  a  thought  that  had  troubled  him  before. 


"I  don't  know  why  you're  doing  this,"  he  said. 

"Never  mind  why  I'm  doing  it,"  I  answered. 
"Don't  you  know  that  I'm  very  happy?  I've  got  a  son 
again.  If  you  had  had  a  son  you  might  know  what 
I  mean." 

"I  might  have  had,"  he  said.  "Maeve  might  have 
had  a  son  .  .  .  Poor  Maeve  .  .  .  Then  it  would 
have  been  so  different." 

"She  loved  you  very  much,"  I  lied. 

"Did  you  ever  see  Livia  Vaynol  again?"  he  asked. 

I  shook  my  head.  "Never  since  the  night  you  left 
her  in  Maeve's  dressing-room." 

"Nor  I.  I  treated  her  pretty  badly."  He  added 
after  a  pause:  "There's  only  one  thing  in  my  whole 
life  that  I'm  glad  about  at  this  moment." 

I  looked  at  him  questioningly. 

"I'm  glad  Mother  didn't  live."  We  were  silent 
for  a  moment,  then  he  asked:  "Had  we  better  de- 
scend again  to  the  underworld?" 

"It's  not  necessary.  Stay  here  where  the  air's 
fresher.  No  one  can  see  you,  and  we  can  see  any- 
one who  approaches  the  ship.  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

He  sat  with  his  hands  drooping  between  his  knees. 
"Hang,"  he  said. 

At  that,  a  cry  was  dragged  out  of  me.  "No,  no!" 
I  said.  "Don't  say  that!  For  God's  sake  don't  talk 
about  that,  even  as  a  possibility.  We  must  think. 
We  must  devise  some  scheme.  .  .  ." 

I  lost  control  of  myself.  I  was  standing  up,  shout- 
ing, quivering.  Oliver  put  an  arm  round  my 
shoulders,  and  a  strange  shudder  compounded  of 
joy  and  repulsion  went  through  me  at  the  touch. 
"Calm  yourself,"  he  said.  "I  know  you  would  do 
anything  for  me.  I  have  always  known  that,  pig- 
headed swine  that  I've  been.  I've  alwa-T  known  you 
were  there.  There  were  times  whe::  I  hated  you, 
but  I  never  doubted  you.  Is  it  any  consolation  to 
you  to  know  that?" 

I  nodded  my  head,  unable  to  speak. 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said,  his  grip  round  my  shoulders 
tightening  like  a  vice,  "because  now  it's  too  late. 
You  can  do  nothing  more.    Look!" 

The  arm  that  was  not  holding  me  shot  out  to- 
wards the  window,  the  long  scar  pointing  like  an 
arrow.  As  I  looked,  his  strong  arm  held  me  up,  or  I 
should  have  fallen.    "That's  the  end,"  he  said. 

He  released  me,  and  I  gripped  the  edge  of  the  table 
for  support.  My  knees  were  like  water.  Oliver  held 
out  his  hand.     "We'll  say  good-by  now,"  he  said. 

I  took  his  hand.  It  closed  on  mine  like  iron.  He 
was  not  afraid  now.    I  could  see  that. 

"Thank  you  for  coming — and  for  everything,"  he 
said.     Then  he  dropped  my  hand. 

We  stood  face  to  face  at  the  table,  not  speaking 
for  a  moment,  listening  to  the  engine  of  the  ap- 
proaching motorboat.  The  engine  dropped  to  half- 
speed  as  the  bows  pointed  in  towards  the  Jezebel. 

Then  he  spoke  again.  "Don't  fool  yourself  with 
hopes.  There's  no  earthly  chance.  I  want  you  to 
make  me  a  promise." 

I  couldn't  speak.  I  looked  at  him  in  anguished 
silence. 

"Don't  come  to  see  me  in  jail  when  it's  all  over. 
I  shouldn't  like  that.    Promise?" 

I  nodded. 


1  HERE  is  nothing  more  to  be  said.  They  hanged 
Oliver  in  Strangeways  jail.  I  do  not  know  whether  a 
bell  was  tolled  or  a  flag  flown  at  half-mast  or  a  proc- 
lamation nailed  to  the  prison  door.  I  know  only  that 
in  the  desolate  street  I  lingered  till,  almost  with- 
out seeing,  I  was  aware  that  the  small  crowd  had 
broken  up  and  was  drifting  away. 

Rain  was  falling  as  gently  as  mercy,  and  a  woman, 
walking  with  long  swift  strides,  went  by  me.  Her 
open  umbrella  brushed  my  cheek  and  she  half 
turned  with  a  muttered  word.  It  was  Livia  Vay- 
nol, her  quick  walk  making  me  think  that  she  was 
fleeing,  as  she  had  fled  that  day  when  for  the  first 
time  she  saw  Oliver  leave  for  France.  Recognition 
struck  instantly  between  us,  but  she  did  not  stop.  A 
strong  shudder  seemed  to  shake  her  as  she  strode 
ahead  of  me  through  the  mist. 

I  knew  that  she  had  been  saying  good-by,  and 
wondered  at  her  faithfulness. 

But  this  is  not  the  place  where  I  shall  say  good- 
by.  I  shall  go  back  to  London  and  rest  awhile, 
for  I  am  very  tired.  Then  some  day  I  shall  take  a 
train  from  Paddington.  At  Fishguard  I  shall  go 
aboard  the  little  liner  that  takes  you  to  Cork.  I 
have  never  been  there,  but  I  am  told  that,  having 
traveled  all  night,  you  awake  in  a  wide  harbor  with 
a  loveliness  to  make  you  wonder. 

I  shall  do  that,  and  I  shall  go  ashore  and  go  to 
Ballybar  and  find  there  the  grave  where  Rory  lies. 
Because  in  my  heart  you,  too,  Oliver,  will  always 
be  lying  there.  It  was  not  you  who  went  that  day 
and  struck,  and  stole,  and  ran.  That  was  the 
simulacrum  that  remained  after  you  had  died  at 
Ballybar.  You  died  when  you  killed  your  friend. 
There  was  nothing  for  you  of  good  or  evil  after 
that.  So  I  shall  say  good-by  to  you  by  Rory's 
grave. 

Perhaps  Dermot  will  come  with  me.  We  shall 
say  good-by  to  you  together — to  you  and  to  Rory — 
and  remember  the  night  before  either  of  you  was 
born  when  in  pride  and  blindness  we  told  the  years 
what  they  should  do  with  our  sons. 


Hollywood's  "Age  of  Innocence" — 
not  the  classic  by  Reynolds,  but  our 
ultramodern,  1940  model,  Sandra 
Henville,  star  of  "Sandy  Is  a  Lady" 


IJ\ 


k  ''J*< 


ON  THIS  AND  THE 


FOLLOWING  PAGES  PHOTOPLAY 


BRINGS  YOU  HOLLYWOOD  AT 


ITS  PICTORIAL  BEST 


THE  LIFE  AND  LOVES 


really  happened 


*#** 


In    1879.    seventeen-year-old    Ne 
tired   from  her  first  job   to   wedoi 
cian    Harry    Brahara    (not    in    th.fi 


Photographs  from: 
Albert  Davts  Collection 
Culver  Service 
Brown  Bros. 


Henry  Fonda,  Alice  Faye  (as  Lillian  Russell)  and  Don  Ameche 
in  the  soon-to-be-released  film  version  of  this  fabulous  career 


PHOTOPLAY  presents,  in  a  series  of  rare  photographs,  the 
true  story  of  the  Incomparable  Lillian  —  the  story  the 
movies  cannot  tell  of  golden-haired  Nellie  Leonard  from 
Clinton,  Iowa,  who  became  Broadway's  first  glamour  girl 


No  longer  the  "Airy  Fairy"  Lillian,  but  Diamond  Jim  Brady  (played  by 

still    dazzling,    she    was    headlined    in  Arnold)  wooed  her  but  never  v 

1911  as  "Vaudeville's  Greatest  Capture"  not    even    with    his    $50,000 


in  Tony  Pastor  "discovered"  her.  gave  her  the 
>f  Lillian  Russell,  made  her  an  overnight  sen- 
at  his  renowned  14th  Street  Variety  Theater 


At  Tony  Pastor's,  Lillian  gave  up  her  grand  opera 
ambitions  to  trill  the  songs  of  Messrs.  Gilbert  and 
Sullivan  and  shock  the   town  by  wearing  tights 


As  her  career  waxed,  her  home  life 
waned  with  the  death  of  her  baby  son 
from   an  accidental  overdose   oi   drugs 


eece/fAerr  <S.fo. 


The  Russell  craze  was  manifested  in 
an  amazing  flood  of  songs,  flowers, 
gowns,  cigars  bearing  the  magic  name 


1 

-**&    1 

ZT" 

KTr  \ 

t^^^tk 

■■&i      Mum 

i  beloved  daughter,  Dorothy,  came 
union,  but  also  came  disillusion — 
Triage  to  Solomon  was  terminated 


La  Russell  then  forswore  love,  until,  in 
1894,  singer  Senor  Perugini  swept  her  into 
a   marriage   that  lasted  just  four  months 


At  this  time,  the  fulsome  prima  donna  of  Broadway's 
Casino  was  the  epitome  of  the  Gay  Nineties — era  of 
the  wasp  waist,  pompadour  and  plumed  chapeau 


At  the  turn  of  the  century,  she  left  the  Casino  to 
join  Weber  and  Fields  at  their  famous  Music 
Hall.  (The  comedians  play  themselves  in  the  film.) 


rx  to  a  varied  marital  career  was  Miss  Russell's  marriage  in  1912  to  rich 
mder  Moore,  Pittsburgh  editor.  A  more  glamorized  version  of  this  twilight 
nee  is  given  in  the  film,  with  Henry  Fonda  portraying  Lillian's  fourth  husband 


Postscript  to  a  great  career  was  the  film.  "Wild  Fire,"  made  at  Fort 
Lee.  N.  I.,  in  1914.  Likewise  was  a  series  of  beauty  talks — "How  to 
Live  a  Hundred  Years" — given  by  Miss  Russell  throughout  the  country 


The  War  turned  her  to  public  service,  and 
up  to  her  death  in  1922,  Queen  Lillian 
remained — as    always — in    the    spotlight! 


t 


48 


"My  Favorite  Wife,"  cries 
Cary  Grant — cribbing  the 
title  of  their  new  film — 
as  he  clasps  Irene  Dunne. 
She  relaxes  happily,  while 
he  looks  ahead  for  trouble 
— as  well  he  might,  since 
the  scenario  also  has  him 
married     to     Gail     Patrick! 


Ardor  in  Africa,  displayed 
by  those  stellar  travelers 
of  Paramount's  "Safari," 
young  Doug  Fairbanks  and 
Madeleine  Carroll.  Film's 
lion-hunting  background  is 
exciting,  but  could  any- 
thing be  more — er,  gripping 
than  such  a   scene  as  this? 


mm> 

*m 

lv 

The  ultimate  in  double-double 
billing  —  four  features  (count 
'em),  starring  a  double  mixed 
quartet  whose  raised  voices  can 
command  first  billing  anywhere 


Spring  thaw  seems  to  have  set 
in  on  "The  Primrose  Path" — 
hastened,  no  doubt,  by  Joel's 
and  Ginger's  smiles.  However, 
the  McCrea-Rogers  duo  has 
many  despairing  moments  every 
bit  as  dark  as  Ginger's  hair  in 
this  dramatic  new  RKO  picture 


I  Josh  and  Ace:  "No  ushers  are  greater  in  any  theater' 


2  Mima,  Josh  and 


Sweet  Potato  Pipers" 


3    "And    yet    the    moon    seer 


"ROAD 

TO 

SINGAPORE 


// 


All  set,  everybody?  Then  let's  sing 
With  stars  Dottie,  Bob  and  Bing— 

And  follow  their  film-story,  too; 
Though  we  won't  reveal  the  ending, 
You  should  find  a  happy  blending, 

In  Paramount's  tuneful  revue! 


1 

JOSH  MALLON  (Bing  Crosby)  had  returned 
from  a  highly  pleasurable  cruise  on  board  a 
tramp  steamer  with  his  pal,  happy-go- 
unlucky  Ace  Lannigan  (Bob  Hope),  to  find  an 
irate  father  and  a  clinging  fiancee.  Joshua  Mal- 
lon,  Sr.,  shipping  tycoon,  demanded  that  Josh 
settle  down  and  take  an  interest  not  only  in  their 
profitable  business  but  in  Gloria,  whose  desire 
for  an  early  marriage  he  supported  completely. 
Josh  finally  yielded  but  the  night  their  engage- 
ment was  to  be  announced  on  the  yacht  of 
Gloria's  father,  he  disappeared  to  meet  Ace.  He 
popped  up  again  with  his  buddy  and  the  duo 
broke  up  the  very  swank,  very  austere  party  by 
clowning  and  singing: 


"CAPTAIN  CUSTARD" 

VERSE: 

A  crowd  has  stormed  the  music  hall, 
Will  someone  please  put  in  a  riot  call ! 

Where's  Captain  Custard? 
They're  milling  left,  they're  swarming  right; 
It   always  happens  when  they   have   Bank 
Nite. 

Where's  Captain  Custard? 

CHORUS: 

There's  Captain  Custard, 

Undaunted  and  unflustered. 

With  his  troops  officially  mustered. 

No  ushers  are  greater 

In  any  theater  in  town. 

Quick,  can't  yo»  see,  sir? 

Oh,  goodness,  gracious  me,  sir! 

Will  you  look  a!  Company  B,  sir: 

I  think  they're  retreating, 

This  Bank  Nite  is  beating  them  down. 

He'll  halt  their  advances 

With  firm  and  fearless  glances; 

They  shall  not  pass  the  center  aisle, 

He's  armed  to  the  teeth  with  a  smile. 

Brave  Captain  Custard, 

Undaunted  and  unflustered, 

While  around  him  women  are  clustered. 

He  knows  all  their  wishes, 

They're  waiting  for  dishes; 

It's  not  his  uniform  spic  and  spruce 

'Cause  he  looks  too  much*  like  a  Charlotte 

Russe. 
Brave  Captain  Custard, 
Dear  Captain  Custard. 

Copyright  19.19  Santly-Joy-Select,  Inc. 


1 

Josh  and  his  father,  inevitably,  quarreled  once 
more,  and  the  heir  to  the  Mallon  fortunes 
shipped  out  to  unknown  ports  with  Ace.  They 
ended  up  in  Kaigoon  where,  starting  with  a 
brawl  in  the  island's  one  and  only  hot  spot,  they 
met  Mima  (Dorothy  Lamour).  A  three  way 
partnership  was  organized  and  Mima,  in  a  very 
respectable  fashion,  moved  in  with  the  boys. 
Ace  tried  to  solve  the  pressing  food  problem  by 
placing  soapy  water  in  bottles  and  selling  it  to 
the  natives  as  a  no-work,  all-play  cleaning  fluid. 
The  trio  attracted  crowds  by  a  little  musical 
trick  all  their  own: 


"SWEET  POTATO  PIPER" 

VERSE: 

Do  you  remember  Yuba  who  played  the  tuba 
And  made  the  rumba  a  popular  beat? 
The  "Peanut  Vendor"  was  a  solid  sender, 
Not  to  mention  "Piccolo  Pete." 
Of  course  you've  heard  of  Sammy 
From  Alabamy,  the  old  accordion  man; 
Well,  while  we're  on  the  subject, 
Do  you  know  why  the  Beguine  began? 

CHORUS: 

Music  soothes  the  savage, 

That's  a  well-known  phrase, 

But  your  heart  becomes 

Full  of  kettledrums 

When  the  Sweet  Potato  Piper  plays. 

Go  on,  throw  your  hat  up, 

Shout  a  few  hoorays, 

'Cause  you  can't  hold  back, 

You're  a  jumpin'  Jack 

When  the  Sweet  Potato  Piper  plays. 

Tho'  it's  not  a  magic  flute, 

There's  a  fascinating  toot. 

It's  not  exactly  beautiful, 

It's  sort  of  like  an  I-don't-know ; 

I  guess  you'd  call  it  cute. 

Sunbeams  try  new  dance  steps, 

Songbirds  sound  their  "A's" 

And  the  world  joins  in 

With  a  great  big  grin, 

When  the  Sweet  Potato  Piper  plays. 

Copyright  19S9  Santly-Joy-Select,  Inc. 


50 


Josh  and  Ace,  afraid  of  the  complications  of  a 
woman  in  their  lives,  tried  gently  to  ease  Mima 
out  of  the  picture.  But  peculiar  feelings  had 
already  begun  to  swirl  around  in  their  bosoms. 
The  young  lady  stayed  and,  if  either  of  the  two 
gentlemen  had  been  awake  one  gorgeous  trop- 
ical night,  they  could  have  heard  her  slip  out  on 
the  porch  of  their  native  hut  and  sing  to  the 
moon  and  misty  silver  of  the  lagoon: 


"THE  MOON  AND  THE  WILLOW  TREE" 
VERSE: 

When  shadows  fall  and  the  sky  is  dark  and 

deep 
I've  a  rendezvous  that  I  must  keep 
Or  my  poor  heart  wouldn't  sleep. 

CHORUS: 

I  have  two  friends,  the  strangest  company, 
The  gay  lighthearted  moon  and  the  willow 

tree, 
The  sad  willow  tree, 
And  when  we  meet,  notice  suddenly 
The  moon  begins  to  smile,  but  the  willow 

tree 
Starts  weeping  for  me. 
Somehow  I  know  it's  about  my  love, 
The  willow   must  doubt  my  love  will  ever 

appear. 
And  yet  the  moon  seems  to  say  my  love  will 

soon  be  here. 
Which  one  is  right,  they  never  quite  agree; 
The  smiling  moon  and  the  weeping  willow 

tree. 
Copyright  1940  Paramount  Music  Corporation 


Great  events  got  under  way  with  Josh  and 
Ace  discovering  simultaneously  that  lovely 
Mima  could  be  a  great  deal  more  than  an  effi- 
cient housekeeper.  But  Josh  beat  Ace  to  the 
punch  and  that  hapless  Romeo  returned  one  day 
to  find  his  two  friends  confessing: 


"TOO  ROMANTIC" 


VERSE: 


The  folks  who  knew  me  as  a  child  have  often 

said  to  me, 
That  they  don't  recognize  the  little  boy  I 

used  to  be. 
They  tell  me  I  was  ferocious,  and  so  hero- 

ic'lly  brave, 
And  quite  grown-up  and  precocious;  or  that's 

the  impression  I  gave. 
But  now  I'm  very  cautious  of  most  ev'ry 

thing  I  do — 
I'm  not  exactly  a  coward,  but  just  between 

me  and  you: 

CHORUS: 

I'm  so  afraid  of  night,  'cause  I'm  too  ro- 
mantic, 

Moon  light  and  stars  can  make  such  a  fool  of 
me. 

You  know  you're  much  too  near  and  I'm  too 
romantic. 

JOSH: 

Wouldn't  I  be  a  sight  on  bended  knee? 

MIMA: 

Don't  ask  to  hold  my  hand  'cause  I  might 
agree 

I'm  startled  when  you  whisper, 

I'll  run  if  you  should  sigh. 

I  must  be  careful  or  I'll  kiss  my  heart  good- 
by 

You  shouldn't  let  me  dream  'cause  I'm  too 
romantic — 

Don't  make  me  fall  unless  it  could  come  true. 
Copyright  19!,0  Paramount  Music  Corporation 


Love,  though,  was  absolutely  helpless  when  it 
came  to  answering  the  food  problem.  Tempo- 
rarily, they  solved  their  culinary  troubles  by 
unearthing  a  native  feast.  Romance,  food, 
laughter  were  all  there  but  they  fled,  helter- 
skelter,  when  Papa  Mallon  and  Gloria  suddenly 
appeared  to  end  successfully  their  long  search 
for  the  missing  heir  and  sweetheart.  Josh, 
caught  by  respectability  and  tradition,  left  love 
and  Mima  to  Ace  and  the  tropics.  He  departed, 
mournfully,  to  the  throbbing  music  of  the  na- 
tives' own  song: 


"KAIGOON" 


VERSE: 


Kaigoon  is  an  island  somewhere  near  the 

moon; 
Unless    you're   a   dreamer    you    won't    find 

Kaigoon. 
I've  been  told  the  life  is  so  romantic  and  gay 
If  you  travel  there  you  just  go  native  and 

stay; 
You    become    susceptible    to    laughter    and 

songs 
And  before  you  know  it  you'll  be  wearing 

sarongs. 

CHORUS: 

Music,  Love  and  Laughter — Morning,  Night 

and  Noon! 
Kaigoon  is  an  island  somewhere  near  the 

moon 
Whispering  waves  are  there  that  seem  to  say 
A  dream  is  not  so  far  away. 
While  the  irresistible  drums  are  putting  you 

in  the  mood  to  dance 
And  the  scent  of  sandalwood  trees  is  tempt- 
ing your  heart  to  seek  romance, 
What  would  you  do  but  sigh  and  say : 
"I  guess  I'll  stay  forever" 
There  where  there's  pleasure 
There  where  it's  tranquil 
Other  lands  may  worry  and  fret  but  no  one 

has  ever  worried  yet 
At  Kaigoon,  peaceful  old  Kaigoon. 
Unless    you're    a   dreamer    you    won't    find 

Kaigoon; 
Kaigoon   is   an   island  somewhere   near  the 

moon. 
Copyright  19  SO  Paramount  Music  Corporation 


Donald  Cook  and  Gertrude  Lawrence  of  the  stage  (but  not 
unknown  to  films)  proved  "Sky  Lark"  so  gay  and  appealing 
it's  been  purchased  for  Claudette  Colbert  of  the  screen 


BROADWAY, 


A  trio  of  "Men  Who  Came 
to  Dinner":  Manhattan's 
Monty  Woolley,  Chicago's 
Clifton  Webb  (stripes), 
and  the  West's  Alexander 
Woollcott  (in  polka  dots) 
who  inspired   the   role! 


BY  CHARLES  HOPKINS 

(Famous  Broadway  Theatrical  Producer) 

ONCE  upon  a  time — and  a  glorious  time 
it  was,  too,  for  the  theater  of  those  days 
— the  scores  of  plays  which  flooded  the 
Broadway  stage  each  season  were  given  their 
tryouts  everywhere  but  in  New  York  before 
being  brought  to  town.  Sometimes,  other  large 
cities  were  selected  for  this  occasionally  dubious 
honor.  More  often,  the  choice  fell  on  some  little 
hamlet  somewhere  in  neighboring  New  England 
states. 

To  blase  Broadwayites,  this  system  was  known 
as  "trying  it  out  on  the  dog."  If  the  dog  liked  it 
(or  didn't  show  too  conclusive  proof  of  not  lik- 
ing it),  the  show  was  finally  brought  to  Man- 
hattan and  exposed  to  its  critical  first-nighters. 

The  changing  times  have  wrought  a  subtle 
difference.  Broadway  now  finds  itself  being 
used  as  the  dog  for  all  the  rest  of  the  country. 
More  and  more,  its  plays  are  being  previewed 
right  in  Manhattan.  In  the  old  days,  New  York 
companies  went  out  on  the  road  after  the  long 
Broadway  runs  were  finished.  Today,  Chicago 
and  Pacific  Coast  companies  are  chosen  with  as 
much  care  as  the  original  Broadway  casts  and 
sent  out  to  cash  in  during  the  New  York  run — 
and  to  clear  the  way  for  Hollywood. 

For  Broadway  is  now  Hollywood's  dog,  too. 

Hollywood  has  been  buying  up  its  plays  and 

players  at  a  rate  of  time  and  money  which  is 

(Continued  on  page  84) 


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DIOS 


This  month's  gay  tour  exposes  some 
movie  miracles — and  helps  to  answer 
George  Brent's  inquiry  on  page  4! 

BY  JACK  WADE 


EVERY  month  we  feel  the  urge  to  toss  a  few 
orchids  to  the  miracle  makers  who  conjure 
up  the  sights  which  perpetually  dazzle  our 
eyes.  The  set  designers  and  builders,  for  in- 
stance; the  cabinet  makers,  the  painters  and  an- 
tiquers;  the  electricians;  the  make-up  men  and 
women;  the  hairdressers,  wig  makers,  costum- 
ers;  the  research  delvers  and  trick-effects  wiz- 
ards. 

Well,  this  month  the  urge  has  finally  sneaked 
up  on  us.  So,  salute!  Bravo!  Three  rousing 
cheers!  Because  never  have  we  witnessed  as 
many  amazing  sets,  clever  costumes,  authentic 
atmospheres,  marvelous  make-ups  and  tricky 
techniques. 

.  "Our  Town,"  for  instance,  the  Sol  Lesser  pic- 
ture which  holds  much  of  Hollywood's  interest 
this  month  at  United  Artists,  has  thirty-eight 
New  England  village  sets,  done  by  William 
Cameron  Menzies,  and  so  perfect  in  Down  East 
atmosphere  and  detail  that  we  don't  dare  men- 
tion them  in  anything  but  a  Yankee  twang.  And 
"Our  Town"  was  a  hit  on  Broadway  with  only 
a  bare  stage  and  not  a  stick  of  scenery,  except 
a  ladder  and  a  couple  of  broken-down  chairs! 
Broadway  could  talk  about  "Grover's  Corners" 
— but  Hollywood  shows  it! 

On  the  set,  we  find  Frank  Craven  with  his 
pipe,  the  ubiquitous  Thomas  Mitchell,  William 
Holden,  Fay  Bainter  and  Martha  Scott,  a  fragile, 
lustrous-eyed  girl  with  a  young,  sensitive  face 
and  talent  to  burn,  who  made  a  Broadway  hit 
as  Emily  in  "Our  Town." 

IT'S  almost  evening  outside,  but  it's  dawn  in 
"Our  Town."  The  sleepy  village  is  awakening 
as  master  electricians  pull  switches,  and  dawn's 
pale,  early  light  steals  uncannily  over  every- 
thing. Director  Sam  Wood  signals  cues  for  vil- 
lagers to  pop  their  heads  out  of  doors  and  win- 
dows as  milkman  Stu  Erwin  clatters  by.  The 
light  grows  wider  and  brighter.  Then  every- 
body, except  the  actors,  anxiously  turns  to  watch 
a  pen  of  five  chickens  near  by.  There's  a  cocky 
rooster  strutting  around  his  harem.  Is  the  ar- 
tificial dawn  realistic  enough?  Will  he  crow? 
If  he  doesn't,  the  scene's  just  no  good. 

The  suspense  is  terrific — then  there's  a  flap- 
ping of  wings  and  "Cock-a-doodle-doo!"  shat- 
ters the  strained  silence.  "Cut!"  cries  Sam 
Wood,  and  the  electricians  mop  their  damp 
brows.  They've  a  right  to  be  proud  of  their 
false  dawn.     It's  pretty  hard  to  fool  a  rooster. 

But  if  a  whole  picture  company  worries  about 
kidding  a  mere  chicken,  think  of  the  worries 
Darryl  Zanuck's  costumers  have  bringing  Lil- 
lian Russell  to  life  again,  right  down  to  the  last 
curve  in  her  corset.  This  time  the  problem  is 
to  convince  thousands  of  theatergoers  who  still 
remember  lavish  Lillian,  or  have  read  enough 
to  know  what's  what  about  the  Gay  Nineties. 

What  a  job  this  is  you  can't  possibly  realize 
unless  you  could  see  Alice  Faye,  as  we  do,  and 


56 


Trouble  in  "Our  Town"? 
Unique  camera  methods 
make  many  problems  for 
Director  Sam  Wood,  Fay 
Bainter,  Bill  Holden  and 
Adviser   Ed   Goodnow 


Disregarding  real-life 
love,  M-G-M's  "Pride 
and  Prejudice"  teams 
Laurence  Olivier  (not 
in  costume)  with  Greer 
Garson  (in  period  gown) 


That  Bob  Taylor  mustache  may  add  zest  to  love 
scenes — but  Vivien  Leigh  still  thinks  only  of 
Olivier  when  not  emoting  for  "Waterloo  Bridge" 


Henry  Fonda,  Don  Ameche,  Edward  Arnold, 
Lynn  Bari  and  Warren  William,  all  properly 
togged  for  high  life  in  the  Dear  Dead  Days. .  The 
set  is  in  a  big  barn-like  stage  on  the  old  Fox 
Western  Avenue  lot.  The  vast  place  is  literally 
packed  with  beautiful  extras.  They're  waiting 
to  do  a  wasp-waist  wiggle  as  Alice  sings. 

"The  Life  and  Loves  of  Lillian  Russell"  is  to  be 
another  "Great  Ziegfeld"  type  of  screen  extrav- 
aganza, strung  along  Russell's  fabulous  thirty- 
year  reign  on  Broadway,  from  the  time  she 
clicked  up  and  through  her  very  last  marriage. 
There  were  four  Russell  weddings,  actually,  but 
that  is  too  many,  even  for  Hollywood;  two  are 
cut  out.  We  find  the  gold-plated  bicycle  she 
rode  in  Central  Park  leaning  against  a  set  paral- 
lel. A  Gay  Nineties  gown  binds  Alice's  figure. 
(Continued  on  page  78) 


No  wonder  Linda  Darnell  and 
John  Payne  are  in  such  high 
spirits  for  "Stardust"!  It 
may  pave  the  way  to  stardom 


PHOTOPLAY 


ene  makes  the  fitted  coat 
f  beige  sheer  wool  with 
clever  diamond-shaped 
Jtout  to  reveal  the  blouse 
ledallion  of  the  frock.  The 
eiled  sailor  is  of  beige  felt 


THE   COLOR  - 


THE  ACCENT 


NAVY 
WHITE 


SOFTLY  FEMININE— a  navy  frock 
in  Swing  Parade  crepe  (woven  with 
Celanese  rayon  yarn)  with  frothy 
white  collar  and  cuffs  that  add 
a  flattering  touch.  The  lively, 
pleated  skirt  joins  the  blouse  at 
the  new  low  waistline.  $22.95. 
Saks  Fifth  Avenue,  N.  Y.;  Chicago 


TRIMLY  TAILORED— a  princess 
dress  of  navy  Record  Breaker  crepe 
(woven  with  Celanese  rayon  yarn) 
that  sports  stripes  and  a  bow  of 
white  pique.  $17.95.  Jane  Engel, 
New  York.  The  hat's  a  navy  sailor 
with  white  accent.    Around  $6.00 


A    DAY   WITH 


DEANNA 


The  crack  of  dawn — and  already 
Deanna  Durbin  is  up  and  about. 
Her  buttercup  yellow  dress  of 
Moygashel's  cracker-crisp  Shan- 
Crush  linen  is  belted  in  cool 
green.  Over  her  shoulder  she 
slings  a  checked  topper.  All  the 
Durbin  fashions  on  this  page  at 
Franklin  Simon,  N.  Y.  If  you 
would  like  further  information 
about  Deanna's  costumes,  write 
the  Fashion  Secretary,  Photo- 
play,  122  East  42nd  St.,  N.  Y. 


V'? 


**•&* 


Come  moonlight,  Deanna's  off  to 
a  dance,  captivating  everyone  in 
sight,  as  you  would,  too,  in  this 
sheer  white  rayon  crepe  evening 
frock  and  hooded  jacket  spiced 
with  plaid.  Deanna  will  appear 
next  in  Universale  "It's  a  Date" 


59 


\ 


ROBIN'S-EGG  BLUE— for 
dark  beauty!  Brenda  Marshall,  currently 
featured  in  the  Warner  Brothers  picture, 
"City  of  Conquest,"  wears  it  here  in  a 
full,  sweeping  gown  of  sharkskin,  with 
wings  of  eyelet  embroidery  for  sleeves 
^^    and   a  tiny   baby  collar  and   bow.    Brenda 

S selected    it    from    BuHocks,  4=os    Angeles; 
§  is    a     Patricia     Perkins    original    design 


JACKET 


At  right:  Twenty-six 
inches  of  plaid  jacket 
in  colors  to  rival  Jo- 
seph's coat!  Ona  teams 
it  with  rancho- pleated 
flannel  skirt  in  sky 
blue,  matched  to  Deb- 
way's  cowboy  felt  hat. 
The  jacket  is  $17.95 
and  the  skirt  is  $7.95. 
Sketched  above:  Sir 
are  lifting  the  little 
boy's  Botany  flannel 
coat  to  wear  casually 
for  sport,  street  and 
evening.  That  belted 
back  is  news!  $10.95. 
Jacket  and  coat  are  from 
Lord    &  Taylor,    N.  Y. 


THAT 


LONG 


American  girls  are  famous  for  that  "/ook,"  and  it's  frocks  like  this — 
with  the  proper  foundations — that  give  it  to  them.  The  long  sweep  of 
jacket  tops  a  basic  dress  of  Duplan's  navy  rayon  sheer  with  pleated 
skirt  and  crisp  lace  collar.    Around  $22.95.    Chas.  A.  Stevens,  Chicago 


1.  Lastex-knit  longer-torso  girdle  leaf-striped 
tor  beauty,  boned  tor  extra  control.  $1.50.  Net 
bra-form  with  tuck-in  shields.    $1.25.    Kleinert 

2.  A  "Smoothie"  in  batiste  with  fagotted  bra, 
non-stretch  front  and  back  panels,  Lastex 
sides,  Talon  to  waist,   and   part-laced   back.  $5 

3.  "Hi-Top"  achieves  its  figure-molding  thru 
its  long,  slimming  top,  knit-in  boning,  Leno- 
Lastex  sides,  satin-Lastex  front  and  back,  and 
specially   knit  stay-down   bottom.    $5.    Jantzen 

4.  "Once  Over"  tapers  you  with  a  satin,  lightly 
boned  front-panel,  satin-Lastex  back,  fagotted 
bra  and  Talon-fastened  side.  $7.50.  Maiden  Form 


5.  Frivolous  but  firm — "Complete,"  with  satin- 
Lastex  fore  and  aft,  floral  lace-Lastex  sides, 
lace  bra  and  Talon-fastened  back.  $7.50.  Carter 

6.. Cool  as  a  summer  breeze — Lastex-net  all-in- 
one  with  daintily  embroidered,  scalloped  front. 
Double  netflattensthetummy.  $5.  Munsingwear 

7.  Girdle  combining  lisle  and  Lastex,  with  an 
elongated  waistband  that's  designed  not  to  roll, 
sides  that  are  Nylon-stitched  and  Inviz-A-Grip 
garters.    $5.   Spiral-knit    bra.    $1.50.   Vassarette 

8.  Light  Schiaparelli  girdle  of  net  and  Linatex 
with  the  famous  "Circle  Waist"  and  Talon  fas- 
tener. $7.50.   "Night-Life"    bra.  $1.75.   Formfit 


b] 


WITH  three  little  words,  "Double  or 
Nothing,"  Dorothy  Lamour,  appear- 
ing in  Paramount's  "Typhoon,"  re- 
veals her  magic  formula  for  dressing  on  $25  a 
week  (with  money  left  over  for  the  rent  and 
food  besides). 

True,  Dorothy  now  earns  a  handsome  weekly 
wage  from  her  screen  and  radio  contracts,  but 
she  well  remembers  the  days  when  she  was 
working  for  a  $25  salary. 

Her  magic  formula  of  "Double  or  Nothing" 
simply  means  this — that  every  dress  you  buy 
must  be  born  to  do  double-duty. 

To  show  you  how  it's  done,  Dorothy  poses  in 
three  spring  costumes. 

First,  an  ensemble  of  Flagship  black  rayon 
crepe  as  shown  left  at  the  top.  The  coat  (which 
may  be  worn  as  a  coat-dress.also)  whisks  on  and 
off  in  a  twink  because  it  buttons  from  collar  to 
hem — beneath  it  is  the  gayest  of  five  o'clock 
frocks  sporting  a  peek-a-boo  pink  net  blouse 
atop  a  black  skirt.  The  ensemble  around  $20. 
J.  W.  Robinson,  Los  Angeles;  Chas  A.  Stevens, 
Chicago;  Saks  34th,  N.  Y. 

Dorothy's  next  is  a  Corticelli  print  en- 
semble— tiny  white  scrolls  on  black  rayon 
crepe.    Team  the  coat  with  a  black  frock 
now  and  a  white  one  later  on;  team  the 
dress   with   a   black   coat  for   change. 
Around    $15.     The    Broadway,    Los 
Angeles;  Mandel  Brothers,  Chicago; 
Lord  &  Taylor,  N.  Y. 

The  magic  formula  works   for 
evening,  too.     Dorothy  wears  a 
formal    gown    that   boasts    its 
own  little  jacket  which  makes 
the  costume  perfect  for  infor- 
mal invitations   as  well.     The 
ensemble    is    of    white    rayon 
Jersanese — wear  the  red  em- 
broidered   jacket    with    separate 
skirts   of   red   and   navy.     The   formal 
gown  is  a  real  masterpiece  of  Grecian  sim- 
plicity.    Around  $20.     Wanamaker's,  N.  Y.  and 
Philadelphia. 

Put  double  life  into  "your"  clothes  by  trying 
Dorothy's  magic  formula! 


64 


3712 — a  design  you'll  prize  for  a  couple  of 
playtime  frocks.  Make  one  from  the  de- 
sign as  shown,  another  sans  the  sleeves. 
There's  a  heap  of  style,  as  well  as  freedom, 
in  this  frock  that  features  gathered  fullness 
released  from  a  trim  yoke,  and  a  button 
closing  that  may  be  Talon-fastened  if  you 
prefer.  You'll  find  the  gay  matching  turban 
easy  to  make,  for  it's  cut  all  in  one  piece 


3713 — an  excellent  casual  frock  for  every 
occasion.  The  band-stitched  trim,  fly-front 
closing,  shoulder  fullness  and  many-gore 
skirt  give  a  fresh  new  look  to  this  basic 
shirtwaist  design  so  loved  by  fashion. 
There's  a  casual  mood,  too,  in  the  very  new 
chignon  turban  that  drapes  softly  over 
the  skull  and  finishes  low  on  the  neckline 
with    a   figure-eight    roll,   trim    as   can    be 


3719 — a  double-duty  costume  that  will 
prove  its  weight  in  gold.  The  bolero 
conceals  the  short-sleeved  blouse  of 
the  frock  which  has,  as  you  see,  neck- 
to-hem  button  closing  and  a  flaring 
gored  skirt.  Contrast  trim  adds  a  gay 
touch  of  color.  The  jaunty  military  hat, 
with  visor  brim,  ribbon  band  and  bow,  is 
stitched  in  front  to  hold  its  flattering  shape 


Tin-    hats  sketched   arc  from   a 
group  of  four  in  Pattern  Xo.  763 


65 


4 


4»MV^ 


tOi 


FIVE    LITTLE    PRINTS 


A 


\ 


1 


THIS  LITTLE  PRINT  GOES  TO  MARKET— 

red  and  white  bowknots  on  grey  rayon 
crepe,  with  a  buttoned  bolero  and  a 
red-stitched  baby  collar  of  crisp 
white  pique.  $12.95.  At  B.  Altman,  New 
York   and   at  Carson    Pirie    Scott,   Chicago 


\ 


V 


*; 


THIS   LITTLE  PRINT  TAKES  THE  SUN— 

red,  white  and  blue  stripes,  whopping 
big  pockets  and  shiny  silver  buttons. 
A  "Claire  Tiffany"  model  of  crease- 
resistant  rayon  and  linen.  Around  $7. 
McCreery,  New  York;  Mandel  Brothers, 
Chicago    and    Famous    &    Barr,    St.    Louis 


66 


(Trademark) 


THIS  LITTLE  PRINT  HAS  FUN— 

The  Stork  Club  .  .  .  and  champagne  .  .  . 
nothing's  too  good  for  this  little 
Rambling  Junior  cable  net  (woven 
with  DuPont  rayon  and  acetate  yarn) 
frock  with  swishy  skirt.  Dress  and  hat 
are  abloom  with  hyacinths.  $15. 
Russeks,  New  York;  Carson  Pirie  Scott, 
Chicago;    and    at    B.    Siegel,    Detroit 

THIS  LITTLE  PRINT  SERVES  TEA— 

Something  new  .  .  .  Enka's  rayon  Twilla- 
twill  in  Alice  blue,  printed  with  white 
flora,  fauna,  teapots,  boots  and  wind- 
mills. The  widest  skirt  and  the  deepest 
pockets  ever!  Around  $16.  McCreery, 
New  York  and  Marshall  Field,  Chicago 


THIS  LITTLE  PRINT  KEEPS  A  DATE— 

A  nosegay  print  of  dotted  Swiss,  and 
you'll  be  the  prettiest  flower  of  them 
all  with  this  old-fashioned  ruff  around 
your  shoulders.  Around  $15.  R.  H.  Macy, 
New  York  and  Mandel  Brothers,  Chicago 
Wear  this  little  print  to  snare  your 
mate — save    it   for   that   dancing    date. 


/  / 


PHOTOPLAY'S  GOLD  MEDAL  WINNER 

GONE   WITH   THE   WIND 


/  / 


NOW  it  can  be  told!  Photoplay  is  happy 
to  announce  that  the  motion  picture  se- 
lected by  votes  of  our  readers  as  the  out- 
standing picture  of  1939,  and,  thus,  the  winner 
of  our  famous  Gold  Medal  Award,  is  Selznick- 
International's  epic  film  version  of  Margaret 
Mitchell's  epic  novel  of  the  Old  South — "Gone 
with  the  Wind." 

In  spite  of  this  great  film's  limited  and  late 
release  in  1939  by  M-G-M,  it  rapidly  forged 
ahead  in  the  vote  count,  and,  when  the  polls 
closed  on  March  the  first,  it  headed  the  list  of 
many  distinguished  films,  such  as  "Balalaika" 
(second  in  vote)  and  "Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips" 
(third),  which  were  released  during  the  past 
year. 

We  feel,  with  our  readers,  that  David  O.  Selz- 
nick's  masterpiece  is  well  worthy  of  this  signal 
honor  bestowed  upon  it  by  the  moving-picture 
goers  of  America.  As  one  of  our  voters  ex- 
pressed it,  when  she  sent  in  her  choice:  "  'Gone 
with  the  Wind'  is  the  outstanding  picture  of  1939 
— and  any  other  year."  In  its  faithful  transla- 
tion of  a  literary  classic;  in  its  superb  cast;  in 
its  meticulous  adherence  to  historical  accuracy 
in  settings  and  costumes,  in  its  advance  use  of 
Technicolor,  in  its  sweep  and  movement  and 
color,  it  is,  indeed,  a  milestone  in  the  develop- 
ment of  motion  pictures. 

Not  only  is  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  entertain- 
ment in  its  highest  form,  but  it  is  also  an  ex- 
ample of  a  man's  faith  in  a  great  idea.  When, 
way  back  in  1936,  David  Selznick  bought  the 
motion-picture  rights  to  a  first  novel  by  an  un- 
known authoress  from  Atlanta,  he  had  a  hunch 
it  would  be  better-than-average  screen  mate- 
rial. Immediately  afterwards,  the  book  swept 
the  country  like  wildfire,  and,  on  the  heels  of 
its  phenomenal  success  as  a  best-seller,  were 
reams  of  publicity  and  curiosity  regarding  the 
film  version.  It  became  a  parlor  game  to  cast 
the  picture;  friendships  of  long  standing  were 
severed  in  the  arguments  as  to  whom  could 
best  play  Rhett,  Scarlett,  Melanie  and  Ashley. 
Skeptics  in  Hollywood  and  elsewhere  were  con- 
vinced that  a  novel  on  which  such  strong  opin- 
ions had  been  formed,  could  never,  no  never, 
be  successfully  screened.  And  nobody  envied 
Producer  Selznick's  job. 

He  was,  however,  a  man  of  determination  and 
perseverance,  and,  after  four  years  of  unceas- 
ing labor,  endless  conferences,  countless  dollars 
spent  (he  set  the  temporary  final  cost  at  nearly 
four  million)  and  an  unremitting  confidence  that 
he  was  not  going  to  let  the  public  down,  David 
Selznick  released  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  to  a 
delighted  and  completely  satisfied  world — and, 
laughed  last! 

No  one  can  quarrel  with  the  choice  of  a  super- 
lative cast.  Clark  Gable  is  the  reckless,  charm- 
ing Rhett  in  the  flesh;  Vivien  Leigh  of  England 
stepped  into  the  hard-to-fill  shoes  of  Scarlett 
O'Hara  of  Georgia  to  become  the  most  talked-of 
actress  of  the  year  and  win  one  of  the  coveted 
Oscars  (see  page  16).  Olivia  de  Havilland 
jumped  many  rungs  up  the  ladder  of  screen 
fame  with  her  tenderly  sincere  Melanie,  and 
Leslie  Howard  deserves  his  own  measure  of 
praise  for  his  Ashley.  From  the  principals 
right  on  down  to  every  wounded  soldier  and 
carpet-bagger  —  from  Ona  Munson  as  Belle; 
Thomas  Mitchell  as  Gerald  O'Hara,  Hattie  Mc- 
Daniel  (another  Oscar  winner)  as  Mammy,  Bar- 
bara O'Neil  as  Scarlett's  Mother,  Laura  Hope 


to 


PREVIOUS 

GOLD    MEDAL 

WINNERS 

1920  HUMORESQUE 

1921  TOL'ABLE  DAVID 

1922  ROBIN  HOOD 

1923  THE  COVERED  WAGON 

1924  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

1925  THE  BIG  PARADE 

1926  BEAU  GESTE 

1927  7TH  HEAVEN 

1928  FOUR  SONS 

1929  DISRAELI 

1930  ALL  QUIET  ON  THE 
WESTERN  FRONT 

1931  CIMARRON 

1932  SMILIN'  THROUGH 

1933  LITTLE  WOMEN 

1934  BARRETTS  OF  WIM- 
POLE  STREET 

1935  NAUGHTY  MARIETTA 

1936  SAN  FRANCISCO 

1937  CAPTAINS 
COURAGEOUS 

1938  SWEETHEARTS 


Crews  as  Aunt  "Pittypat,"  to  the  many  minor 
roles,  there  is  perfection  of  casting  and  honesty 
of  performance. 

Since  1920,  when  "Humoresque"  received  the 
first  Gold  Medal  Award,  our  readers  have  se- 
lected a  splendid  array  of  pictures.  War  films, 
biographical  films,  romance  films,  have  all  had 
their  place  on  the  list  of  Award  winners.  It 
seems  fitting  that  in  the  year  marking  the  twen- 
tieth anniversary  of  Photoplay's  poll,  a  picture 
such  as  "Gone  with  the  Wind,"  which  combines 
so  marvelously  all  the  elements  of  popular  ap- 
peal, should  win  the  Gold  Medal. 

To  Selznick-International,  to  M-G-M,  to  Pro- 
ducer David  O.  Selznick,  to  Director  Victor 
Fleming,  to  the  actors,  the  research  workers,  the 
technicians,  the  cameramen,  the  musicians,  the 
wardrobe  department,  to  everyone,  in  fact,  who 
has  been  both  closely  and  remotely  associated 
with  the  making  of  this  great  film,  we  extend 
heartiest  congratulations.  These  felicitations  are 
expressed  in  behalf  of  the  staff  of  Photoplay, 
and  our  many  readers  who  selected,  as  the  win- 
ner of  Photoplay's  Gold  Medal  Award,  for  1939, 
the  moving  picture,  "Gone  with  the  Wind." 


By  their  outstanding  per- 
formances in  "Gone  with 
the  Wind,"  Clark  Gable 
and  Vivien  Leigh  helped 
win  the  Photoplay 
Gold  Medal  for  David 
Selznick's    superb   film 


^ 


of  marriage)  catches 
mera  demon)  in  a  pho- 
dy  Vallee,  Joan  Craw- 
new  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fink, 
omero,  at  the  Victor  Hugo 


Cal's  no  Kipling — but  his  "Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills  of  Hollywood" 
are  required  reading  in   star-study 


"Flash"  Fink  Conquers  Matrimony 

THE  groom  was  calm  and  collected,  the  bride  was  calm  and 
beautiful.  The  best  man  looked  pleased  and  happy.  But 
the  matron  of  honor?     That's  another  story. 

Yes,  our  own  Hymie  Fink  became  a  benedict  when  he  married 
pretty  Billie  Carey  at  the  Victor  Hugo  cafe  recently.  Hymie 
never  once  flinched  when  camera  bulbs  were  flashed  his  way, 
although  this  time  he  was  in  front  instead  of  behind  the  cameras. 
The  bride  was  lovely  in  a  princess  satin  gown,  especially  designed 
by  Joan  Crawford.  Best  man  Cesar  Romero,  with  a  great  big 
smile,  along  with  Rudy  Vallee,  who  gave  the  bride  away,  helped 
cut  the  cake,  but  matron  of  honor  Joan  Crawford  was  so  nervous 
she  could  only  stand  and  quake. 

Joan,  one  of  the  most  nervous  young  women  in  Hollywood, 
and  one  of  Hymie's  best  friends,  beamed  her  blessings  on  the 
pair,  even  if  her  teeth  were  chattering  too  violently  to  say  much. 

Here's  Cal's  blessings  on  our  demon  photographer  and  his 
pretty  bride.  May  faulty  flash  bulbs  be  the  only  blow-ups  this 
grand  couple  meet  in  life. 


6^ 


«8>! 


"Supper  at  Ciro's"  is  the  new  social  catchword — rehearsed  at 
this  table  by  Julie  and  George  Murphy  and  Virginia  Bruce 


New  Native  Son? 

lO  say  Hollywood  was  surprised  when  Charles 
and  Elsa  Lanchester  Laughton  recently  pur- 
chased a  Bel- Air  home,  announcing  their  inten- 
tions of  settling  down  here,  is  putting  it  mildly. 
Perhaps  the  most  English-minded  pair  of  Brit- 
ishers in  Hollywood,  the  Laughtons  have  made 
their  necessary  trips  to  Hollywood  with  the 
greatest  of  reluctance  in  the  past. 

But  now — "the  town's  got  me,"  Charles  vows 
and,  except  for  vacations  abroad,  they're  here  to 
stay.  Arm  in  arm,  this  happy  pair  can  be  seen 
at  parties  or  tramping  the  hills  near  their  new 
home.  The  town  was  amused,  however,  at  Char- 
lie's attempt  to  have  a  costly  painting  trans- 
ferred from  his  London  home  to  America.  Dis- 
covering the  shipping  tax  alone  would  cost 
$2,300,  Laughton  went  wild  trying  to  stop  the 
shipment. 


Beg  Pardon! 

Much  as  it  hurts  Cal's  pride  to  admit  it,  an 
error  has  appeared  on  these  pages — not,  he  is 
much  happier  to  say,  in  his  own  columns,  but  in 
identification  under  the  pictures  illustrating  his 
March  "report."  Hymie's  candid  photos  of  the 
Lehr-Rathbone  charity  party  should  have  been 
credited  to  the  Beverly  Hills  Hotel,  where  this 
truly  gala  affair  took  place.  Photoplay's  deep- 
est apologies,  both  to  the  hotel  and  to  Mr.  E.  J. 
Caldwell,  its  manager,  for  this  omission — and 
Cal's  promise  that  he'll  personally  see  to  it  that 
it  doesn't  happen  again!  < 


Tact 

EVERYONE  knows  that  May  Robson  is  one  of 
the  best  actresses  in  Hollywood.  But  everyone 
knows,  too,  that,  if  not  watched,  she  is  inclined 
to  "mug"  before  the  camera.  This  happened 
during  a  certain  scene  in  "Irene."  Anna  Neagle, 
its  star,  was  supposed  to  be  showing  May  a  dress, 
and  May  was  taking  it  big — head  first  on  one 
side,  then  the  other;  hands  in  constant  motion; 
eyes  positively  rolling  with  the  effort  to  put  her- 
self over.  All  of  which  would  have  been  won- 
derful for  a  stage  performance,  but  was  down- 
right hamming  in  a  picture. 

Many  a  director  would  have  forgotten  the  fact 
that  May  was  probably  acting  before  he  was 
born,  and  would  have  called  her  down  plenty. 
But  British  director  Herbert  Wilcox,  unfailingly 
mindful  of  his  manners,  merely  cocked  his  head 
and  asked  a  dry  question: 

"What's  the  matter,  May?  Fly  bothering 
you?" 

At  which  May  grinned  wryly,  and  did  the  next 
scene  right. 


,,i 


v 


The  studio  planned  it  but  Bob  Shaw  and 
Linda    Darnell    are    taking    it    seriously! 


Oscars  and  Onions 

NOW  that  "Oscars"  have  been  passed  out  by  the 
Academy  of  Motion  Picture  Arts  and  Sciences, 
Cal  thought  he'd  assemble  his  own  merit  and 
demerit  list  based  on  personal  contact  and  ex- 
perience with  Hollywood's  Great! 

"Oscars"  to:  Anne  Shirley  for  continuing  to 
be  the  nicest  screen  actress  we  know;  to  Joel 
McCrea  for  being  the  nicest  actor;  to  Anna 
Neagle  and  Bob  Stack  for  being  the  nicest  new- 
comers; to  Dorothy  Lamour  for  giving  the 
frankest  interviews;  to  David  Niven  for  being 
the  wittiest,  and  also  the  best  "copy";  to  Joel 
McCrea  for  talking  the  most  interestingly  about 
someone  other  than  himself;  to  Rosemary  Lane 
for  being  the  friendliest;  to  Anne  Shirley  and 
John  Payne  for  preserving  the  happiest  mar- 
riage; to  Ann  Sheridan  for  being  the  most 
beautiful  off  the  screen;  to  Clark  Gable  for  being 
the  best-looking  off  the  screen;  to  Olivia  de 
Havilland  for  being  the  best  listener;  to  Mar- 
garet Lindsay  for  having  the  most  poise;  to 
Madeleine  Carroll  for  being  the  best  educated; 
to  Claudette  Colbert  for  being  the  best 
dressed.  .  .  . 

And  onions  to:  Ray  Milland  for  being  too  sar- 
castic; to  Brian  Aherne  for  being  too  particular 
about  his  publicity;  to  Nancy  Kelly  for  having 
illusions  of  grandeur;  to  Carole  Lombard  for  her 
too  free  use  of  "slang";  to  Lana  Turner  for  rush- 
ing too  fast  into  marriage;  to  Jean  Arthur  for 
taking  herself  too  seriously;  to  Tyrone  Power 
for  increasing  his  head  size;  to  Edgar  Bergen  for 
seeming  to  forget  his  manners  on  occasion;  to 
Fred  MacMurray  for  being  the  poorest  "copy" 
(but  we  like  him,  anyway) ;  to  Orson  Welles  for 
being  the  most  egotistical;  to  Nelson  Eddy  for 
denying  his  romance  one  day  and  getting  mar- 
ried the  next. 


Shhhh,  But  They  Do  Say  That: 

ARTIE  SHAW  telephoned  Mary  Healy  twice  for 
a  date  on  the  very  day  he  and  Lana  Turner 
eloped.  Now  wouldn't  it  have  been  strange  if 
Mary  instead  of  Lana  had  accepted  that 
date?  .... 

Carole  Lombard  and  Clark  Gable  had  their 
first  little  tiff  in  public  the  other  day,  and  Carole 
walked  out  of  a  party  in  a  huff.  .  .  . 

Sabu,  the  famous  Indian  actor,  is  so  overcome 
at  the  plague  of  Hollywood  turbans,  he's  wear- 
ing a  bright  red  one  to  outdo  the  competi- 
tion. .  .  . 

Don  Ameche  is  a  wretched  man  over  the  roles 
he's  been  asked  to  play  and  the  fact  his  wife's 
health  is  so  precarious  these  days.  .  .  . 

Confirming  our  story  in  the  April  issue  of 
Photoplay,  eyes  are  still  focused  on  Sorrja  Henie 


Another  screen  threesome 
at  Ciro's — maybe  Miriam 
Hopkins  is  telling  the 
Lewis  Milestones  about 
her    real     marital     plans? 


William  Gargan  and  Mary 
Astor,  at  the  Roosevelt 
Hotel  —  but  their  actual 
hearts  are  elsewhere  and 
they're     married     to     'em! 


and  Alan  Curtis.  Friends  claim  that  Sonja 
hasn't  been  so  interested  since  her  romance  with 
Tyrone  Power,  despite  the  rumors  of  her  interest 
elsewhere.  .  .  . 

When  Brenda  Marshall  divorces  her  husband 
within  the  year,  William  ("Golden  Boy")  Hol- 
den  may  be  the  next  man  of  her  dreams-come- 
true.  .  .  . 

As  soon  as  his  former  wife,  Edna  Best,  di- 
vorced him  in  Nevada  and  married  Nat  Wolff, 
Herbert  Marshall  purchased  a  home  for  Lee 
Russell,  and  it  was  all  ready  for  their  recent 
elopement.  .  .  . 


First  Love 

WHEN  Lana  Turner  and  Artie  Shaw  raced  away 
to  Las  Vegas,  Nevada,  and  were  married,  the 
papers  had  quite  a  little  to  say  about  Lana's  for- 
mer boy-friend,  Gregory  Bautzer,  and  how  he 
felt  about  it,  and  about  Artie's  former  girl- 
friend, Betty  Grable,  and  how  she  felt  about  it. 


But  nobody  mentioned  another  character  in  that 
little  drama  (maybe  you'd  call  her  the  "in- 
genue")— Judy  Garland. 

Of  course,  Judy's  just  a  kid,  but  she's  been 
carrying  the  torch  for  Artie  Shaw  a  long  time — 
ever  since  he  was  ill  last  year  and  she  used  to 
go  to  the  hospital  (every  day,  according  to  her 
friends)  to  cheer  him  up.  Artie  was  grateful  for 
her  loyalty  and  he  took  her  around  a  bit  after  he 
got  well,  but  when  he  saw  how  things  were  with 
her,  his  common  sense  and  sense  of  fitness  as- 
serted themselves  and  as  gently  as  he  could,  he 
cut  things  off  between  them.  Not  that  there  was 
anything  really. 

Time  went  on.  Artie  left  Hollywood  and,  fi- 
nally, "tired  of  the  strife  of  a  band  leader's  life," 
chucked  everything  and  dropped  out  of  sight. 
Recently,  though,  back  in*Hollywood  and  busy 
organizing  a  new  band,  he  renewed  his  old 
friendship  with  Judy.  They  were  seen  places 
now  and  then.  'Tis  said  that  Judy,  still  carrying 
the  torch  for  this  first  love  of  hers,  actually 
(Continued  on  page  86) 


THE  FARMER'S  DAUGHTER-Paramount 


\ 


IN  case  you  think  this  is  related  in  anyway  to  those 
traveling  salesmen  stories  you're  due  for  a  disap- 
pointment. Instead,  you'll  find  out  what  happened 
to  Martha  Raye — she's  here,  toned  down  a  little  in 
keeping  with  the  decline  of  her  loudmouthed  fad, 
but  still  amusing.  The  story  has  to  do  with  a  rural 
barn -theater  where  a  Broadway  producer,  very 
broke,  puts  on  a  show  backed  by  a  New  York  angel. 
This  angel  wants  to  get  his  scheming,  gold-digging 
girl-friend  out  of  town,  you  see.  Martha,  a  simple 
country  lass  bursting  with  good  honest  emotions, 
gets  tangled  up  in  the  cross  fire  at  the  theater  with 
all-to-the-good  results.  You'll  like  Charlie  Ruggles, 
Gertrude  Michael  and  the  others,  and  you'll  laugh 
like  anything  most  of  the  time,  too. 


FREE,  BLONDE  AND  21— 20th  Century-Fox 


I  HIS  studio  rather  liked  its  idea  of  "Hotel  for 
Women,"  and  so  has  run  up  another  little  number 
along  the  same  lines.  The  background  is  a  hostelry 
which  admits  only  girls,  among  them  Mary  Beth 
Hughes,  Joan  Davis  and  Lynn  Bari.  We're  afraid 
you're  not  going  to  be  very  excited  by  the  story. 
Mary  Beth  is  a  nighty,  hard-boiled  gold-digger  and 
gets  herself  in  just  a  terrible  jam,  because  of  some 
murders;  Miss  Bari  holds  out  on  men  as  a  species 
and  works  hard,  thus  getting  a  millionaire  as  re- 
ward. Joan  plays  a  chambermaid  and  turns  in  the 
only  performance,  as  such,  in  the  film.  She's  won- 
derfully funny.  Henry  Wilcoxon  and  Robert  Lowry 
help  somewhat,  and  Chick  Chandler  drives  a  taxi 
and  is  affianced  to  Joan,  the  chambermaid. 


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GUIDE     TO 


PICTURE 


*  YOUNG  TOM  EDISON— M-G-M 

I  HE  biographical  craze  is  at  its  peak  now,  and 
here's  the  latest — perhaps  the  best — of  the  cycle  so 
far.  A  new  Mickey  Rooney  who  does  not  mug  has 
the  plum  role  of  the  young  Edison,  a  precocious 
adolescent  whose  family  thinks  he  is  a  nuisance. 
What  makes  the  picture  so  important  is  that  its 
makers  have  not  been  content  with  a  simple  por- 
trait of  a  young  genius,  have  not  devoted  every 
scene  to  reminding  you  that  this  is  Edison,  the  inven- 
tor. M-G-M  has  made  the  character  purely  human, 
in  circumstances  of  truly  American  flavor,  and  the 
result  is  warm,  sympathetic,  completely  entertain- 
ing. Rooney  has  never  been  so  good.  The  char- 
acter could  be  named  John  Smith  and  still  fas- 
cinate you  as  a  human  being  with  Mickey  playing 
the  role.  The  story  is  that  of  Edison  during  his 
early  youth  at  Port  Huron,  Michigan,  and  stops  at 
the  time  when  he  left  home  to  become  a  telegraph 
operator.  Of  course,  the  youngster  is  misunderstood 
by  family  and  schoolmates;  he  is  content  with  noth- 
ing, he  possesses  a  yen  for  knowledge  that  will  not 
be  denied,  he  experiments  with  gadgets  until  his 
family  is  frantic  and  his  school  expels  him.  The 
episodes  of  this  period  in  Edison's  life  are  merged 
with  each  other  rather  than  strung  together,  giving 
the  finished  film  unity.  Rooney  brings  to  his  sub- 
ject a  wealth  of  humor  and  the  timing  for  which 
he  is  famous.  Fay  Bainter  is  as  good  as  she  usu- 
ally is  as  the  boy's  mother,  Virginia  Weidler  plays 
his  sister  and  George  Bancroft  his  father.  Eugene 
Pallette  is  a  train  conductor. 


"*"*■ 

1 

III*  >*  e 

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*  MY  SON,  MY  SON!-Small-U.  A. 

Mr.  SMALL  has  taken  some  justified  liberties  with 
Howard  Spring's  absorbing  book,  and  has  created 
one  of  the  most  gripping  dramas  of  the  year. 
"My  Son,  My  Son!"  is  a  superb  study  of  an 
adoring  father  who  gives  his  boy  everything  he 
wants  and  of  the  son  who,  with  objective  malice 
and  deliberate  contempt,  ruins  the  lives  of  two 
entire  families.  The  sweep  and  dignity  and  search- 
ing characterizations  of  this  film  are  difficult  to  de- 
scribe; each  performance  is  faultless,  mood  is  sus- 
tained through  every  moment  of  action,  and  the 
melodramatics  are  so  restrained,  are  in  such  good 
taste,  the  resultant  emotional  impact  hurts.  Brian 
Aherne  plays  the  young  writer  who  rises  from  pov- 
erty to  riches,  inspired  by  the  son  he  worships,  only 
to  discover  the  lad  is  a  liar  and  a  cheat.  Aherne's 
first  wife,  Josephine  Hutchinson,  brings  him  no 
happiness  and  at  last  he  meets  Madeleine  Carroll, 
who  brings  him  love  and  understanding.  However, 
the  son,  played  with  finesse  and  gusto  by  Louis 
Hayward,  is  in  love  with  Miss  Carroll  also — and 
has  no  compunction  about  being  his  father's  rival. 
It  is  a  long  picture,  with  ramifications  of  plot  too 
involved  to  discuss  here,  but  it  does  not  drag. 
Henry  Hull  plays  Aherne's  best  friend,  an  Irishman 
whose  two  children,  Laraine  Day  and  Bruce  Lester, 
both  are  victims  of  young  Hay  ward's  vicious  selfish- 
ness. Aherne  displays  an  ability  and  dignity  of  por- 
trayal which  raise  his  performance  to  the  heights; 
Laraine  Day  is  so  appealing  it  is  safe  to  predict  star- 
dom for  her;  little  Scotty  Beckett  is  incredibly  good. 


*  ROAD  TO  SINGAPORE-Paramount 

WHEN  you  read  those  stories  about  Bing  Crosby, 
Inc.,  being  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Hollywood, 
and  wonder  how  a  mere  crooner  can  do  such,  go 
see  "Road  to  Singapore"  and  then  you'll  know. 
It's  just  that  he  gets  better  all  the  time,  and  his 
pictures  stay  good.  This  time  he  has  Sarong  Lamour 
and  Bob  Hope  to  help  him,  not  that  he  needs  help 
— and  the  result  in  your  theater  is  one  of  the  gayest 
and  amusing  films  ever  to  decrease  the  suicide  sta- 
tistics. It's  all  about  the  son  of  a  very  rich  ship- 
owner, and  this  son  is  fed  up  with  working  in  an 
office,  the  life  he's  leading  and  particularly  the 
glamorous  female  he's  engaged  to.  He  leaves  her 
at  the  altar,  roots  out  his  laziest  pal,  and  bums  on 
down  to  a  South  Sea  Island.  There  the  Bing — for 
Bing  it  is  who  has  this  fine  idea — and  Bob  Hope, 
the  work-hating  friend,  settle  vaguely  on  the  sands 
for  a  try  at  beachcombing.  And  it  might  have 
worked,  too,  if  it  weren't  for  Dorothy.  They  rescue 
her  from  a  brawl,  she  moves  in  on  them,  and  peace 
goes  chattering  out  of  the  window.  Crosby's  role  is 
strictly  suited  to  him,  famous  as  he  is  for  his  colos- 
sal inertia;  he  has  lost  a  lot  of  weight,  is  in  full  voice, 
and  has  perfected  his  timing  for  comedy  lines  to 
a  masterly  degree.  Hope  has  never  been  better. 
The  dialogue  is  inspired  and  slaps  out  at  you  often 
with  some  very  surprising  triple  entendres.  Miss 
Lamour  has  little  enough  to  do  except  to  look  South 
Slea-zy.  Judith  Barrett  waits  and  wails  at  the 
aforementioned  altar.  Don't  miss  this.  It's  good  for 
the  digestion,  laughing  the  way  you  will. 


72 


•  THE  PRIMROSE  PATH— RKO-Radio 

IT  is  a  shock,  and  a  pleasant  one,  to  see  Ginger 
Rogers,  the  actress,  moving  across  the  screen  in  a 
simple,  honest,  somewhat  disconcerting  story  that  is 
more  than  likely  to  irritate  many  movie-goers. 
It  is  not  a  pretty  story,  of  a  family  whose  nominal 
head  has  a  weakness  for  gin  and  a  mother  who  sup- 
ports a  grandmother,  two  daughters,  and  a  husband 
by  going  out  on  parties,  with  men  who  can  afford 
fur  pieces  and  money  to  buy  groceries  that  are  badly 
needed  on  February  Hill.  Joel  McCrea  plays  a 
strong  lead  opposite  Ginger,  and  is  perhaps  the 
most  convincing  he's  ever  been.  If  you  don't  mind 
a  love  story  without  pretense  that  life  is  tough  on 
the  "have-nots"  and  which  presents  a  Ginger  Rogers 
with  no  make-up,  you  will  find  this  a  different  film. 


DR.  CYCLOPS— Paramount 

I  HE  weird  tale  of  a  mad  scientist  who  finds  a 
radium  mine  in  Africa,  and  with  it  makes  people 
shrink  until  they're  the  size  of  rabbits  is  here  pre- 
sented in  Technicolor.  It's  a  fascinating  thing  to 
watch,  although  the  plot  is  penny-dreadful  stuff. 
The  scientist  works  his  magic  on  a  group  of  visit- 
ing doctors,  including  a  woman  biologist,  and  after 
that  the  film  depends  on  the  adventures  of  the  tiny 
creatures  and  their  efforts  to  escape  Cyclops.  Albert 
Dekker  does  a  fine  job  in  the  title  role  and  is  sup- 
ported well  enough  by  Thomas  Coley,  Janice  Logan, 
Charles  Halton  and  others.  A  novelty,  which  will 
keep  youngsters  in  a  dither  of  suspense  and  adults 
in  a  state  of  surprise  that  such  camera  prestidigita- 
tion is  possible. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES— Universal 

REMEMBER  when  you  had  to  read  this  in  high 
school  and  study  the  style  of  Nathaniel  Hawthorne? 
Now  Universal  has  brought  the  barren  New  England 
background  and  the  stony,  bigoted  characters  to  the 
screen  and  you  may  enjoy  them  at  last.  The  atmos- 
phere of  evil  and  superstition  is  well  created  about 
the  old  house.  Vincent  Price  plays  the  son  who 
wants  his  father  to  sell  the  mansion  because  of  its 
associations,  George  Sanders,  the  Cain-like  brother 
who  has  Vincent  sent  to  prison  for  a  murder  he 
didn't  commit.  Ever-faithful  to  Price  is  his  old- 
fashioned  sweetheart,  Margaret  Lindsay,  who  suf- 
fers Sanders'  continuing  menace  until  her  lover  can 
return  to  her.  There's  nothing  very  cheerful  about 
all  this,  but  then  it's  frankly  a  type  of  horror  story. 


A  V  E  S 


R     PICTURE     TIME     AND     MONEY 


THE   BEST  PICTURES  OF  THE   MONTH 

Young  Tom  Edison 

My  Son,  My  Son! 
Northwest  Passage 
Road  to  Singapore 
Too  Many  Husbands 

Rebecca 
The  Primrose  Path 


BEST   PERFORMANCES    OF    THE    MONTH 

Mickey  Rooney  in  "Young  Tom  Edison" 

Brian  Aherne  in  "My  Son,  My  Son!" 
Louis  Hayward  in  "My  Son,   My  Son!" 

Spencer  Tracy  in  "Northwest  Passage" 
Robert  Young  in  "Northwest  Passage" 

Jackie  Cooper  in  "Seventeen" 

Bing  Crosby  in  "Road  to  Singapore" 
Bob  Hope  in  "Road  to  Singapore" 

Laurence  Olivier  in  "Rebecca" 
Joan  Fontaine  in  "Rebecca" 

Margaret  Lindsay  in   "The   House  of  the  Seven 
Gables" 

Joan  Crawford  in  "Strange  Cargo" 
Ian  Hunter  in  "Strange  Cargo" 

Ginger  Rogers  in  "The  Primrose  Path" 
Joel  McCrea  in  "The  Primrose  Path" 

Jean  Arthur  in  "Too  Many  Husbands" 
Fred  MacMurray  in  "Too  Many  Husbands" 
Melvyn  Douglas  in  "Too  Many  Husbands" 


•  TOO  MANY  HUSBANDS— Columbia 

SOMERSET  MAUGHAM,  when  he  wrote  the  origi- 
nal story  of  this  swell  picture,  thought  it  would  be 
fun  to  complicate  the  eternal  triangle  by  making 
the  girl  a  bigamist.  Further,  she  might  be  in  love 
with  both  men  and  each  man  could  be  in  love  with 
her.  Then  what?  Well,  you'll  find  out  when  you  see 
Jean  Arthur  and  Fred  MacMurray  and  Melvyn 
Douglas  worrying  the  problem  around  amongst 
them.  MacMurray,  Jean's  original  husband,  goes  off 
on  a  yachting  trip  and  doesn't  come  back.  The  coast 
guard  reports  that  he  is  lost  at  sea  and  Jean  there- 
upon marries  his  partner  in  a  publishing  business, 
Melvyn  Douglas.  But,  of  course,  MacMurray  has 
been  resourceful  enough  to  find  a  desert  island  and 
ultimately  is  rescued,  returning  with  a  full  beard 
and  a  lusty  yen  for  his  wife.  You'd  think  this  situa- 
tion would  make  Jean  feel  perfectly  terrible,  but  it 
doesn't.  She  loves  it.  She  can't  make  up  her  mind 
which  one  she  wants  to  keep  and  finally  you  get  a 
sneaking  hunch  she  doesn't  want  to  let  either  one 
go.  (Which  husband  would  you  choose?  The  de- 
pendable chap  who  takes  his  work  too  seriously — or 
the  colorful  one  who's  apt  to  leave  a  lady  in  the 
lurch?)  The  entire  film  is  a  succession  of  fairly 
suggestive  slap-happy  scenes  all  played  to  the  hilt 
and  with  a  lot  of  flair  by  the  three  stars.  Dorothy 
Peterson  is  swell  as  the  secretary  who  is  also  in  love 
with  both  men,  her  bosses.  Dialogue  is  by  Claude 
Binyon,  direction  and  production  by  Wesley  Rug- 
gles.  And  all  superlative.  Excellent  entertainment 
that  will  make  you  forget  your  cares. 


•  REBECCA— Selznick  International-U.A. 

PSYCHOLOGICAL  studies  are  always  difficult  to 
screen  so  that  they  make  sense  to  the  lay  mind  and 
still  maintain  pace.  "Rebecca"  poses  even  a  greater 
problem  as  film  material:  The  main  character  never 
appears,  being  quite  dead  before  the  story  begins. 
Yet  she  dominates  the  whole.  Rebecca,  the  corpse 
of  which  we  speak,  was  the  first  wife  of  the  hero. 
Laurence  Olivier;  she  has  been  drowned  in  a  small 
boat  and  Olivier,  wandering  at  loose  ends  about 
Europe,  meets  and  marries  Joan  Fontaine,  a  shy  but 
pretty  professional  traveling  companion.  Back  to 
his  great  country  estate,  Manderley,  Olivier  carries 
his  bride  and  there  she  discovers  .  .  .  well,  since  the 
secret  of  "Rebecca's"  success  depends  on  the  re- 
curring surprises  and  twists  of  plot,  it  would  be 
unfair  to  spoil  things  for  you  by  revealing  more 
of  the  story.  Nothing  is  as  it  seems,  and  just  when 
you've  made  up  your  mind  about  something,  some- 
body does  or  says  something  else,  and  then  you 
have  to  start  all  over  again.  The  mood  of  haunting 
fear  is  magnificently  contrived,  aided,  of  course,  by 
Olivier's  intense  performance  and  the  really  fine  act- 
ing of  Miss  Fontaine.  The  character  of  the  malicious 
housekeeper  is  clearly  and  sensitively  drawn  by 
Judith  Anderson,  but  all  the  supporting  cast  is  good. 
George  Sanders  gives  a  sense  of  subtle  indecency 
to  his  role  as  Rebecca's  cousin,  but  never  offends; 
Reginald  Denny  does  his  faithful  old  friend  por- 
trayal. The  picture  is  a  strange  mixture  of  mystery, 
melodrama,  scenic  effects  and  pathos. 

(Continued  on  page  99) 


73 


BY  WILBUR  MORSE,  JR 


The  cradle  won  out  over  the  camera 


when  the  stork  and  stardom  knocked 


on  the  door  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald 


HE  can  go  just  as  far  in  Hollywood  as  she 
likes.  She  can  be  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant stars  there  ...  if  she  doesn't  get 
bored  with  it.  My  guess  is,  that  at  the  end  of  a 
year,  she'll  leave  the  screen  to  have  a  baby  .  .  . 
or  something 

Leaning  against  the  bar  in  a  little  pub  off  Fleet 
Street,  last  summer,  a  British  journalist  who  had 
known  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  in  the  days  when 
she  was  battling  for  recognition  in  the  London 
studios,  gave  me  a  penetrating  picture  of  the 
redheaded  young  Irish  actress  who  at  the  mo- 
ment was  the  talk  of  the  film  world  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic. 

"Geraldine  Fitzgerald,"  continued  the  Fleet 
Street  critic,  "has  more  ability  in  her  little  fin- 
ger than  most  movie  stars  have  in  both  their 
hot,  eager  fists.  And  she's  as  ambitious  as  she 
is  able,  so  she'll  climb  right  on  up  to  the  top. 
But  once  she's  there  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  wondering! 
She's  a  restless  girl.  Her  husband  is  as  rich  as 
all  get  out,  so  she  doesn't  need  to  work.  Once 
she's  won  stardom  she  may  want  something 
else." 

That  prophecy  of  the  English  newspaperman 
came  back  to  me  as  a  stunning  reminder  a  short 
time  ago.  For  just  what  he  predicted  has  hap- 
pened. 

Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  whom  many  regard  as 
the  most  important  acquisition  in  years  to  the 
far  from  overcrowded  ranks  of  talented  film 
actresses,  is  deserting  the  screen  ...  at  least 
temporarily. 

She  is  going  to  have  a  baby  in  May. 

And  once  again,  just  as  Hollywood  was  about 
to  zoom  her  to  stardom,  the  unpredictable  Irish 
actress  has  traded  her  chances  for  fame  for  the 
penchants  of  her  private  life. 

For  almost  two  years,  ever  since  she  swept  on 
to  the  American  scene  with  a  magnificent  per- 
formance in  Orson  Welles'  Broadway  produc- 
tion of  "Heartbreak  House,"  Hollywood  has  been 
trying  to  get  Geraldine  to  settle  down  in  the  film 
colony  long  enough  for  the  boys  of  the  "build- 
up" brigade  to  fit  her  for  the  cloak  of  stardom. 

And  from  the  very  first  Geraldine  has  re- 
garded her  cinematic  career  as  only  secondary 
(Continued  on  page  95) 


NO  MATTER  HOW 
SLEEPY  I  AM  AT  BEDTIME 
I  NEVER  NEGLECT  MY 
ACTIVE -LATHER  FACIAL 


Take  the  screen 
stars'  tip.try  this 

ACTIVE-LATHER 

FACIAL  for  30  days 

COSMETIC  SKIN:  unattractive 
little  blemishes  and  enlarged 
pores — spoils  good  looks.  So  don't  risk 
choked  pores.  Use  cosmetics  all  you 
like,  buPuake  Ann  Sheridan's  tip. 
Remove  dust,  dirt  and  stale  cosmetics 
thoroughly.  Let  ACTIVE-LATHER 
FACIALS  with  Lux  Toilet  Soap  protect 
the  beauty  of  your  skin — help  keep  it 
smooth,  attractive. 


9  out  of  10  Screen  Stars  use  Lux  Toilet  Soa 


MAY,     1940 


75 


Home  Sweet  Hollywood 


"Tangee  Theatrical  Red  Lipstick 
Is  a  Gorgeous  Color  and  It  Really 
Stays  on  My  Lips" 

"/  seldom  need  to  'touch-up'  with 
my  Tangee  Theatrical  Red  Lip- 
stick", says  Martha  Peery,  lovely 
blonde  artists'  model.  "Its  creamy 
base  really  makes  it  stay  on  longer. 
And  what  a  color!  It's  simply 
beautiful." 

WE  believe  that  you,  too,  will  never 
»V  again  be  satisfied  with  an  ordinary 
"grease-base"  lipstick  once  you've  tried 
Tangee.  Its  exclusive  cream  base,  devel- 
oped and  perfected  in  Tangee's  scientific 
laboratory,  makes  this  world-famous  lip- 
stick go  on  smoother  and  look  smoother. 
It's  non-drying,  non-greasy  and  actually 
stays  on  the  lips  longer  than  you  ever 
thought  possible. 

Tangee  Theatrical  Red  shade  is  a  bril- 
liant, glamorous  color  that  brings  out 
the  natural  loveliness  of  blonde  types 
and  sets  off  to  flattering  advantage  the 
deeper  tones  of  brunettes. Try  Theatrical 
Red  with  your  new  spring  outfit.  And 
be  sure  to  complete  your  make-up  with 
Theatrical  Red  Rouge  and  your  favorite 
shade  of  Tangee  Face  Powder.  When  you 
want  less  vivid  make-up,  ask  for  Tangee 
Natural. 

A  VIVID    RED    SHADE 


poka  ...  A  bearded  Russian  who  be- 
stows the  blessings  of  the  best  "piroshki" 
in  the  world  on  those  discriminating  few 
who  understand  their  "piroshki"  ...  A 
blacker-than-the-ace-of -spades  Negro 
from  South  Carolina  who  believes — and 
justly  so — that,  come  the  Revolution, 
people  will  be  still  clamoring  for  a  sec- 
ond helping  of  fried  chicken,  corn  pone 
and  sweet  potatoes  ...  A  methodical 
Swede  .  .  .  But  what's  the  use?  All 
nationalities  are  represented  in  Ann 
Warner's  kitchen  and  I  know  of  no  way 
of  putting  Ann  to  the  acid  test  except 
by  bringing  the  former  Emperor  of 
Abyssinia  to  California.  There  are  no 
Abyssinian  cooks  in  or  around  Holly- 
wood, not  within  a  radius  of  ten  thou- 
sand miles,  and  Ann  would  have  to  cook 
that  "one  hundred  per  cent  Abyssinian 
meal"  all  by  herself.  .  .  . 

ARTHUR  and  Myrna  Loy  Hornblow 
also  are  leading  entries  in  Hollywood's 
domesticity  derby.  There  was  the  day 
out  at  Twentieth  Century-Fox  when  the 
last  scenes  of  Louis  Bromfield's  "The 
Rains  Came"  were  being  shot.  Every- 
one was  watching  Myrna,  who  was 
playing  a  part  which  her  fans  have  long 
since  ceased  associating  with  her  per- 
sonality. A  hard-hearted,  cynical  wife 
of  an  equally  hard-hearted  and  cynical 
English  Lord,  she  was  supposed  to  die 
at  the  end  of  the  picture.  The  scene  of 
her  death  was  naturally  one  of  the  most 
important  scenes  of  all.  The  associate 
producer,  the  director  and  the  camera- 
men were  prepared  to  do  their  best  by 
the  dying  Myrna.  Everything  was  in 
readiness  when  a  messenger  boy  arrived 
with  a  package  he  was  told  to  deliver 
to  Miss  Loy.  Now  were  I  a  Winchell  .  .  . 
But  I  am  not.  So  let  me  hasten  to  ex- 
plain that  the  package  was  sent  to 
Myrna  by  her  own  husband,  Arthur 
Hornblow,  that  it  contained  a  corsage  of 
orchids  and  a  note  which  said: 

"Darling,  I  hope  you  will  die  beauti- 
fully but  promptly.  Those  peopje  we 
invited  to  dinner  will  arrive  at  eight 
sharp." 

Myrna  does  not  employ  a  score  of 
cooks  nor  does  she  let  the  nationality 
of  her  guest  of  honor  determine  the 
contents  of  the  meal,  but  she  will  be 
long  remembered  by  all  lovers  of  a 
"homemade  chicken  sandwich"  as  a 
woman  who  restored  the  prestige  of 
their  favorite.  Her  recipe  is  not  known 
to  me  but  it  is  the  consensus  of  opinion 
in  Hollywood  that  nobody  makes  better 
chicken  sandwiches.  You  may  think 
that  there  is  no  particular  trick  in  mak- 
ing a  chicken  sandwich,  but  take  my 
word,  the  word  of  an  old  and  dusty 
traveler  who  spent  nearly  forty  years  in 
search  of  an  honest-to-goodness  chicken 
sandwich,  that  any  fool  can  make 
crepes  Suzette  but  it  take  a  veritable 
artist  to  make  a  chicken  sandwich. 
Sunday  afternoons  at  Myrna's  are 
unique,  not  only  because  both  she  and 
her  husband  are  gay,  witty,  intelligent, 
and  hospitable  but  because  of  those 
chicken  sandwiches  made  by  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  world's  highest  paid  stars. 

And  speaking  about  food — as  I  invari- 
ably do — every  man  imagines  that  he 
and  only  he  knows  how  to  cook  a  steak. 
In  my  humble  opinion,  however,  the 
very  best  steaks  are  being  cooked  by 
none  other  than  Kay  Francis.  She 
knows  it  too.  It  is  my  hunch  that  the 
praise  showered  on  her  because  of  her 
steaks  impresses  her  more  than  the  very 
best  reviews  of  her  pictures. 

I  suspect  I'm  giving  a  rather  distorted 
view  of  Hollywood  .  .  .  Sweaters, 
chicken   sandwiches,   steaks  .  .  .  How 


(Continued  from  page  21) 

about  some  glamour?  How  about  it? 
My  friends  in  New  York  tell  me  that 
"Hollywood  is  glamorous"  but  my  eyes 
tell  me  that  domesticity,  and  not  glam- 
our, is  the  main  trait  of  Hollywood. 

Take,  for  instance,  Grace  Moore.  That 
she  is  beautiful  and  glamorous  nobody 
would  dispute,  but  what  fascinates  me 
about  Grace  is  neither  her  beauty  nor 
her  glamour  but  her  long-distance  tele- 
phone calls.  Whenever  her  husband  is 
away  she  never  fails  to  get  him  on  the 
wire  shortly  before  midnight  and  hold 
a  lengthy  conversation  with  him.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  night  when  Grace 
suddenly  discovered  that  it  was  already 
11:45  p.m.  while  she  had  promised  her 
beloved  Valentin  to  telephone  to  him  at 
half-past  eleven  sharp.  The  way  she 
begged  the  operator  to  hurry  up,  the 
way  she  bit  her  lip  and  tapped  her  foot 
...  A  stranger  would  have  thought 
that  her  whole  future  depended  on  that 
telephone  call  .  .  .  Did  she  have  any- 
thing important  to  tell  Valentin?  Not 
a  thing,  except  that  she  was  having  a 
late  dinner  with  Elsa  Maxwell. 

Take  Tyrone  Power  and  Annabella. 
Are  they  glamorous?  Of  course  they 
are,  but  the  key  to  their  characters  is 
not  their  glamour  but  the  thing  which 
absorbs  their  entire  attention  at  the 
present  moment.  After  buying  Grace 
Moore's  house,  guess  what  they  did 
with  it.  They  refurnished  and  redec- 
orated it  in  a  French  style.  Not  that 
anything  was  wrong  with  Grace's  fur- 
niture, but  Tyrone  thought  that  Anna- 
bella would  feel  more  at  home  in  an 
out-and-out  French  house. 

And,  finally,  take  a  typical  evening  at 
the  Troc.  Who  is  dancing  with  whom? 
Carole  Lombard  with  Clark  Gable, 
Hedy  Lamarr  with  Gene  Markey,  Mar- 
garet Sullavan  with  Leland  Hayward, 
Gary  Cooper  with  Mrs.  Gary  Cooper. 

Did  I  say  that  domesticity  is  the  main 
trait  of  Hollywood?  I  was  wrong.  I 
should  have  said  "relentless  domestic- 
ity." So  relentless  that  when  I  am 
about  to  give  a  party  in  Hollywood  I 
have  to  forget  all  that  I  learned  about 
the  art  of  party-giving  in  New  York. 

As  a  rule,  whether  in  Hollywood  or  in 
New  York,  I  invite  from  four  to  six  hun- 
dred guests  to  a  party.    Let  us  say,  for 


argument's  sake,  that  I  have  decided 
and  happen  to  be  able  to  afford  a  party 
for  five  hundred  people.  In  New  York, 
I  would  invite  three  hundred  men  and 
two  hundred  women.  I  would  attempt 
to  keep  the  same  sixty-forty  ratio  in 
Hollywood.  But — and  what  a  whale  of 
a  "but"  that  particular  one  is — not  more 
than  fifteen  or  twenty  per  cent  of  the 
people  I  invite  in  New  York  insist  on 
bringing  their  wives  or  husbands  along. 
At  least  ten  per  cent  would  not  come 
at  all  if  I  invited  their  spouses.  In  other 
words,  the  typical  Elsa  Maxwell  party 
in  New  York  consists  of  about  one  hun- 
dred married  couples  and  two  hundred 
men  and  one  hundred  women  who  are 
either  single,  divorced  or  prefer  to  go 
out  "by  themselves." 

That's  how  it  is  in  New  York  and 
that's  how  it  is  not  in  Hollywood. 
I  would  no  more  dream  of  inviting 
"Mr."  and  not  inviting  "Mrs."  in  Holly- 
wood than  I  would  dream  of  trying  to 
engage  Greta  Garbo  in  a  conversation. 
The  net  result?  Well,  the  net  result  is 
that  when  I  give  a  party  in  Hollywood 
I  invite  two  hundred  married  couples 
and  pray  that  the  mother  of  Mickey 
Rooney,  the  aunt  of  Freddie  Bartholo- 
mew and  the  custodians  of  the  Dead 
End  boys  will  let  those  young  gentle- 
men attend  my  little  affair  ...  I  know 
of  no  other  way  of  maintaining  the 
sixty-forty  ratio  in  Hollywood. 

Could  it  be  that  what  I  term  "relent- 
less domesticity"  is  but  a  fad  and  that 
in  five  years  from  now  Hollywood  will 
regain  its  former  personality?  I  doubt 
it.  In  fact,  I  would  be  willing  to  bet  that 
in  five  years  from  now  a  hostess  at- 
tempting to  give  a  party  in  Hollywood 
would  have  to  consider  the  in-laws  of 
her  guests.  Even  now  one  hears  more 
and  more  that  the  mother-in-law  of  this 
or  that  star  is  "really  a  remarkable 
woman"  but  in  five  years  from  now  .  .  . 
Why  in  five  years  from  now  Hollywood 
might  easily  become  the  first  settlement 
on  the  North  American  continent  to 
adopt  a  brand  new  form  of  invitations. 
To  wit:  Instead  of  inviting  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Eddie  Cantor,  their  five  daughters  and 
two  sons-in-law,  a  hostess  would  have 
to   add  still  another  line: 

"And  all  those  they  love  best." 


(Sally  Eilers)  together  at  Ciro': 
confirms  our  author  Elsa  Maxwell's  theory  about  film  marriages 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


Tv 


hinks  of  himself  as  Daddy— just  a 
fellow  like  millions  of  others  making  the 
most  of  every  day. .  .working  with  a  pur- 
pose and  then  relaxing  to  live  with  his 
family  and  friends.  His  age?  He  feels  so 
young  that  the  years  don't  matter.  He's 
the  best  playmate  his  wife  and  young- 
sters ever  had.  And  why  not?  No  setting 
sun  sees  him  bringing  home  the  cares 


of  the  day.  No  rising  sun  fails  to  find 
him  refreshed  and  eager  to  greet  the 
new  day.      #  *  # 

Advice  to  Wives:  One  of  Home's  great- 
est charms  for  Daddy  is  the  icebox 
—  especially  when  well  stocked  with 
Budweiser  and  other  good  things.  It 
gives  the  busy  man-about-town  the  urge 
to  be  a  gracious  man-about-home. 


cJ-Lve  (JLire . .  .C^vetu  K^jctXcn  _  I  I  unite  ct  it .  .  .(L  iii^u  J^iiXweisct. .  .(Lvctu  K^jAXcn  ^Jjrcy  ct  if 


ANHEUSER- 
BUSCH 

Makers  of  the 
World-Famous  Beer 


<=r+  p^CVCtUcjC    Ots  I  toXctclU 


MAKE   THIS   TEST 

DRINK  BUDWEISER  FOR  FIVE  DAYS.  ON  THE 
SIXTH  DAY  TRY  TO  DRINK  A  SWEET  BEER.  YOU 
WILL  WANT  BUDWEISER'S  FLAVOR  THEREAFTER. 


L 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


(Continued  from  page  56) 


Before  the  chorus  number,  Director 
Irving  Cummings  checks  over  his  cuties. 
When  he  comes  to  Alice,  he  shakes  his 
head  and  points  to  her  wasp  waist. 
"Lillian  did  better  than  that,"  he  says. 

"Another  notch,"  Alice  says  resign- 
edly to  her  wardrobe  girl,  and  Alice 
is  a  half-inch  cuter  around  the  middle. 
She  steps  up  among  the  merry  maidens 
in  the  chorus  to  sing  "After  the  Ball." 

But  in  the  middle,  a  look  of  dismay 
crosses  her  face.  "I  can't  breathe  in  this 
strait  jacket,"  she  pants,  "let  alone  sing! 
My  hat's  off  to  Lillian!  She  was  a  bet- 
ter gal  than  I  am!"  They  hurry  to  un- 
bind Alice.  In  a  minute  she's  back  in 
the  Gay  Nineties  groove,  slightly  less 
cute,  but  plainly  a  darned  sight  more 
comfortable! 

I  HE  next  picture  we  find  in  Zanuck- 
land  is  the  screen  saga  of  Hollywood's 
Cindrellas,  titled  "Stardust." 

Having  a  generous  helping  of  real 
life  Cindys,  Zanuck  is  using  them. 
Linda  Darnell,  Mary  Healy  and  Mary 
Beth  Hughes  are  having  a  ton  of  fun 
playing  pages  from  their  own  lives, 
with  John  Payne,  Roland  Young  and 
Charlotte  Greenwood  faking  the  fiction. 

All  the  familiar  movie  metamorphoses 
come  out  in  the  script — new  coiffures, 
make-up  changes,  voice  lessons,  screen 
tests  (you'll  see  the  actual  test  of  Linda 
Darnell),  studio  dramatic  schools.  It's 
in  one  of  these  that  we  find  John  Payne 
and  good  old  rubberlegs  Charlotte 
Greenwood  in  a  red-hot  love  scene — 
and  we  mean  red  hot! 

Johnny  and  Charlotte  are  having  a 
wrestling  match  in  the  studio  drama 
coach's  office.  She's  showing  him  how 
to  make  love,  and  Director  Walter  Lang 
finds  it  hard  to  get  the  scene.  Some- 
body's always  laughing  right  in  the 
middle.  Suddenly  the  backdrop  sizzles 
like  an  egg  and  bursts  into  flames! 

We  duck  out  of  the  way  of  the  studio 
fire  squad  which  quickly  squelches  the 
blaze,  but  not  Charlotte  Greenwood's 
wit.  "Remember  that,  Sonny,"  she  tells 
John  Payne.  "When  I  love  'em,  they  go 
up  in  smoke!" 

Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer,  at  present,  is 
filming  the  Jane  Austen  classic,  "Pride 
and  Prejudice,"  with  a  British  cast  that 
would  warm  the  authoress'  heart.  Lau- 
rence Olivier,  Greer  Garson,  Maureen 
O'Sullivan,  Heather  Angel  and  Cana- 
dian-born Ann  Rutherford  you'll  recog- 
nize at  once.  Edward  Ashley  and  Bruce 
Lester  are  two  new  importations. 

"Pride  and  Prejudice"  is  as  English  as 
roast  beef.  It's  about  an  upper-class 
family  who  have  committed  a  grave 
social  blunder.  The  father  married  a 
shopkeeper — dear,  dear — and  because  of 
this  disgrace,  marrying  off  his  daugh- 
ters, though  they're  beautiful,  is  pretty 
tough  going.  Especially  when  Laurence 
Olivier,  a  wealthy  and  snobbish  young 
blade,  comes  to  town  and  hands  them  all 
the  ritz — until  love  for  Greer  teaches 
him  better  manners. 

What  meets  our  eyes  the  day  we  peep 
at  "Pride  and  Prejudice,"  is  a  big  ball- 
room where  gay  aristocratic  country 
gentlefolk  are  gathered  to  dance.  Olivier 
is  in  tight  fawn  breeches,  a  dark  coat 
and  stock.  Greer,  her  copper  tresses 
subdued  by  a  prim  coiffure,  floats 
around  in  his  arms,  sweeping  the  floor 
with  billowing  silks. 

It  all  looks  very  simple.  But — we 
know  M-G-M's  amazing  research  de- 
partment has  checked  everything  on 
this  set  to  see  if  it  fits  the  early  Nine- 
teenth Century  period  of  the  story. 


Laurence  Olivier  has  eyes  only  for 
Vivien  Leigh,  as  all  the  world  knows. 
But  in  a  pal  way  he's  crazy  about  Greer 
Garson,  too.  It  dates,  Greer  tells  us, 
back  to  the  time  when  she  got  her  first 
big  stage  break  in  London — and  got 
fired  the  first  night!  Olivier,  the  star, 
stepped  right  in  and  said,  "No  Garson 
— no  me!"  Greer  hasn't  forgotten  it, 
although  you  wouldn't  think  so  by 
what  happens  in  a  minute. 

When  the  quadrille  dissolves,  Greer 
grabs  Director  Bob  Leonard  by  the  arm 
and  leads  him  over  to  her  dressing 
room.  There  her  butler  stands  with 
CoCo,  Greer's  French  poodle.  Greer's 
trying  to  land  CoCo  a  film  job,  but 
Leonard  says,  "He  isn't  trimmed  right!" 
Greer  says  she'll  fix  that,  and  pulls  out 
some  scissors.    CoCo  objects. 

"Laurence!"  calls  Greer.  "Will  you 
help?"  He  takes  hold  of  CoCo — and 
CoCo  returns  the  compliment!  They're 
sewing  Mr.  Olivier's  fawn  panties  up 
when  we  leave  to  watch  Vivien  Leigh 
making  "Waterloo  Bridge"  with  Robert 
Taylor. 

"Waterloo  Bridge"  is  the  war  play 
Mae  Clarke  and  Douglass  Montgomery 


faces  are  outlined  eerily.  It's  effective, 
but  what  baffles  us  is — we  don't  smell 
any  tobacco  smoke!  We  look  closer. 
They  aren't  smoking  cigarettes  at  all — 
just  holding  white  sticks  with  little  bat- 
teries in  them  and  lights  on  the  end! 
We  say  another  bow  is  in  order  to  the 
studio  Edison  who  figured  them  out. 

That's  not  the  Spencer  Tracy  Edison, 
of  course.  We  call  on  him  next  in  "Edi- 
son, the  Man,"  the  follow-up  and  major 
portion  of  the  two  M-G-M  "Edisons," 
which  Mickey  Rooney  started  off  with 
"Young  Tom  Edison." 

Spencer  takes  Edison  from  twenty- 
two  to  eighty-two  and  he's  as  worked 
up  as  a  kid  about  playing  the  famous  in- 
ventor. 

Thanks  to  Henry  Ford,  "Edison,  the 
Man,"  will  probably  be  the  most  histori- 
cally accurate  movie  ever  made  of  a  real 
and  very  great  life.  He  painstakingly 
collected  all  important  Edisoniana  back 
in  Greenfield  Village,  at  Dearborn, 
Michigan.  There  Spence  pilgrimaged 
before  shooting  a  frame  of  film.  There, 
too,  unheralded,  tracked  M-G-M's  re- 
searchers, property  men  and  set  design- 
ers. 


"All  This,  and  Heaven,  Too"  becomes  a  peculiarly  appropriate  title  when  it 
gives  us  Bette  Davis  and  Charles  Boyer  as  a  team  in  the  film  version  of 
the  best  seller.     The  stars  themselves  seem  to   be  getting   a   kick  out  of  it 


did  for  the  screen  some  years  ago. 
M-G-M  has  brought  it  up  to  date  by 
setting  it  in  a  1940  London  blackout. 
Bob's  a  young  subaltern  on  leave,  who 
meets  Vivien,  a  ballet  dancer,  on  Water- 
loo Bridge  over  the  Thames.  They  fall 
in  love,  plan  to  marry — then  Bob's 
called  away  and  Vivien  reads  he's  been 
killed.  War  pulls  her  down  in  the  gut- 
ter, then  Bob  shows  up  again  and — but 
this  is  one  ending  we  won't  give  away! 

It's  almost  pitch  dark  in  the  little  res- 
taurant set  where  Vivien  sits  at  a  table 
with  Bob.  Only  the  tables'  candles  light 
the  scene. 

Bob  is  in  uniform.  Handsome  he  is, 
too,  with  his  new  black  mustache.  The 
mustache  started  out  as  a  property  lip- 
wig,  but  underneath  it  Bob  thought  he'd 
try  one  of  his  own.  Barbara  Stanwyck 
liked  it  so  well  he  kept  it  and  now,  in 
full  flower,  it's  perfect  enough  to  pho- 
tograph. 

Mervyn  LeRoy,  whom  we're  glad  to 
zee  directing  again,  calls  for  the  few 
candles  guttering  in  the  darkness  to  be 
snuffed  out.  "Just  the  cigarettes,  now," 
he  orders.  Out  go  the  tallow  sticks,  and 
then,  here  and  there  in  the  darkness,  lit- 
tle   lights    glow.      Bob's    and    Vivien's 


The  scene  we  watch  is  Edison  plead- 
ing with  the  New  York  municipal  big- 
shots  for  his  famous  lighting  project. 
"Gentlemen,"  begins  Spence,  "I  ask  no 
assistance  except — "  he  looks  lost,  "no 
assistance — except,"  grins  the  already 
blown-up  Academy  Award  winner, 
" — except  a  little  assistance  to  remem- 
ber my  lines!"  Not  even  an  Edison,  we 
suppose,  can  invent  dialogue  when 
memory  flops. 

UVER  at  Warners,  Errol  Flynn  is 
swashbuckling  through  derring-do  dra- 
ma that's  exactly  his  dish.  We  mean 
"The  Sea  Hawk,"  which  you'll  remem- 
ber as  one  of  the  silent  picture  epics. 
It's  an  adventurous  tale  about  an  Eliza- 
bethan privateer  who  sails  the  seven 
seas  and  loots  for  Good  Queen  Bess. 

In  the  old  days,  Hollywood  had  to  go 
on  location  all  over  the  coast  of  Cali- 
fornia to  make  "The  Sea  Hawk."  Now 
— we  hate  to  disillusion  you — all  Errol 
has  to  do  is  walk  a  few  yards  from  his 
dressing  room  to  the  largest  stage  ever 
built  in  Hollywood. 

This  stage  was  built  especially  for  the 
picture.  It's  colossal.  Two  ships,  a 
caravel,  and  a  galleass,  are  mounted  on 


contraptions  that  make  them  pitch  and 
toss  realistically  enough  to  make  every- 
body seasick.  Full-rigged  they  are,  too, 
weathered  and  salty.  Wouldn't  be  a  bit 
surprised  if  barnacles  nestled  on  the 
hulls. 

On  the  deck,  Errol,  shiny  in  a  tin 
breastplate,  is  clashing  swords  with 
Gilbert  Roland,  while  Mike  Curtiz,  the 
director,  looks  on — and  the  camera  crew 
lays  bets  on  the  battlers!  We  push 
through  the  crowd  of  mean-looking  ex- 
tras, done  up  as  Jolly  Rogers,  and  up  on 
deck  to  watch  the  fun.  And  whom  do 
we  find  rooting  in  ringside  seats  but 
Queen  Elizabeth,  King  Phillip  II  of 
Spain,  his  ambassador,  and  the  ambas- 
sador's beautiful  daughter! 

Flora  Robson  is  Queen  Bess  (and  far 
more  convincing  to  us  than  was  the 
great  Bette  Davis) ,  Montagu  Love  plays 
King  Phillip  II,  Claude  Rains,  his  Span- 
ish ambassador,  and  Brenda  Marshall 
gets  her  biggest  Hollywood  break  yet  as 
the  beautiful  baby  who  traps  Errol  into 
galley  slavery. 

The  fight  is  one  of  those  running, 
leaping  duels,  all  over  the  place,  with  the 
camera  wheeling  after  in  hot  pursuit. 
It's  a  warm  day,  too,  and  when  finally 
Mike  Curtiz  cries  his  "Cut!"  both  Sir 
Roland  and  Sir  Flynn  are  streaming- 
sweat  and  panting  like  horses.  Errol 
makes  for  a  chair  and  starts  to  sit  down, 
but  after  several  tries,  he  shakes  his 
head  in  disgust. 

"Think  of  that!"  he  exclaims,  "I'm 
dog-tired,  and  I  can't  even  sit  down!" 

"Good  Heavens!"  cries  Gilbert  Rol- 
and, "did  I  stab  you  there?" 

Errol  laughs,  shakes  his  head,  and 
points  to  his  unbendable  tin  jacket. 
They  drag  him  out  a  couch. 

UN  another  Warner  set,  we  see  Holly- 
wood's one  veteran  of  World  War  II, 
Charles  Boyer.  He's  in  a  bedroom  with 
Bette  Davis  and  Barbara  O'Neil.  It's  a 
very  fancy  bedroom,  too — full  of  rococo 
Louis  Seize  furniture  and  mirrors.  "All 
This,  and  Heaven,  Too"  was  inspired  by 
authoress  Rachel  Field's  great-aunt's 
life,  so  the  story  goes.  It  tells  of  a  gov- 
erness— that's  Bette— who  teaches  chil- 
dren in  the  home  of  a  Parisian  duke — 
that's  Charles.  And  that's  also  dyna- 
mite! It's  a  great  and  tragic  love  story 
of  Paris  in  the  middle  1800's. 

The  scene  shows  Bette  interviewing 
the  duke  and  his  duchess  for  her  job. 
She's  very  plain  in  a  green  dress  and 
bonnet.  They're  very  dignified.  And 
Director  Anatole  Litvak,  with  his  snowy 
hair,  is  very  handsome.  As  for  us,  we're 
very  unobtrusive — or  so  we  think.  The 
"Quiet — we're  rolling!"  rings  out,  and 
everyone  hushes  up  like  mice.  Bette, 
Charles  and  Barbara  get  halfway 
through  their  lines,  when  the  camera- 
man yells,  "Hold  it!  and  points  to  the 
mirror.  His  finger  seems  to  poke  us 
right  in  the  eyes! 

Well,  never  did  we  think  we'd  be  in  a 
scene  with  the  great  Davis  and  the  im- 
peccable Boyer.  But  that's  the  trouble. 
The  mirror  catches  our  shrinking  violet 
personality,  by  some  odd  reflection. 
Everybody  stares — and  is  our  face 
ruddy!    We  get  out  of  there  fast! 

Paramount  and  RKO-Radio  are  usu- 
ally two  of  Hollywood's  most  hus- 
tling studios.  Both  are  slowed  down  to 
an  ambling  gait.  "The  Ghost  Breakers," 
second  of  the  Bob  Hope-Paulette  God- 
dard  team  terrifiers,  is  spooking  up 
Paramount  with  thunder  and  lightning 
and  foul  play. 

"The  Ghost  Breakers"  is  all  about  an 
(Continued  on  page  80) 


73 


PHOTOPLAY 


W'   ;       111 

ism 

Ardent  Horsewoman,          H^i 

cv  often  rides  along  tlie 
which  winds  through 
-leaf  pines,  magnolias  and   ■ 
lish  bayonets  on  the 
uresque  Southern  estate.      1 

wf      i  ■  m 

■fc 

1                  m 

JL 

1J 

/W/ss  Nancy  Calhoun,  charming 
debutante  daughter  of  Mrs.  Andrew 
Calhoun,  smiles  from  the  porch  of 
Tara  Hall,  which  was  restored  for  the 
plantation  scene  at  Atlanta's  "Gone 
With  the  Wind"  Ball. 


\ 


I 


Ml  of  the  spacious  Calhoun 
ision,  Tryggvesson,"  on 
:ly  old  Pace's  Ferry  Road, 
icy  and  friends  prepare 
save  for  the  premiere. 


tifflt& 


-She  wrote  it  up 


■BOTH  ARE 

SOUTHERN  BEAUTIES 
AND  BOTH  HELP  KEEP 
THEIR  SKIN  LOVELY 

with  PONDS 


We  interviewed  Miss  Calhoun  .  .  • 

QUESTION:  So  many  Georgia  girls  have  "peaches-and -cream" 
complexions,  Miss  Calhoun.  How  do  they  do  it?  It's  easy  to 
see  you  have  the  answer! 

ANSWER:  "Well,  really,  I'd  say  Pond's  2  Creams  are  the  answer — at 
least  for  me!  Morning  and  evening  I  cleanse  my  skin  carefully  with 
Pond's  Cold  Cream  to  make  sure  every  trace  of  make-up  is  removed 
And  before  putting  on  fresh  powder,  I  always  spread  on  a  light  film 
of  Pond's  Vanishing  Cream." 

QUESTION:  Do  these  two  Creams  do  anything  else  for  your  skin? 

ANSWER:  "Yes,  much  more.  You  see,  besides  cleansing,  regular  use 
of  the  Cold  Cream  softens  my  skin  and  brings  a  warm  glow,  and 
the  Vanishing  Cream  helps  protect  it  against  weather — smooths 
little  roughnesses  right  away,  too!" 

We  talked  with  Susan  Medlock  . .  • 

QUESTION:  Isn't  it  a  tough  beauty  assignment  to  hurry 
straight  from  a  newspaper  office  looking  fresh  enough 
to  "cover"  a  society  party? 

ANSWER:  "No,  because  I  always  keep  jars  of  the  2  Pond's  Creams 
right  in  my  desk — ready  to  freshen  up  my  complexion  in  a  jiffy. 
Pond's  Cold  Cream  is  just  perfect  for  a  thorough,  easy 
cleansing.  It  leaves  my  skin  feeling  so  sweet  and  clean — and  soft! 
Then,  before  make-up,  I  use  Pond's  Vanishing  Cream." 

QUESTION:  Do  you  mean  you  get  a  quicker  and  better  effect 
with  your  make-up  when  you  use  both  Pond's  Creams? 

ANSWER:  "My,  yes,  and  I'll  tell  you  why:  Pond's  Cold  Cream  cleanses 
and  softens  my  skin.  Pond's  Vanishing  Cream  is  a  different  kind  of 
cream — it's  a  non-greasy  powder  base  that  takes  make-up  smoothly 
— keeps  it  mighty  nice  for  hours." 


Susan  Jones  Medlock,  bright  young  reporter,  origi 
nated  the  Atlanta  Journal  column  called  "Peach  tree 
Parade"  in  which  she  records  Society's  doings. 


: 


Before  the  Premiere— Atlanta 

was  alive  with  parties — Susan 
Medlock  interviews  guests  on 
"new"  1860  gowns  at  buffet 
supper,  while  Mammy's  serving 
old  Georgia  punch — "sillibub." 


H*/*ri4N  ttr.;z 


/", 


.<■ 


In  A  Box  at  the  Ball,  our 
reporter  ^ets  highlights  for  her 
column — rushes  back  to  her 
office  to  meet  the  deadline  with 
comments  on  the  festivities. 


">*  K  SK 

SEND  FOR  TRIAL  BEAUTY  KIT 

POND'S,  Dept  1S-CVE,  Clinton,  Conn. 
Hu-li  special  tabs  <>f  Pond's  Cold  Cream,  enough  fur 
')  treatments,  with  c< ran*  samples  of  Pond's  Van- 
ishing Cream,  Pond's  Liquefying  Cream  (quicker- 
nulling  cleansing  cream),  and  .">  different  shades  of 
Pond's  Pace  Powder.  I  enclose  10*  to  cover  postage 
and  packing. 

Name — 


Slrre 
Cily- 


Copynght,  1V40.  Pond's  Extract  Company 


»*"£ 


'""3 


You'll  find  a  new  thrill  in  these  gay,  ahead-of-the-crowd  Jac 
Dresses  .  .  .  their  jackets  come   in  many  luscious  colors 
richly  textured  Linoweave  with  an  irresistible  new  fresh  feel  . 
their  contrasting   dresses  are  of  Whisp   Sheer,   a   glorious   new 
triumph  woven  with  Celanese*  rayon  yarn. 

"MEXICANA"  AMERICANA" 

That  exciting  torso  look  In  the  new 
longer  jacket  with  large  saddle 
bag  pockets  that  minimize  your 
hips.  Novelty  buttons  with  yarn 
bow-knots  add  a  note  of  bravado. 
All-around  pleated  dress  beneath, 
under  20.00 

I  I   l  A 

E  D 

CHICAGO 


Eye-catching  wooden  necklace  and 
buttons  that  match  in  vivid  multi- 
colors decorate  this  wonderful 
jacket  with  curved  pockets  to  em- 
phasize its  nipped-in  waist.  It's  a 
love  of  a  dress  beneath. 

under  20.00 


% 


\JJ*^AjO-^ 


8t7       WEST 


A.  Polsky  Co Akron 

Davison  Pa*on  Co.  .  Atlanta 
Wm.  F.lenes  Sons  Co.  Boston 
Martin's  Brooklyn 

Pickett  s  Chattanooga 

Mandel   Brothers  Chicago 

Union    Company  Columbus 

Neusteters  Denver 

Wolfs,    Inc Des   Moines 


SJoseph.N. 


John  A.  Brown  Co.  Okla.  City 
Goldstein-Chapman's  Omaha 
Strawbridge   &   Clothier  ...  Phila. 

Charles    F.    Berg  Portland 

Owens,   Inc Rockford 

Kline's  St.    Louis 

LaSalle  &   Koch    Toledo 

Jelleff's.  .Washington, D.C. 

Strouss-Hirshberg       Youngstown 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


(Continued  from  page  78) 


American  girl  who  inherits  a  haunted 
castle  in  Cuba.  And  about  a  New  York 
gossip  columnist  of  the  Winchell  stripe, 
who  talks  too  much  (perfect  casting  for 
Hope,  we'd  say!)  and  has  to  leave  town. 
The  pair  of  exiles  start  laying  ghosts  in 
the  West  Indies,  which  sounds  like  fun. 
We  catch  Paulette  and  Bob  in  a 
Hollywood  electrical  storm  that  scares 
us  out  of  our  oxfords.  Again,  those  be- 
hind-the-scenes fellows  take  the  bows. 
Electricians  have  rigged  up  carbon  arcs, 
wires,  fuses  and  things  we  know  abso- 
lutely nothing  about.  But  when  they 
shoot  the  sherbert,  Herbert,  it  sounds — 
and  looks  —  like  the  crack  of  doom! 
In  one  blinding  lightning  flash  a  red 
hot  carbon  bounces  to  the  floor,  and 
Paulette  steps  on  it!  Mercifully,  we 
draw  the  curtain  of  censorship  here. 

"Curtain  call,"  at  rko,  is  quite 

likely  to  be  one  of  those  occasional 
Hollywood  "sleepers"  you  never  hear 
anything  about,  until  suddenly  every- 
body is  talking  about  it! 

The  story  is  both  clever  and  cute.  It's 
about  a  small-town  girl  (Barbara  Read) 
who  writes  an  atrocious  play.  Broad- 
way Producer  Alan  Mowbray  buys  it 


just  so  he  can  cast  stage  star  Helen 
Vinson  in  it  and  ruin  her  career  (he 
doesn't  like  Helen!).  That's  the  spring- 
board for  backstage   comedy. 

Our  visit  to  "Curtain  Call"  reveals  a 
property  man's  love's  labor  lost.  The 
set  is  the  "Sky  Room,"  patterned  obvi- 
ously after  Radio  City's  famous  Rainbow 
Room.  Alan  Mowbray,  in  white  tie  and 
tails,  is  city  slicking  Barbara  Read, 
ga-ga  in  her  first  evening  gown.  For- 
mal "dress  extras"  (at  twenty-five  dol- 
lars a  day)  dance  by  as  the  waiter 
brings  the  fancy  food.  One  dish  is 
caviar,  and  we're  surprised  to  note  it's 
the  real  stuff.  Usually  Hollywood  com- 
promises on  BB-shot.  But  Barbara  has 
to  eat  this.  And  when  she  does — she 
makes  a  face  and  gulps  wryly. 

"I — I'm  sorry,"  apologizes  Barbara, 
pushing  the  caviar  away.  "But  I  just 
can't  stand  caviar.  It  reminds  me  of 
cod-liver  oil!" 

The  property  man  near  by  explodes. 
"That — "  he  informs  her,  "is  real  Rus- 
sian Mollosol  fish  eggs.  It  took  me  two 
days  and  twenty  bucks  to  get  it.  And 
now  you  won't  eat  it."  He  looks  as  if 
he  might  cry.  "Okay,  Joe,"  he  tells  a 
helper,  bitterly.     "Get  currant  jam!" 


Boos  and  Bouquets 


(Continued  from  page  4) 


"MOLLY"   IN  THE  MOVIES 

liUITE  some  time  ago,  Photoplay  ran 
serially  the  Frances  Marion  story, 
"Molly,  Bless  Her,"  prior  to  the  filming 
of  the  screen  version  by  M-G-M,  with 
Sophie  Tucker  in  the  title  role.  I  read 
the  story,  enjoyed  it  immensely,  and 
eagerly  awaited  the  film. 

For  some  reason,  the  film  was  never 
produced.  After  such  a  terrific  build- 
up, this  is  puzzling.  I  think  it  is  a' great 
mistake  to  let  this  great  story  gather 
dust.  It  would  be  a  wonderful  tribute 
to  beloved  Marie  Dressier  to  present 
"Molly,  Bless  Her"  on  the  screen. 
Robert  Earle  Haynie, 
Washington,  D.  C. 

To  Reader  Haynie  and  all  anxious  in- 
quirers: Latest  news  of  "Molly,  Bless 
Her"  is  that  20th  Century-Fox  has  pur- 
chased the  story  from  Metro-Goldwyn- 
Mayer  as  a  future  starring  vehicle  for 
Great  Britain's  popular  Grade  Fields. 

BOUQUET  FROM  BATAVIA 

I  WANT  to  contribute  my  mite  in  be- 
half of  that  new,  rising  star,  Geraldine 
Fitzgerald. 

Playing  for  the  first  time  with  such 
stars  as  Merle  Oberon  and  Bette  Davis 
(in  "Wuthering  Heights"  and  "Dark 
Victory"),  it  must  have  been  far  from 
easy  not  to  pale  into  insignificance.  But 
she  didn't;  and  why?  Because  she  is  a 
real  personality.  She  has  the  right  stuff 
of  which  stars  are  made,  and  within  a 
short  time  the  whole  world  will  be  con- 
vinced of  it.     Just  watch  her! 

Frieda  Swart, 
Batavia-Centrum,  Java. 

KEEPING  UP  WITH  KANSAS 

OO  Kansas  is  a  stage  of  corn-fed  green- 
horns! 

Why,  oh,  why  does  everybody  pick 
on  Kansas?  In  Cal  York's  March  gos- 
sip, Norma  Shearer  drove  a  limousine 
and  behind  her  was  a  tin  lizzie  with  a 
Kansas  tag.    In  "The  Return  of  Doctor 


X,"  Wayne  Morris  was  a  corn-fed  re- 
porter from  Kansas.  And  in  ever  so 
many  pictures  Kansas  has  been  ribbed. 
Please,  please  put  Kansas  in  its  true 
light.  Believe  it  or  not,  we're  not  all 
corn-fed  greenhorns. 

Yvonne  Pearson, 
Concordia,  KANSAS. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

I  AM  a  loyal  Davis  fan,  and  when  I 
read  Mrs.  Bryson's  March  attack  against 
Bette's  excellent  performance  in  "The 
Private  Lives  of  Elizabeth  and  Essex," 
I  wanted  to  straighten  matters  out. 

Perhaps  if  Mrs.  Bryson  had  referred 
to  her  encyclopedia,  she  would  have 
found  that  Queen  Elizabeth  was  sixty- 
eight  when  she  had  Essex  beheaded — 
and  not  forty-nine.  Isn't  it  likely  that  ; 
Queen  Bess  had  no  control  over  her 
head  at  that  age? 

Bette  deserves  all  the  "Oscars"  in 
Hollywood,  not  alone  for  this  perform- 
ance, but  also  for  all  the  other  fine  per- 
formances she  turned  out  in  1939. 

Mrs.  Byron  herself  deserves  an 
"Oscar"  for  having  the  courage  to  knock 
a  truly  great  actress. 

Charles  Fsterhammer, 
Chicago,  111. 


HELP  FROM  HOLLYWOOD 

II E  movie  fans  have  built  the  movie  in- 
dustry into  one  of  the  world's  greatest. 
We  have  helped  the  stars,  producers 
and  studios,  now  they  can  help  us  if 
they  will. 

We    have    unemployment,    economic    i 
stress.    We  also  have  vast  wastelands  to    I 
be  reclaimed,  room  for  everybody,  but —    i 
we  need  inspirational  pictures  depicting 
modern    America    conquering    her   last 
frontiers. 

We  Americans  don't  have  to  be  all 
huddled  together.  We  can  make  room 
for  all  who  wish  to  be  comfortable.  Will 
the  movies  help  us  fire  our  ambitions 
with  inspiration? 

John  S.  Gallagher, 
Utica,  N.  Y. 


PHOTOPLAY 


I   Married  Adventure 


(Continued  from  page  30) 


the  Pacific  to  Honolulu,  to  Samoa,  to 
Pago-Pago  and  finally  to  Sydney,  Aus- 
tralia, my  confidence  grew.  The  cap- 
tain became  jollier  by  the  minute  and 
even  played  deck  games  with  us,  and 
when,  on  parting  at  Sydney,  he  told 
Martin  I  was  "all  right,"  it  seemed  to  me 
I  should  die,  I  was  so  proud. 

The  next  lew  months  were  disappoint- 
ing and  anxious  ones.  In  whalers,  lug- 
gers and  merchants  we  sailed  from  is- 
land to  island  of  the  Solomon  group  and 
found  many  primitive  blacks,  but  al- 
ways Martin  shook  his  head  and  pushed 
on.  He  insisted  that  because  our  film 
was  so  limited  we  could  use  it  only 
when  he  had  found  savages  that  were 
completely  untouched  by  civilization. 

FINALLY  his  decision  was  made.  Male- 
kula, second  largest  island  of  the  New 
Hebrides  group  was,  he  learned,  the 
subject  of  disputed  ownership  between 
the  French  and  British,  and  this  meant 
a  lack  of  the  usual  patrolling  and  dis- 
cipline. If  man  in  his  savage  and  orig- 
inal state  existed  any  place  in  the  world, 
he  existed  here. 

We  returned  to  Sydney,  and  here  Mar- 
tin searched  out  the  captain  of  a  small 
ship  that  was  leaving  in  a  few  days  for 
the  upper  part  of  the  Hebrides  group. 
Once  aboard,  and  our  destination  and 
purpose  made  known,  a  storm  of  pro- 
test and  warning  broke  around  us. 

"Savage,  cruel,  murderous  black  dev- 
ils!" The  captain  thundered.  "I'll  not 
go  off  my  course  to  set  you  down  on 
Malekula,  understand?  Not  with  a 
woman  along!  It  would  be  murder, 
that's  what,  woman-murder!" 

I  couldn't  even  look  in  Martin's  di- 
rection, for  it  was  I — my  coming  with 
him — that  hampered  all  his  plans.  Al- 
ready we  were  in  sight  of  Malekula.  In 
length  it  was  seventy-five  miles  or 
more  a  recruiter  of  blacks  told  us, 
shaped  like  an  hour-glass  and  about 
thirty  miles  across  its  widest  part. 

"There's  around  forty  thousand  sav- 
ages on  that  island,"  he  continued, 
"strong  fellows,  too,  but  much  as  I'm 
needing  blacks,  I'll  get  'em  some  place 
else." 

Martin's  interest  sharpened.  "Strong 
fellows,  you  say?" 

"The  most  powerful  tribe  on  the  is- 
land, and  they've  got  a  chief,  Nagapate, 
that's  a  holy  terror." 

I  could  see  from  the  way  Martin 
looked  off  toward  the  blue-grey  mass 
that  was  Malekula,  that  somehow  he 
would  contrive  to  get  there.  A  smaller 
shape,  separated  from  the  big  island, 
now  appeared,  and  quickly  Martin  asked 
about  it. 

"That's  the  island  of  Vao,"  the  re- 
cruiter said.  "About  a  mile  and  a  half 
across  and  maybe  four  hundred  sav- 
ages." He  paused,  with  a  look  at  me. 
"You  know,"  he  said,  "I  think  Vao 
would  be  the  very  ticket  for  you  and 
the  little  lady  here.  Four  hundred  wild 
men  would  be  about  as  many  as  you 
could  get  in  that  camera  of  yours  any- 
how, and,  even  though  the  British  patrol 
boat  often  circles  the  island,  I  hear  that 
those  fellows-  on  Vao  still  bury  their 
old  people  alive  and  eat  long  pig." 

"And  how  far  did  you  say  Vao  was 
from  Malekula?"  Martin  asked. 

"About  a  mile,"  the  recruiter  an- 
swered, "and  there's  a  French  mission 
there,  too,  run  by  Father  Prin." 

Martin  seized  his  hand.  "A  great 
idea,"  he  shouted.    "Great!" 

The  captain  eyed  us  suspiciously  as 
we  debarked  at  Vao;  he  knew  that  we 
could  get  to  Malekula  from  here  with 
very  little  trouble. 


Father  Prin  gave  us  a  hearty  if  puz- 
zled welcome.  This  dear  soul  who  had 
worked  among  the  savages  of  Vao 
for  nearly  thirty  years  was  a  volume 
in  himself,  and  all  the  more  so  when 
one  considered  that  the  only  discern- 
ible result  of  his  labor  was  a  mere 
seventeen  converts. 

It  was  here  we  rested  and  made  our 
plans. 

Father  Prin  gravely  shook  his  head 
and  confirmed  the  stories  we  had  al- 
ready heard  of  the  cruelties  practiced 
even  on  Vao;  how  much  worse  it  must 
be  on  Malekula  where  even  the  most 
hardened  recruiters  feared  to  land, 
should,  he  said,  be  perfectly  apparent. 

But  seeing  that  we  would  not  be 
swerved,  the  good  priest  gave  us  every 
help  in  his  power;  and  a  twenty-eight 
foot  whaleboat,  together  with  a  crew  of 
five  trustworthy  Vao  boys,  was  put  at 
our  disposal.  Before  sunup  the  follow- 
ing morning  we  were  stowing  our  cam- 
eras, film  and  trade  goods  in  the  boat; 
then  we  pushed  off  for  Malekula,  with 
Father  Prin  giving  us  his  blessing. 

I  HE  trip  along  the  rocky  shore  was 
not  very  reassuring,  for  only  now  and 
then  did  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
natives,  who  vanished  as  rapidly  as  we 
approached.  Their  apparent  timidity 
eased  our  fears  for  our  personal  safety, 
however,  and  when  we  reached  the 
beach  at  Tanemarou,  a  strip  of  dazzling 
yellow  sand  separating  the  sea  from  the 
thick  bush,  we  found  it  deserted,  and 
stepped  boldly  out  of  the  whaleboat. 

Martin  pantomimed  the  boys  to  take 
the  trade  stuff  out  of  the  boat;  our  one 
precious  motion-picture  camera  he  han- 
dled himself. 

"Looks  like  a  kind  of  trail  into  the 
bush  over  there,"  I  said.  Then  I 
stopped  short.     "Oh!"  I  said. 

A  lone  savage  had  appeared  out  of  the 
jungle.  Our  boys,  seeing  him,  moved 
back  toward  the  boat — and  with  good 
reason;  he  was  the  most  horrible  look- 
ing creature  I  had  ever  laid  eyes  on. 
Coal  black  and  incredibly  filthy,  his 
shock  of  greasy  hair  and  heavy  wool 
beard  were  probably  the  nesting  place 
of  every  sort  of  vermin. 

A  gorget  of  pig's  teeth  hung  around 
his  neck,  and  the  tails  of  pigs  dangled 
from  his  ears.  He  wore  a  bone 
through  his  nose  and  he  was  entirely 
naked  except  for  a  large  breach  clout  of 
dried  pandanus  fiber.  As  he  came 
nearer  I  saw  that  his  deeply  creviced 
face  was  horribly  distorted.  It  made  me 
think  of  a  grotesque  mask — one  I  had 
seen  on  a  theater  program  in  New  York, 
I  think — representing  "Tragedie."  I 
moved  closer  to  Martin. 

The  black  spoke  in  a  gutteral  beche- 
de-mer  that  astonished  me  with  its 
scattering  of  English  words. 

"My  word!  Master!  Belly  belong  me 
walk  about  too  much!"  He  pressed  his 
hands  dramatically  to  his  stomach. 

I  looked  at  Martin  incredulously;  we 
had  come  to  Malekula  warned  of  natives 
who  dealt  swift  and  savage  death  to 
intruders,  only  to  be  met  by  a  whining 
black  with  a  stomach  ache! 

We  rocked  with  laughter  —  which 
doubtless  was  part  relief — then  I  opened 
our  kit  and  poured  out  a  small  handful 
of  laxative  tablets.  Martin  explained 
carefully  to  the  gaping  savage  that  he 
was  to  take  part  of  them  when  the  sun 
went  down,  and  the  other  part  when  the 
sun  came  up.  The  black  listened  with 
apparent  intentness  to  the  end  of  the 
instructions,  then  opened  his  slobbery 
mouth  and  downed  all  the  tablets. 


MAY 


940 


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smart  woman  when  first  ehe  tries  OrloffT 

««ih   Sachet   t»l.*5)* 
emarUable  new  B.  ^.^ 


Je»vel  n 

00  "••ri.i...  ..J.::-:; 


and  other   fragrant    luxuries   created   by 


IMIIFHIX  ORLOFF 

IO   WEST  a.lrd   STKKET 
■  .  I*.  Y. 


During  this  little  comedy,  several 
more  savages  had  slipped  quietly  out  of 
the  bush — I  think  I  counted  ten  in  all — 
each  as  horrible  in  appearance  as  the 
first  man,  and  each  apparently  as  harm- 
less. Martin  lost  no  time  in  setting  up 
his  camera — which  they  dismissed  after 
a  casual  inspection — and  exposed  per- 
haps a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  film. 

The  savages  were  carrying  on  what  to 
me  was  an  unintelligible  jabber.  Mar- 
tin understood  a  little  beche-de-mer 
and  with  an  air  of  complete  casualness 
as  he  busied  himself  with  the  camera, 
told  me  what  was  up. 

"They're  saying  that  their  chief  is 
back  there  in  the  bush;  he's  been 
watching  our  boat — " 

I  saw  how  terribly  he  wanted  to 
plunge  into  the  bush  with  his  camera, 
but  that  he  was  afraid  because  of  me. 

"I'll  take  some  trade  stuff  and  go 
ahead,"  I  said  as  casually  as  I  could. 
"I'm  not  afraid  of  these  old  natives  and 
their  stomach  aches." 

"Wait,  Osa!  I  can't  risk  it.  Not  with 
you.    I'll  come  back  tomorrow." 

I  kept  right  on  going. 

"All  right  then,  wait,"  he  shouted 
after  me.  "I'll  get  one  of  these  boys  to 
lead  the  way." 

Organized  at  length,  with  one  of  the 
Big  Numbers  men  acting  as  guide,  and 
our  three  carriers  bringing  up  the  rear 
with  our  supplies,  we  plunged  into  the 
jungle. 

AFTER  the  glare  of  the  beach  I  seemed 
suddenly  blind,  and  slid  and  stumbled 
along  a  dark  trail  that  was  treacherous 
with  hidden  muddy  streams  and  wet 
creepers.  The  heavy  steaming  breath 
of  the  swamps  pressed  down  on  us  with 
the  weight  of  something  dead,  and  in  it 
was  the  ominous  smell  of  rot  and  slime. 
Then  we  started  to  climb;  suddenly  we 
were  in  the  hot  glare  of  the  sun  once 
more,  and  the  slope  was  sharp  and  cov- 
ered with  tough  cane.  We  climbed  for 
what  seemed  hours;  then  abruptly  we 
came  on  a  clearing;  a  sort  of  plateau. 

I  began  to  look  about  me.  Far  below 
— we  must  have  climbed  at  least  three 
thousand  feet — I  saw  the  strip  of  beach 
and  our  whaleboat,  a  mere  dot  at  the 
edge  of  the  water. 

Martin  had  drawn  close  and  put  his 
arm  about  me. 

"You're  a  grand  little  sport,"  he  said. 
"That  climb  was  tough." 

I  couldn't  say  anything,  I  was  so 
proud. 

Just  then  there  was  a' shuffling  sound 
behind  us  and  we  turned.  A  score  of 
natives  carrying  guns  had  moved  in 
behind  us.    I  saw  Martin's  face  tighten. 

"Don't  let  them  see  you're  afraid, 
Osa,"  he  said,  quietly  but  firmly.  "Leave 
the  trade  stuff  on  the  ground  and  ease 
down  the  trail.  I'll  attract  their  atten- 
tion with  the  camera." 

I  turned  to  obey,  but  the  trail  was  cut 
off.  There  must  by  now  have  been  a 
hundred  armed  savages  in  the  clearing. 
From  somewhere  off  in  the  bush  came 
the  low  pulsing  beat  of  the  boo-boos. 
I  glanced  at  our  three  carriers;  they 
were  fixed  in  attitudes  of  terror.  There 
was  neither  movement  nor  sound  until 
a  huge  parrot — a  raucous  blade  of  color 
and  noise — slashed  across  the  clearing. 
Then  all  hands  turned,  and  there  on  the 
edge  of  the  bush  stood  a  figure  so 
frightful  as  to  be  magnificent.  His  face, 
like  those  of  the  rest  of  the  savages, 
was  framed  in  a  mass  of  greasy  black 
hair  and  beard,  a  bone  was  thrust 
through  the  cartilage  of  his  nose,  he 
wore  the  large  pandanus  fiber  clout,  but 
there  was  a  difference — the  difference 
of  a  man  of  conscious  power.  There 
was  power  in  his  height,  in  the  muscles 
that  rippled  under  his  glossy  black  skin, 
in  his  great  shoulders,  in  the  line  of  his 
jaw.  His  eyes  showed  intelligence, 
strong  will  and  cunning.     Here  was  a 


chief  by  every  right  of  physical  and 
mental  superiority;  here  I  knew  was 
Nagapate. 

He  stared  at  us  speculatively  and 
moved  slowly  toward  us.  His  men  drew 
back  as  he  advanced.  To  my  aston- 
ishment, at  this  moment,  I  heard  the 
purr  of  the  camera-crank;  Martin  was 
photographing   the   chief's   entrance. 

"Remember,  darling,"  his  voice  was 
low  and  quiet,  "show  no  fear — smile — 
open  up  the  trade  stuff." 

I  shaped  my  face  into  what  I  hoped 
would  pass  for  a  friendly  smile — Naga- 
pate was  coming  straight  toward  me — 
was  now  within  three  feet. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Nagapate,"  I  said,  and 
held  some  tobacco  out  to  him.  He 
barely  glanced  at  it. 

I  saw  four  rings  on  Nagapate's  hands; 
one  a  signet  ring  with  a  distinct  crest. 
I  felt  a  shudder  creeping  up  my  spine 
and  wondered  whether  he  removed  the 
rings  from  the  fingers  of  his  victims  be- 
fore or  after  he  cooked  them. 

"Try  that  piece  of  red  calico,"  Mar- 
tin urged,  and  I  clung  to  the  sound  of 
his  voice  as  to  the  one  sane  thing  left 
in  a  world  gone  grotesquely  mad. 

"This  is  a  very  nice  piece  of  calico," 
I  said,  loudly  and  distinctly,  holding  out 
the  bright  cloth  to  Nagapate.  "A  very 
nice  color." 

Nagapate  reached  out,  but  instead  of 


^S 

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S3(. 

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f"**L 

^:' 

--V;   ■ 

lQtoimeL:< 

On  location  at  the  Busch  Gardens  in 
Pasadena,  Laurence  Olivier  brushes 
up  on  his  French  for  a  few  lines  in 
that  tongue  in  "Pride  and  Prejudice" 


the  calico,  he  took  my  arm  in  his  great 
hand  that  felt  like  dry  leather. 

Martin's  quiet  voice  cut  through  my 
terror:  "Don't  be  afraid,  Osa.  He's  just 
curious,  that's  all." 

Curious!  Apparently  the  whiteness 
of  my  skin  puzzled  the  big  black  man. 
With  gutteral  grunts  he  first  tried  rub- 
bing it  off  with  his  finger.  This  failing, 
he  picked  up  a  bit  of  rough  cane  and 
scraped  my  skin  with  it,  and  was  as- 
tonished, apparently,  when  it  turned 
pink.  Shaking  his  head,  he  then  took 
off  my  hat  and  looked  at  my  hair.  It 
was  yellow  and  I  suppose  this  also  puz- 
zled him. 

"Try  to  get  him  interested  in  the 
trade  stuff,  darling.  Put  it  in  his 
hands."  Martin's  voice  shook  a  little. 
I  looked  at  him.  The  film  continued  to 
purr  through  the  camera;  he  was  turn- 
ing the  crank  automatically. 

I  got  some  tobacco  and  pushed  it  into 
Nagapate's  hands.  He  looked  at  it,  then 


dropped  it.  I  saw  Martin  rapidly  re- 
move the  camera  from  the  tripod. 

"He  won't  take  it,  Martin!  What  shall 
I  do?" 

"Keep  cool,  darling  — and  whatever 
you  do,  keep  smiling." 

My  husband  then  stepped  between 
Nagapate  and  me,  and  forcing  a  grin 
clasped  the  chief's  hand  and  gave  it  a 
hearty  shake.  This  puzzled  the  black 
czar;  apparently  the  gesture  was  new  to 
him.    He  didn't  like  it,  and  scowled. 

Returning  look  for  look  with  the 
kingly  savage,  Martin  spoke  casually 
off  to  me:  "Get  on  down  that  trail  with 
the  carriers,  Osa.  I'll  follow.  Do  as  I 
tell  you  and  hurry!" 

Nagapate  was  not  to  be  diverted, 
however,  and  caught  me  as  I  turned 
away.  He  took  my  hand  and  shook  it 
just  as  Martin  had  shaken  his.  My  re- 
lief was  so  great  at  what  seemingly  had 
turned  into  a  friendly  leave-taking,  that 
I  laughed  and  heartily  returned  the 
shake.  This  may  have  been  a  mistake; 
at  any  rate,  when  I  tried  to  withdraw 
my  hand,  he  closed  his  fist  hard  upon 
it,  then  began  experimentally  to  pinch 
and  prod  my  body.  I  choked  back  a 
scream  and  looked  wildly  toward  Mar- 
tin. His  face  was  bloodless,  and  fixed 
in  a  wooden  smile. 

Then,  unexpectedly,  I  was  released; 
Nagapate  grunted  an  order  and  the  sav- 
ages retreated  into  the  bush.  Appar- 
ently we  had  won.  Martin  sharply  or- 
dered the  carriers  to  shoulder  the  ap- 
paratus and  we  dashed  for  the  trail. 
But  suddenly  there  was  a  sharper  ac- 
cent in  the  beat  of  the  boo-boos,  our 
carriers  with  the  apparatus  fled  at  top 
speed  down  the  trail  and  I  found  my- 
self seized  from  behind.  This  time  I 
abandoned  all  pretense  at  bravery  and 
screamed  my  terror.  On  almost  the 
same  instant  I  heard  Martin's  voice 
shouting  at  me  desperately  to  remem- 
ber the  pistol  in  my  pocket,  and  shout- 
ing at  the  blacks  to  release  him.  I  saw 
that  he  also  had  been  seized. 

"Martin!"  I  cried.  I  turned  sick  and 
faint  and  knew  vaguely  that  I  was  be- 
ing dragged  backward  toward  the  bush. 
I  screamed  again  and  again.  I  am  no 
clearer  on  what  happened  next  than  a 
person  is  clear  on  the  seeming  happen- 
ings of  a  nightmare.  I  only  know  that 
the  natives  were  suddenly  quiet  and 
staring  down  toward  the  bay.  The  boo- 
boos  were  still,  and  Nagapate  stepped 
once  more  into  the  clearing.  I  followed 
the  direction  of  his  scowling  gaze  and 
saw  what  had  silenced  them;  a  British 
patrol  boat  was  steaming  into  the  bay. 

Martin  tore  from  his  captors  and 
faced  Nagapate. 

"Man-o'-war— Man-o'-war— Man-o'- 
war!"  he  shouted,  threateningly. 

Nagapate  scowled  at  Martin,  only  half 
believing  him,  but  my  husband  held  his 
ground  and  reluctantly  Nagapate 
grunted  an  order  for  our  release,  then 
with  his  men  withdrew  into  the  bush. 

With  a  sob  of  relief  I  started  on  a  run 
toward  the  trail,  but  Martin  caught  me 
and  held  me  to  a  quiet  walk  until  we 
were  well  out  of  sight  of  that  fringe  of 
bush  where  we  knew  Nagapate  and  his 
men  to  be,  then  began  our  race  down 
the  steep  path. 

nFTER  what  seemed  hours,  we  came  to 
a  clearing  above  the  bay  and  there  saw 
the  patrol  boat  slowly  turning  and 
steaming  away.  Then  once  more  the 
sound  of  the  boo-boos;  Nagapate  and 
his  savages  up  on  the  plateau  were  also 
witnessing  the  departure  of  the  gunboat. 
Neither  Martin  nor  I  spoke;  the  dense 
jungle  still  lay  between  us  and  the 
beach.  We  plunged  into  it,  the  increas- 
ingly rapid  beat  of  the  boo-boos  driv- 
ing us  recklessly  over  the  slimy,  treach- 
erous trail.  Thorns  tore  at  our  clothing 
and  flesh.  Once  I  fell  in  the  mud  and 
(Continued  on  page  84) 


32 


PHOTOPLAY 


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slime  of  a  morass,  but  more  serious 
than  this  was  the  fact  that  we  had  lost 
our  way.  Martin  pulled  me  out  and 
held  me  close,  slime  and  all. 

My  fall  probably  saved  us,  for  instead 
of  plunging  farther  from  the  trail  in  our 
panic,  we  stood  a  moment  where  we 
were  and,  looking  around  us,  discovered 
the  trail  only  a  few  feet  off. 

Added  to  the  terrifying  sound  of  the 
boo-boos,  were  now  the  shouts  of  the 
savages;  they  couldn't  have  been  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  behind  us. 
Neither  of  us  spoke,  we  just  ran,  with 
branches,  thorns  and  vines  like  enemy 
hands  clutching  at  us,  but  at  last  the 
jungle  ahead  thinned;  a  few  more  steps 
and  we  were  at  the  beach.  The  savages 
were  now  so  close  behind  us  we  could 
hear  the  slap  of  heavy  sodden  leaves 
on  their  bare  flesh. 

The  glare  of  the  sun  was  almost  a 
physical  impact  after  the  deep  gloom  of 
the  jungle  and  the  thick  sand  clogged 
our  feet.  Martin  took  my  arm  and  I 
felt  his  hand  shake.  Soon  we  felt 
hard  packed  sand  under  our  feet,  then 
shallow  water  and  next,  with  the  hands 
of  the  Vao  boys  reaching  out  to  us,  we 
were   dragged   across   the  gunwales   of 


(Continued  from  page  82) 

the  whaleboat.  I  raised  my  head  and 
looked  back;  Nagapate's  men  were  just 
emerging  from  the  bush. 

The  tropical  storm  through  which  we 
then  fought  is  another  story.  Martin 
got  to  his  feet  and  went  to  work,  glad  of 
the  skill  he  had  acquired  in  handling 
the  Snark.  My  usefulness  in  what 
doubtless  was  a  hazardous  trip  began 
and  ended  in  bailing  our  small  open  boat 
and  protecting  our  camera  and  film  as 
best  I  could.  Reaching  Vao  finally,  we 
were  gratified  to  find  that  we — includ- 
ing our  carriers — had  clung  doggedly  to 
every  piece  of  apparatus  and  even  most 
of  the  trade  goods,  and  that  the  camera 
and  film  were  unharmed  by  water. 

We  had  been  back  at  Vao  only  a  few 
days  when  the  British  patrol  boat,  the 
Euphrosyne,  put  in  with  a  letter  for 
Martin  from  the  Resident  Commissioner 
for  the  New  Hebrides.    It  read: 

"Matanovot,  10th  November,  1917 
"Dear  Sir: 

"I  have  been  endeavoring  to  find 
you  with  a  view  to  warning  you 
against  carrying  out  what  I  under- 
stand to  be  your  intentions.  I  am 
told  that  you  have  decided  to  pene- 


trate into  the  interior  of  this  island 
with  a  view  to  coming  in  contact 
with  the  people  known  as  the  'Big 
Numbers.'  Such  a  proceeding  can- 
not but  be  attended  with  great  risk 
to  yourself  and  all  those  who  accom- 
pany you.  The  whole  interior  of 
this  island  of  Malekula  is,  and  has 
been  for  a  considerable  time,  in  a 
very  disturbed  condition,  and  it  has 
been  necessary  in  consequence  to 
make  two  armed  demonstrations  in 
the  'Big  Numbers'  country  in  the 
last  three  years.  For  these  reasons, 
on  the  part  of  the  Joint  Administra- 
tion of  this  group,  I  request  that 
you  will  not  proceed  further  with 
this  idea,  and  hereby  formally  warn 
you  against  such  persistence,  for  the 
consequences  of  which  the  Admin- 
istration cannot  hold  itself  respon- 
sible. 

"Yours  faithfully, 

"(Signed)  M.  King, 

"H.B.M.  Resident  Commissioner 
for  the  New  Hebrides. 

"In  any  case  I  trust  you  will  not 
take  your  wife  into  the  danger  zone 
with  you. 

"M.K." 


Broadway,  the  Dog 


either  gratifying  or  alarming,  depending 
on  your  viewpoint. 

That's  one  reason  why  road  com- 
panies are  being  sent  out  before  the 
end  of  a  Broadway  run,  so  that  the  film 
version  may  be  released  at  the  earliest 
possible  moment.  A  glance  at  the  pic- 
tures on  pages  52-53  and  the  current 
theatrical  season  they  represent  illus- 
trates this.  It  also  shows  how  Holly- 
wood's stars  are  invading  Broadway  to 
take  advantage  of  this  fine  show  case 
for  their  wares. 

The  season  opened  late  this  year,  and 
with  caution,  because  of  wars  overseas 
and  threats  at  home  of  the  biggest  strike 
in  theatrical  history.  Yet  there  was  a 
phenomenally  high  percentage  of  hits 
which  will  undoubtedly  reach  the 
screen. 

Let's  skim  over  a  play-by-play  re- 
port, starting  with  some  of  the  success- 
ful holdovers  from  the  previous  season. 

ROBERT  SHERWOOD'S  "Abe  Lin- 
coln in  Illinois,"  which  won  the  Pulitzer 
Prize  as  the  best  American  drama  of 
1939,  enjoyed  a  highly  successful  run 
with  Raymond  Massey  in  the  title  role, 
first  on  Broadway  and  then  on  tour. 
RKO's  film  version,  with  Massey  re- 
peating his  incomparable  performance 
and  with  the  talented  Ruth  Gordon 
making  her  cinema  debut  as  Mary 
Todd,  has  already  been  triumphantly 
launched. 

Philip  Barry's  "The  Philadelphia 
Story"  brought  Katharine  Hepburn 
back,  not  only  to  Broadway,  but  ap- 
parently to  Hollywood.  M-G-M's  con- 
tract for  the  screen  rights  is  said  to 
stipulate  that  she  will  appear  in  the  film 
version,  which  may  also  feature  Joseph 
Cotten  and  Van  Heflin  (who  was  in  a 
previous  Hepburn  picture,  "A  Woman 
Rebels")   of  the  original  cast. 

Lillian  Hellman's  "The  Little  Foxes" 
gave  Tallulah  Bankhead  her  greatest 
role  to  date.  Samuel  Goldwyn  is  re- 
ported to  have  paid  $100,000  for  the  play 
and  to  have  engaged  Miss  Bankhead  to 
play  her  original  part. 

Sidney  Kingsley's  "The  World  We 
Make,"     featuring     the     movies'     own 


(Continued  from  page  53) 

Margo,  was  purchased  by  M-G-M 
for  a  reported  price  of  $100,000  as  a  pos- 
sible starring  vehicle  for  Norma  Shearer. 
The  new  Kaufman-Hart  play,  "The 
Man  Who  Came  to  Dinner,"  enjoyed 
simultaneous  runs  in  New  York,  Chi- 
cago and  the  West  Coast,  with  first-rate 
companies  playing  all  three.  Neither 
Monty  Woolley  nor  Theodore  Newton, 
who  play  the  title  role  and  the  romantic 
lead,  respectively,  in  the  Manhattan 
cast,  is  a  stranger  to  Hollywood.  Film 
bidding  on  this  smash  success  was  still 
brisk  at  latest  reports. 

CLARENCE  DAY'S  "Life  with  Father," 
made  into  a  play  by  Howard  Lindsay 
and  Russel  Crouse,  featured  the  former 
playwright  and  his  wife,  Dorothy  Stick  - 
ney,  as  the  parents,  in  New  York,  and 
offered  the  screen's  beloved  Lillian  Gish 
in  the  feminine  lead  in  Chicago,  at  the 
same  time. 

Samson  Raphaelson's  "Sky  Lark" 
teamed  Gertrude  Lawrence  and  Donald 
Cook,  both  familiar  personalities  to 
film-goers,  and  it's  reported  that  Para- 
mount paid  $85,000  for  the  picture  rights 
to  star  Claudette  Colbert. 

James  Thurber's  and  Elliott  Nugent's 
"The  Male  Animal"  gave  us  Mr.  Nugent, 
successful  in  Hollywood  as  actor,  writer 
and  director,  in  the  masculine  lead. 
Warner  Brothers  purchased  the  film 
rights  for  $150,000. 

"My  Dear  Children"  heralded  John 
Barrymore's  return  to  Broadway  (after 
an  absence  of  seventeen  years),  where 
he  was  rejoined  by  his  wife,  Elaine  Bar- 
rie,  in  the  leading  feminine  role. 

Maxwell  Anderson's  "Key  Largo"  of- 
fered that  great  actor,  Paul  Muni,  a 
triumphal  return  to  the  footlights. 

Cole  Porter's  latest  musical,  vDu 
Barry  Was  a  Lady,"  offered  not  only  one, 
but  four,  scx-een  favorites — Bert  Lahr, 
Ethel  Merman,  Betty  Grable  and  Kenny 
Baker.  Among  the  bidders  for  screen 
rights  is  Universal,  seeking  it  as  a  ve- 
hicle for  Mae  West,  for  whom  the  show 
was  originally  written. 

George  Abbott's  current  Broadway 
farce,  "See  My  Lawyer,"  featured  Mil- 
ton Berle  of  screen  and  radio,  and  was 


staged  by  Ezra  Stone,  who  will  soon 
make  his  film  debut  in  Paramount's 
"Those  Were  the  Days." 

William  Saroyan's  "The  Time  of  Your 
Life"  offered  Julie  Haydon,  wistful 
heroine  of  Noel  Coward's  picture,  "The 
Scoundrel,"  in  the  feminine  lead. 

Charles  MacArthur's  and  Ben  Hecht's 
"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  teamed  Mrs. 
MacArthur — the  famous  Helen  Hayes  of 
both  stage  and  screen — with  Philip 
Merivale,  both  on  Broadway  and  on 
tour. 

John  Van  Druten's  "Leave  Her  to 
Heaven"  returned  not  only  Ruth  Chat- 
terton  to  the  stage,  but  also  the  hand- 
some Edmond  O'Brien,  romantic  lead  of 
RKO's  "The  Hunchback  of  Notre 
Dame." 

Ernest  Hemingway's  "The  Fifth  Col- 
umn" offered  Franchot  Tone  another 
fine  opportunity  to  follow  up  his  per- 
sonal success  on  Broadway  last  season. 

Elmer  Rice's  "Two  on  an  Island" 
brought  back  Betty  Field  from  Holly- 
wood after  her  sensational  cinema 
debut  —  and  may  return  her  to  the 
screen  to  do  her  stage  role  for  RKO, 
which  studio  purchased  the  film  rights. 
John  Craven  and  Luther  Adler  co-star 
with  Miss  Field,  and  just  why  they  have 
not  been  starred  on  the  screen  is  a 
mystery. 

nT  least  five  other  personalities  as  yet 
unknown  to  picture  audiences  but  with 
picture  possibilities  have  been  noted 
during  this  fruitful  season  of  theater- 
going: Uta  Hagen,  of  "Key  Largo"; 
Hubert  Rudley,  of  "The  World  We 
Make";  Teresa  Wright,  of  the  original 
"Life  with  Father"  cast;  John  Hoysradt 
of  the  New  York  company  of  "The  Man 
Who  Came  to  Dinner";  and  Miss  Gene 
Tierney  of  "The  Male  Animal."  These 
people  should  make  valuable  contribu- 
tions to  future  photoplays. 

It  might  be  noted  that  nearly  all  the 
great  successes  of  the  Broadway  season 
were  comedies.  Yet,  of  all  the  plays  re- 
viewed, the  deadly  serious  and  intensely 
unpleasant  "The  Little  Foxes"  seems,  to 
this  reviewer,  the  best  material  for  a 
great  motion  picture  as  yet  unreleased. 


84 


PHOTOPLAY 


// 


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SAMPLE 
OFFER 


Address. 
City.... 


Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 


(Continued  from  page  71) 


wanted  to  sing  with  the  new  band 
(when  it  got  organized)  for  noth- 
ing— until  he  could  get  going. 

But  now  he's  married  and  any 
dream  that  little  Judy  might  have 
had  isn't  even  worth  dreaming  any 
more.  So,  remembering  our  own 
youth  (in  the  dim,  distant  past) 
and  how  things  hurt,  at  sixteen,  it 
isn't  Greg  Bautzer  and  Betty  Gra- 
ble  we  feel  sorry  for  in  the  Turner- 
Shaw  drama,  but  young  Judy  Gar- 
land. 

First  Love  Story— II 

OPEAKING  of  kids  who  carry 
torches,  there  is  Jane  Withers' 
"crush"  on  Gene  Autry  which 
started  when  she  and  Gene  were 
making  "Shooting  Stars."  Of 
course,  Janie  is  only  thirteen  and 
Gene  has  been  happily  married  for 
nine  years,  so  naturally  it  can't  be 
serious  and  we're  not  hinting 
otherwise.  What  we're  really  do- 
ing is  pointing  out  what  a  nice, 
considerate  chap  the  "Singing 
Cowboy,"  Autry,  is. 

Instead  of  ignoring  the  fact  that 
he  had  suddenly  and  overwhelm- 
ingly become  Jane's  Ideal,  as  many  a 
guy  would  have,  Gene  played  up  the 
whole  time  they  were  working  together. 
He  was  gallant  and  attentive;  deferred 
to.  her  opinions;  took  her  to  lunch;  sent 
her  flowers;  gave  her  a  swell  wrist 
watch  when  the  picture  was  finished. 

But  more  than  that,  he  is  still  being 
nice  to  her.  He  telephones  her  every  so 
often;  sent  her  an  elegant  Valentine; 
shows  her  that  here  is  a  friend  who 
is  really  going  to  last. 

Palpitating  Papa 

I  HE  set  phone  rang  at  nine  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  just  as  Henry  Fonda 
stepped  onto  the  sound  stage  for  work. 
With  nervous  fingers,  Henry  clutched 
the  receiver.  His  wife's  voice,  coming 
over  the  wires  from  New  York  said, 

"Henry,  we're  having  our  baby  today. 
It  will  be  a  Caesarean  operation.  Don't 
worry,  dear.  I'll  call  you  back — they're 
coming  for  me  now." 

A  nervous  young  man  paced  the  cet 


Caught  in  the  act  of  telephoning 
at  Ciro's  (and,  incidentally,  in  the 
booth  itself,  when  the  door  jammed, 
as   reported    by   Cal) — Joan   Blondell 

of  "Lillian  Russell,"  while  a  sympathe- 
tic crew  looked  on. 

Twenty  minutes  later,  another  call 
came. 

"It's  a  boy,  Mr.  Fonda,"  the  nurse's 
voice  sang,  "and  Mrs.  Fonda  is  doing 
splendidly." 

Maybe  that  day  wasn't  a  day  to  be 
remembered,  with  Alice  Faye  and  the 
whole  cast  helping  Hank  to  celebrate. 

The  Fondas  already  have  two  little 
girls,  one  the  child  of  his  wife  by  a 
previous  marriage. 

The  March  of  Diamonds 

CO  it's  Leap  Year  again!  You  can't  say 
Hollywood  isn't  doing  its  bit  to  help  the 
girls  along,  by  the  power  of  suggestion. 
Much  of  the  sparkle  of  cinematic  glam- 


We    like    Myrna    Loy's   new   hairdress,    we    like    her    husband,    Arthur 
Hornblow — in  fact,  we  dote  on  Myrna  herself  (all  to  be  seen  at  Ciro's) 


our  has  always  come  from  dia- 
monds, but  never — so  far  as  Cal 
can  remember — has  the  traditional 
engagement  stone  played  such  a 
large  part  in  the  current  movies. 
Over  at  20th  Century-Fox,  for  in- 
stance, a  lot  of  the  glamour  in  "I 
Was  an  Adventuress"  stems  not 
only  from  the  presence  of  the  scin- 
tillating Zorina  but  also  from  the 
fact  that  the  plot  hinges  on  dia- 
mond smuggling.  On  the  same  lot, 
"Diamond  Jim"  Brady  is  making  a 
return  appearance  in  the  person  of 
Edward  Arnold  for  many  of  the  se- 
quences in  "Lillian  Russell,"  in 
which  Alice  Faye  has  the  title  role. 
Aside  from  their  unquestioned 
appeal  as  beautiful  adornment  for 
the  beautiful,  there's  sheer  drama 
in  the  story  of  the  world's  most 
highly-prized  gems  themselves. 
Part  of  the  story  was  told  in  Para- 
mount's  "Adventure  in  Diamonds," 
which  starred  Hollywood's  George 
Brent  and  Isa  Miranda,  but  promi- 
nently featured  South  Africa's 
great  diamond  mines.  Through  the 
courtesy  of  the  De  Beers  Consoli- 
dated Mines,  Ltd.,  actual  mining 
processes — from  the  time  the  dia- 
monds are  taken  from  the  blue  ground, 
three  thousand  feet  below  the  surface, 
until  they  are  graded  according  to  color 
and  carat  size  in  the  sorting  room — 
were  filmed  near  Kimberley,  for  the 
first  time,  as  background  shots. 

If  present  plans  go  through,  Para- 
mount will  bring  out  another  diamond 
drama,  portraying  the  life  of  Barney 
Barnato,  one  of  the  early  directors  and 
a  life  governor  of  De  Beers,  and  the 
exciting  part  he  played,  with  Cecil 
Rhodes,  in  forming  that  company.  So — 
if  your  best  beau  can't  take  a  celluloid 
hint,  or  you  can't  nerve  yourself  up  for 
a  Leap  Year  proposal  during  current 
movie-going — lady,  the  case  is  hopeless! 

Last  Laugh 

NOW  this  is  news!  Spencer  Tracy  may 
be  banned  from  what  promised  to  be 
one  of  the  most  important  productions 
of  his  career!  It's  the  family  movie, 
written,  directed  and  now  being  filmed 
by  Spencer's  son  John,  who  also  plays 
the  lead  (Spence  has  a  minor  rols). 
John's  been  having  more  than  his  share 
of  trouble  with  the  production.  First 
of  all,  Susie,  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
who  was  to  play  the  lead,  came  out 
flatly  and  refused  the  honor.  Sucie  just 
does  not  want  to  be  an  actress.  "I  don't 
care  what  was  in  the  papers,"  she  told 
her  father,  when  he  pointed  out  all  the 
publicity  she  was  getting,  "I  still  won't 
do  the  part!"  Then,  when  the  first 
sequence  was  being  shot,  Spencer 
laughed  so  at  John's  delineation  of  the 
principal  character  that  he  completely 
ruined  the  first  "takes" — and  now  John 
threatens  to  ban  Spence  from  the  pro- 
duction. 

Roosevelt  Rift 

I  HE  news  of  the  James  Roosevelt's  di- 
vorce, which  broke  across  newspaper 
headlines  last  month,  was  no  surprise  to 
Hollywood.  For  months  the  town  has 
been  aware  of  Jimmy's  devotion  to  his 
pretty  nurse,  Romelle  Schneider.  Her 
sister,  lovely  Phyllis  Schneider,  is 
Jimmy's  secretary. 

Cal  observed  Jimmy  and  Romelle  as 

they  sat  across  from  us  at  the  Brown 

Derby  the  other  day.  Carefully  Jimmy's 

hand  would  steal  under  the  table  to  find 

(Continued  on  page  88) 


£6 


PHOTOPLAY 


PERC  WESTMORE  SAYS:  "Why  not 
have  on  YOUR  dressing  table  the 
same  make-up  we  use  for  the  stars  " S 


fyfebtmofoe  focbmefati 


Perc  Weslmore  creates  make-up  for  Belte  Davis. 


WESTMORE  FOUNDATION  CREAM  is  the 

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and    for   private    life,    too.    Alluring 
make-up  is  completed  with  Westmore 
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PLAYING    THE    LEAD    ON    A    BIG     DATE? 

You'll  be  a  standout  in  the  crowd,  cen- 
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It's  non-drying,  covers  little  blemishes, 
shadows,  differences  of  coloration.  It's 
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'J    cu 


_  Strctt_ 
StaU__ 


MAY,     1940 


87 


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Romelle's  hand.  Their  eyes  told  the 
story  of  two  people  in  love  despite  all 
obstacles.  (So  don't  be  surprised  if  Mr. 
Roosevelt  takes  a  new  bride  after  his 
wife's  divorce  becomes  final.) 

As  soon  as  the  first  news  was  printed, 
the  mailbags  bulged  with  letters  all  ask- 
ing the  same  question: 

"Did  Hollywood  break  up  James 
Roosevelt's  home?" 

And  some  of  them  were  pretty  nasty 
to  the  movie  village  and  its  inhabitants. 

Well,  for  once,  at  least,  Hollywood 
has  a  clean  slate,  for  even  before  young 
Roosevelt  arrived  in  Hollywood,  faint 
rumors  preceded  him  that  all  was  not 
well.  Mrs.  Roosevelt  did  not  accom- 
pany her  husband  to  the  Mayo  clinic,  it 
was  remembered,  but  only  flew  to  his 
side  when  his  case  proved  more  serious 
than  supposed.  Neither  did  she  accom- 
pany her  husband  to  his  new  job  in 
Hollywood,  paying  only  one  brief  hur- 
ried visit. 

Mr.  Roosevelt  has  proved  to  be  one 
of  the  hardest  workers  in  the  industry 
and  won  everyone's  good  will  with  his 
easy  approachable  manner.  So— again 
we  say:  Hollywood  played  no  part  in 
this  separation  and  should,  therefore,  not 
only  be  exonerated  but  applauded  for 
the  way  it  has  minded  its  own  business 
in  the  matter. 

Bette,  Bumps— and  a  Baby 

WHEN  you  see  Bette  Davis  wearing  a 
severe  black  dress  with  white  collars 
and  cuffs,  in  her  role  of  governess  in 
Warners'  "All  This,  and  Heaven,  Too" 
— it  will  be  the  same  frock  (remodeled, 
of  course)  she  wore  in  "Juarez,"  for  the 
famous  mad  scene.  She  told  us  that  she 
had  felt  so  at  ease  and  so  comfortable 
in  the  gown  she  decided  to  have  it  made 
over  when  she  discovered  that  a  black 
costume  was  listed  for  this  picture.  She 
also  felt  it  would  be  a  lucky  omen  for 
her.  Incidentally,  Bette  is  gradually 
going  around  a  bit  more  these  days  so- 
cially. She  was  much  amused  with  her- 
self as  we  talked,  for  among  the  things 
she  found  she  never  knew  'til  now  was 
how  to  do  a  rhumba,  and  she's  deter- 
mined to  excel  in  that  as  she  has  in  ev- 
erything else.  At  home,  her  time  is  very 
much  taken  up  with  the  new  baby  in 
the  house — her  sister's  child,  who  Bette 
told  us  very  seriously  (while  going  into 
details  about  the  baby's  perfec- 
tions and  lovable  traits)  is  not 
going  to  be  spoiled!  "Of  course 
not,"  we  murmured  to  ourselves, 
"not  much1." 

On  the  Record 

UVER  at  the  waxworks,  "Pinoc- 
chio"  is  still  doing  the  big 
box-office  business.  Best  record 
effort  is  Victor's.  In  a  Techni- 
color album  (P-18),  you'll  find 
recordings  of  six  musical  scenes 
from  the  film.  The  complete 
musical  story  is  here  with  all 
the  main  characters  stepping  up 
to  sing  and  talk. 

Not  to  be  overlooked  is  Dec- 
ca's  "Pinocchio"  collection  (Al- 
bum 110)  with  eight  musical 
numbers.  The  star  bandsmen 
are  also  working  for  the  puo- 
pets.  Guy  Lombardo  with 
Turn  On  The  Old  Music  Box" 
and  "When  You  Wish  Upon  a 
Star"  (Decca  2969),  Hal  Kemp 
sweetly  playing  "Give  A  Little 
Whistle"  and  "I've  Got  No 
Strings"  (Victor  28466),  and  Bob 
Chester  lightly  swinging  the 
same  duo  (Bluebird  10566). 

Next  in  line  is  'Road  To  Singapore," 
Bing  Crosby's  new  opus.  Over  on  pages 
44-45,  you'll  find  the  complete  lyrics  of 


(Continued  from  page  8G) 

Life's  all  smiles  again  for  Addison  "Jack"  Randall  and  his  leading 
lady,  Louise  Stanley,  at  Ciro's.  Married  and  divorced  in  rapid  succes- 
sion many  months  ago,  the  pair  were  recently  remarried  at  Yuma,  Ariz. 


all  these  hit  songs.  You'll  know  how 
good  they  are  when  you  hear  either 
Johnny  Green  (Royale  1839)  or  Tommy 
Dorsey  (Victor  26500)  play  two  of 
them:  "Too  Romantic"  and  "Sweet  Po- 
tato Piper." 

And  talking  of  Crooner  Crosby,  if  you 
want  to  make  your  phonograph  nee- 
dles happy,  get  hold  of  "Between  18th  & 
19th  on  Chestnut  Street,"  which  Bing 
sings  with  Connie  Boswell  (Decca  2948) . 
On  the  back  is  Harry  Lillis'  "Wrap  Your 
Troubles  In  Dreams." 

Two  of  the  main  attractions  of  Para- 
mount's  "Buck  Benny  Rides  Again,"  are 
a  brace  of  tunes:  "Say  It"  and  "My! 
My!"  An  up-and-coming  batoneer  by 
the  name  of  Van  Alexander  has  done  a 
very  nice  recording  job  on  them  (Vars- 
ity 8172).  New,  too,  is  "My  Son,  My 
Son."  Henry  Russell,  of  the  Horace 
Heidt  organization,  sings  caressingly 
this  United  Artists  film's  title  song  and 
couples     it    with    the     pleasant    "Last 


Night's  Gardenias"    (Vocalion  5363). 

Running  fast  and  well  in  photoplay's 
hit  parade  are  the  Cole  Porter  works 
from  "Broadway  Melody  of  1940."  In 
the  vocal  department,  there's  Dinah 
Shore  who  turns  a  Dixie  accent  and  a 
smooth  voice  loose  on  "I've  Got  My 
Eyes  On  You"  (Bluebird  10592) .  Twen- 
tieth Century-Fox's  Mary  Healy  also 
does  the  "Eyes"  number,  as  well  as  "I 
Happen  to  Be  in  Love"  (Columbia 
35365).  Over  in  the  baton  division, 
trombone-playing  T.  Dorsey  performs 
the  optician's  theme,  too,  along  with  "I 
Concentrate  On  You"   (Victor  26470) . 

That  Hollywood  Training! 


Extra,  added  attraction  at  Ciro's: 
Hat-check  girls  in  their  cancan  out- 
fits.    Innocent   bysitter:   Jimmy   Ritz 


JUST  to  show  you  that  there  is  never 
a  dull  moment  around  the  household  of 
Joan  Davis,  the  comedienne,  listen  to 
this  latest  tale  of  her  small  daughter, 
Beverly  Wills.  Beverly,  you  know  is 
the  little  lass  who  is  always  bursting 
out  into  such  ditties  as:  "My 
name  is  Beverly  Wills,  I  live  in 
Beverly  Hills."  Recently,  dur- 
ing one  of  the  "California 
mists,"  she  and  her  mother  were 
caught  in  the  shower  and  had  to 
race  for  shelter.  As  they  ran, 
lightning  began  to  flash — some- 
thing Beverly  never  had  seen  at 
quite  such  close  range  before.' 
Looking  at  her  mother,  she 
shouted,  "Mama,  what's  that? 
Is    God    taking    a    flashlight    of 


Man  Proposes,  but — 

Forrest  tucker,  who  gets 

his  first  break  in  "The  West- 
erner" with  Gary  Cooper,  is  hav- 
ing a  terrific  time  with  his  ro- 
mance with  Helen  Parrish. 
While  the  troupe  was  on  loca- 
tion, Helen  and  her  mother  vis- 
ited the  company  and  Tucker 
brought  out  every  argument  he 
could  think  of  to  convince 
Helen  that  they  should  be  mar- 
ried. But  Helen  said  no;  she's 
just  starting  on  her  career  and 
she  doesn't  want  to  think  of 
marriage  for  some  time.  How- 
ever, Tucker  hasn't  let  a  little  thing  like 
about  fifty  turndowns  bother  him.  He 
figures  she  can't  say    "No"  indefinitely. 


PHOTOPLAY 


Hawaiian  Honeymoon 


(Continued  from  page  27) 


"I'm  getting  somewhere.  I'm  getting 
into  the  bathtub." 

Ann  came  out  on  the  balcony  to  find 
Randy  still  concentrating.  He  had  his 
eyes  closed  and  his  brow  was  wrinkled. 
"Mac  something.    Mac.    MacVickers." 

Peering  over  the  balcony,  Ann  said, 
"There's  a  man  down  there  waving  at 
you.    At  least  I  think  it's  you." 

The  bronzed  giant  beneath  the  bal- 
cony cupped  his  hands  and  yelled,  "How 
do  you  feel  this  morning?" 

"What's  it  to  you?"  Randy  said. 

"How  about  coming  out  to  the  planta- 
tion this  afternoon?" 

"What  plantation?" 

"You  wanted  to  see  the  pineapples! 
We  can  go  to  the  canning  factory  too." 

Randy  scrutinized  the  upturned  face. 
"Is  your  name  Mac  something?" 

"MacBride!" 

Saying,  "He  looks  quite  different  in 
daylight,"  Randy  made  waving  motions, 
instructing  MacBride  to  stay  where  he 
was.  A  moment  later,  watching,  Ann 
saw  him  join  Mr.  MacBride,  clap  him 
on  the  back  and  after  a  short  conference 
they  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the 
bar.  She  wandered  back  in  and  sat 
on  the  edge  of  the  bathtub  watching 
Caroline  languidly  splashing  soapsuds. 
Caroline  said,  "Is  there  any  reason  why 
you  can't  be  alone  for  one  second?" 

"I  feel  as  though  I  didn't  belong  to 
anybody,"  Ann  said.  "It  makes  me  feel 
empty  and  sick  inside.  Did  you  ever 
feel  that  way?" 

"Just  before  I  came  down  with 
ptomaine."  The  telephone  rang  in  the 
bedroom.  "Answer  it,"  Caroline  said. 
Ann  went  to  answer  it.     It  was  David. 


"I  thought  I  might  find  you  there," 
he  said. 

"Well,  you  did."  Ann  wondered  why 
she  couldn't  say  something  graceful, 
something  that  would  make  him  want 
to  leave  whatever  he  was  doing  and 
come  to  see  her.  No,  not  Ann.  "Well, 
you  did."  That  was  the  best  thing  she 
could  think  of  to  say  to  the  man  whose 
loss  made  her  feel  empty  and  sick  in- 
side. She  floundered  helplessly,  trying 
to  think  of  something  pleasant  to  say. 
Finally  she  said,  "Where  have  you 
been?" 

Immediately  the  voice  chilled  a  little. 
"I  had  a  swim."  Desperate,  Ann 
thought:  'He  thinks  I  was  prying.  He 
thinks  I  am  jealous.'  She  said,  "It  isn't 
that  I  care,  David.  I  just  said  it  for 
something  to  say.     I  mean.  .  .  ." 

"I  thought  perhaps  we'd  better  lunch 
together.  It  looks  a  little  odd,  don't 
you  think?" 

"It  is  a  little  odd,  isn't  it?" 

He  said,  "Aren't  we  friends?" 

Ready  to  cry  with  pent-up  nerves, 
disappointment  and  frustration  she  said, 
"Why  shouldn't  we  be?" 

"If  you  don't  want  to  lunch  with  me, 
say  so.  I'd  like  to  forestall  any  gossip, 
that's  all." 

She  said,  "Of  course  I'll  lunch  with 
you,  David.  I'll  meet  you  on  the  ter- 
race." She  hung  up  the  receiver,  went 
back  into  the  bathroom  and  started,  in 
silence,  to  powder  her  nose.  Caroline 
splashed  thoughtfully.  "Sounded  like 
a  good  beginning,"  she  said.  "You  were 
positively  scintillating.  Those  few  clever 
retorts  should  make  a  man  simply  pant 
with  eagerness  to  be  with  you." 


Between  two  eras:  Dick  Barthelmess, 
idol  from  silent  days  —  Alice  Faye, 
crown    princess    in    this    talkie    reign 

Ann  snapped  her  compact  shut.  "I'm 
not  like  some  women.  I'm  not  clever. 
I  don't  know  just  what  to  say  when  I 
ought  to  say  it.  All  I  know  is  I  love  him 
and  I've  lost  him  and  I'm  miserable. 
It's  not  so  easy  to  be  asked  for  lunch 
just  to  keep  people  from  talking." 

"Well,  you  have  to  eat  somewhere. 
Where's  Randy?" 

"Where  do  you  think?" 

"Bar?" 

"With  a  man  named  MacBride.  They're 
going    to    go    and    inspect    pineapples 


this  afternoon.  They're  going  to  watch 
pineapples  growing  and  then  watch 
them  cut  up  and  crammed  into  tins.  Is 
there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you 
before  I  go?" 

"You  can  stop  looking  as  though  the 
millennium  is  approaching,"  Caroline 
said.     "It  gives  me  the  vapors." 

"It's  not  approaching.  For  me,  it's 
here."  Ann  went  out  and  slammed  the 
door. 

"My  God,"  Caroline  said,  regarding 
the  soap,  "love  is  an  awful  thing." 

ALL  the  way  downstairs  Ann  tried  to 
get  herself  in  hand.  The  harder  she 
tried,  the  more  out  of  hand  she  seemed 
to  get. 

Her  hands  were  trembling  and  the 
palms  were  moist.  She  felt,  passing 
through  the  lobby,  that  everybody  was 
staring  at  her.  Probably  they  were  al- 
ready talking  about  him  and  Laurel  and 
feeling  sorry  for  her.  She  forgot,  in  her 
emotional  uncertainty,  that  people  had 
always  stared  at"  her  because  she  was 
Ann  Adams,  one  of  the  most  photo- 
graphed women  in  the  world;  because 
her  house  and  her  income  and  her  opin- 
ions and  career  had  been  splashed  from 
coast  to  coast  in  print  and  in  pictures. 

It  was  a  pretty  meeting,  a  handsome 
young  husband  coming  forward,  smil- 
ing, to  take  the  hand  of  a  fragile  girl 
who  had  been  endowed  with  everything 
her  heart  could  desire.  Some  of  the 
women  watching  sighed  a  little  bitterly 
and  turned  away  their  eyes.  Who  was 
she  to  have  so  much  happiness? 

For  the  first  time  since  they'd  met. 
David  and  Ann  were  ill  at  ease  with 


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MAY.     1940 


89 


allowed  in  the  pilot 
house,"  barked  the  man 
at  the  wheel.  "Okay,"  said  I 
meekly,  "but  before  I  go,  won't  you 
have  a  stick  of  my  Beeman's  Gum? 
The  flavor's  grand !  Zippy  as  a  breeze 
off  the  bay ! " 

"Humph!"grunted  the  helmsman, but 
he  sampled  my  Beeman's — and  say! 
His  grouch  evaporated  like  dew  in  the 
morning  sun.  "Lady  — that's  flavor! 
Smooth  as  a  fair  ■weather  passage. 
Refreshin'  as  a  dash  o'  salt  spray. 
Hey  — don't  go!  Rules  or  no  rules. 
Miss,  ye're  welcome  in  my  pilot  house 
as  long  as  ye  want  to  stay!" 

^IDS DIGESTION 


each  other.  Avoiding  each  other's  eyes, 
they  applied  themselves  assiduously  to 
the  menus.  "A  poi  cocktail,  I  think," 
Ann  said,  "and  a  fruit  salad  with  great 
hunks  of  pineapple  and  papaya." 

"I  can't  very  well  ask  a  waiter  for 
great  hunks  of  things,"  David  said, 
smiling. 

Her  frayed  nerves  made  Ann  say,  "It 
doesn't  matter  what  you  order.  I  can't 
eat  anyway." 

David  said,  "You're  not  being  your- 
self." 

Ann's  underlip  trembled  dangerously. 

"How  do  you  know  what  I'm  being? 
How  do  you  know  this  isn't  me?  You 
haven't  taken  the  time  or  the  trouble 
to  find  out  anything  about  me.  Look 
at  me,  David.  I'm  just  sitting  here 
cracking  up.   Can't  you  understand  it?" 

He  said  softly,  "Ann,  stop  it." 

"Nobody  can  hear  me.  Don't  worry. 
I'm  smiling.  If  people  are  watching  us 
they'll  think  we're  an  ideal  couple. 
Look,  I'll  hold  your  hand  on  top  of  the 
table  if  you  like." 

"That  won't  be  necessary,"  David 
said  shortly. 

"But  it's  necessary  for  us  to  be  seen 
together;  it  doesn't  matter  how  I  feel 
or  what's  happening  to  me  inside." 

"It's  your  public  and  your  career  as 
much  as  mine."  David's  voice  was  con- 
trolled and  quiet. 

"Am  I  important?"  Ann  said.  "Am 
I  really?  I  feel  very  unimportant.  I  feel 
.  .  .  isn't  it  funny  .  .  .  like  a  wife  who's 
been  deserted  on  her  honeymoon.  And 
there  isn't,  there  couldn't  be,  any  more 
useless  feeling  than  that,  could  there, 
David?" 

"Oh,  my  God,"  David  said,  quietly 
smiling,  "I  thought  I  was  doing  some- 
thing that  was  best  for  both  of  us.  I 
thought  you'd  see  how  important  it  is 
not  to  make  this  a  Roman  holiday  for 
every  gossip  writer  from  here  to  New 
York.  And  I  have  to  sit  and  take  this. 
Because  I  can't  get  up  and  leave  you  in 
the  middle  of  luncheon,  now  can  I?" 

"Why  not?  You  can  get  up  and  leave 
me  in  the  middle  of  our  honeymoon. 
But  if  you  leave  me  at  lunch,  people 
will  talk.  Don't  let  people  talk,  David. 
It's  all  right  to  break  somebody's  heart, 
but  it's  unforgivable  to  be  talked  about." 

He  said,  "You're  hysterical." 

Then  Ann  said  something  awful.  She 
tried  to  stop  it  but  it  popped  out. 

"Who  wouldn't  be  hysterical — 
Laurel?" 

David  said,  "If  you  mention  Laurel 
again,  I'll  have  to  leave  the  table." 

A  voice  said,  "Why  shouldn't  she 
mention  me?  I  think  it's  only  natural. 
May  I  meet  your  wife,  David?" 

For  a  moment  Ann  thought  she  would 
snatch  the  poi  cocktail  from  the  waiter's 
hand  and  throw  it  in  Laurel's  face.  She 
looked  so  sickeningly  poised  and  sure 
of  herself,  standing  there.  But  Ann's 
voice  was  quite  steady  as  she  said,  "Sit 
down,  Miss  Crane.  No,  not  there.  The 
sun  will  be  in  your  eyes." 

David  held  a  chair  and  Laurel  sat 
down.  Without  looking  at  Ann  she 
fingered  a  colorful,  sprawling  branch 
of  bougainvillaea  in  the  center  of  the 
table  and  said,  "You  shouldn't,  really, 
hate  me.    Why  do  you?" 

"Why  do  you  think?"  Ann  said. 

David  drank  his  papaya  juice  and 
stared,  smiling  pleasantly  into  space. 
He  hadn't  even  the  freedom  of  action 
which  allows  a  man,  caught  in  the  cross 
fire  of  a  woman's  quarrel,  to  look  miser- 
able and  ashamed. 

"Well,  you  see,"  Laurel  said,  "I 
haven't  done  anything." 

"You  haven't  done  anything  except 
break  my  life  in  bits,"  Ann  said.  "There 
are  a  thousand  places  you  could  have 
gone,  but  you  had  to  come  to  Hono- 
lulu." 

"Well,  Honolulu  was  the  only  place 
where  David  was,"  Laurel  said. 

"That's  what  I  mean,"  said  Ann. 


David's  smile  was  a  frozen  grimace. 
"Will  you  two  stop  this?" 

"As  I  approached,"  Laurel  said,  "you 
were  threatening  to  leave  the  table. 
Why  don't  you?  That  enigmatic  smile 
of  yours  is  making  lines  in  your  face." 

I  HE  marines  landed  in  a  breathless 
group  and,  unscrambled,  turned  out  to 
be  Caroline,  Randy  and  Angus  Mac- 
Bride.  Angus  MacBride  was  carrying 
an  armful  of  leis.  He  draped  a  half 
dozen  strands  of  tiny  pikaki  blossoms, 
around  Ann's  neck,  saying,  "Pikaki  is 
for  brides." 

Ann  choked  out,  "Thank  you  very 
much." 

Laurel  was  duly  decorated  with  a 
wreath  of  huge  gardenias.  Caroline  kept 
adjusting  a  lei  of  ginger  flowers  as 
though  it  were  a  necklace  that  hurt. 
She  ranged  herself  alongside  Ann  with 
a  look  of  defiance  in  Laurel's  direction. 
Laurel  looked  right  through  her,  smil- 
ing. 

After  a  few  moments  of  desperate 
polite  conversation,  Caroline,  suddenly 
staring  across  the  terrace,  had  the  ex- 
pression of  a  woman  who  has  seen  a 
giraffe  lolloping  across  a  glacier.  Pres- 
ently she  said  in  a  strangled  tone, 
"That  couldn't  be  Alastair  Decker  .  .  . 
or  could  it?" 

Randy  said,  "The  old  demon  column- 
ist himself.    But  how  did  he  get  here?" 

Angus  MacBride  said,  "He  came  in  on 
the  Matsonia  this  morning." 

Ann  said,  as  though  she  wanted  to 
run,  "He's  .  .  .  he's  coming  over  here." 

Alastair  Decker,  dapper  and  happy, 
draped  his  arm  over  David's  shoulder. 
"How  are  the  newlyweds?  We've  missed 
you  back  in  New  Athens."  Then  he 
looked  at  Laurel.  Laurel  smiled  serene- 
ly. "Oh,"  Decker  said.  "Hello."  There 
was  a  world  of  conjecture  in  that  hello. 

Alastair  looked  at  Ann  then.  "Well," 
he  said  "Well.    Hello,  Ann." 

"Well,"  Angus  MacBride  said  to  Ala- 
stair, "now  that  you're  here,  we've  got 
the  whole  week-end  party.  We'll  start 
tonight  at  seven.  We'll  fish  off  the 
island  of  Molokai.  We  can  have  break- 
fast at  the  Chinaman's  at  Kaunakakai. 
It's  simpler  than  struggling  with  the 
galley."  He  turned  to  Ann.  "Be  sure 
to  take  a  couple  of  warm  sweaters." 
And  then  to  Caroline,  "Are  you  a  good 
sailor,  Miss  Hathaway?" 

"If  it's  not  too  much  to  ask,"  Caro- 
line said,  "what  are  you  talking  about?" 


MacBride  turned  to  look  reproach- 
fully at  Randy.  "Didn't  you  tell 
them?" 

"What  should  I  have  told  them?" 
Randy  said. 

"About  the  week-end  trip.  You  ac- 
cepted an  invitation  for  all  of  them  last 
night.  At  the  Rathskeller.  Just  after 
you  did  the  hula,  don't  you  remember?" 

"I  don't,"  Randy  said,  gloomily. 

Angus  looked  like  a  little  boy  who 
has  been  told  at  the  last  minute,  that 
the  circus  detoured.  "You  can  come, 
can't  you?"  he  said  anxiously. 

David  said  heartily,  "Of  course  we'll 
come." 

"Of  course,"  Randy  said.  "Drunk  or 
sober,  I  keep  my  promises." 

"Then,  let's  see."  Angus  took  out  a 
little  pad  and  started  writing  things 
down.  "There'll  be  Alastair,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Crawford,  Miss  Hathaway,  Randy." 
He  looked  up  at  Laurel.  "And  you? 
You'll  come,  won't  you  Miss.  .  .  ." 

"Crane,"  Laurel  said  smiling,  "I'd  love 
it,  thank  you." 

Back  at  home,  as  Ann  gave  way  to 
hysteria,  David  paced  up  and  down. 
"You  j-just  sat  there!  You  ...  oh  how 
could  you?  A  week  end  of  this  hell 
.  .  .  watching  her  look  at  you  as  though 
she  owned  you  .  .  .  acting  as  though  I 
hadn't  any  right  to  your  name." 

"Ann,  I'll  call  Angus  up  and  say  we 
can't  come." 

She  raged,  "You'll  call  him  up  and 
say  we  can't  come!  And  Laurel  will  go 
and  she'll  tell  Alastair  everything! 
That's  the  way  she  is!  We  have  to  go 
now  .  .  .  there's  nothing  else  to  do!" 

He  tried  to  calm  her  by  taking  her  in 
his  arms.  She  wrenched  free,  crying, 
"Don't  touch  me.  Don't  touch  me!  You 
just  sat  there!" 

"What  did  you  expect  me  to  do,  get 
up  and  run  around  the  table?"  David 
put  his  two  hands  in  his  hair  and  pulled 
toward  the  ceiling.  "This,"  he  said,  "is 
going  to  be  one  hell  of  a  week  end!" 
And  he  didn't  know  then  how  right  he 


In  Hawaii  anything  can  happen — and 
does — to  those  who  are  in  love.  But 
even  Laurel,  who  thinks  she  knows 
everything  about  nature,  couldn't  ex- 
pect the  violence  that  she  and  Ann  and 
David  have  to  face — as  you'll  discover 
in  the  June  PHOTOPLAY. 


Third   time's  the  charm:  John  Wayne  and  Claire  Trevor,   of  "Stagecoach' 
and  "Allegheny     Uprising,"     duet     again     in     "The     Dark     Command1' 


90 


PHOTOPLAY 


Photoplay's  Own  Beauty  Shop 


(Continued  jrom  page  12) 


lines  away  from  the  eyes,  and  fill  in  the 
tiny  triangle  at  the  outer  corners  with 
very  light  foundation  cream,  approxi- 
mately, as  nearly  as  possible,  the  color 
of  the  'whites'  of  the  eyes.  Then  apply 
mascara  only  to  the  upper  lashes,  since 
darkening  the  lower  one  also  would 
tend  to  narrow  the  eyes." 

JACK  DAWN,  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's 
make-up  expert,  who  makes  up  such 
stars  as  Joan  Crawford,  Myrna  Loy  and 
Hedy  Lamarr,  has  a  lot  of  wonderful 
theories  about  the  use  of  eye  shadow. 
He  says  firmly  that  eye  shadow  is  for 
correction  and  never  for  attraction. 

"Don't  detract  from  the  beauty  of  the 
eye  itself  by  garish  green,  purple  or 
lemon-yellow  eye  shadow.  Try  to  use 
all  make-up  to  emphasize  your  natural 
coloring,  and  this  is  especially  true  in 
the  use  of  eye  shadow.  Nature  never 
used  such  colors  in  the  pigmentation  of 
a  woman's  skin.  Use  blues  and  browns. 
But,  use  them  correctly.  If  the  skin 
tones  of  the  eyelid  or  under  the  eye 
or  in  the  depth  between  the  eye  and 
nose  are  blue,  then  blue  eye  shadow 
is  the  color  to  use,  regardless  of  the 
color  of  the  eyes  themselves.  If  those 
skin  tones  are  brown,  then  use  brown." 

Being  the  inquiring  type,  we  asked 
Mr.  Dawn  what  eye  faults  can  be  cor- 
rected by  artful  use  of  eye  shadow  and 
how  it's  done. 

"Eyes  which  have  grown  tired  with 
age,"  says  Jack,  "are  clothed  in  shad- 
ows. Go  nature  one  better  by  high- 
lighting these  shadows  with  eye  cream. 
Do  it  skillfully  by  blending  in  the  cream 
with  nature's  own  shadowing" 

If  your  eyes  squint,  there  is  little 
space  between  the  eyelid  and  the  brow 
or  the  eye.  Then  you  place  shadow  as 
near  the  eye  as  possible,  leaving  as 
much  space  as  you  can  between  the  lid 
and  the  brow.  The  dark  line,  then  the 
light  skin,  creates  a  space  of  light  which 
gives  width. 

For  abnormally  round  or  prominent 
eyes,  you  reverse  the  procedure. 
Deepen  the  shadow  by  narrowing  the 
distance  between  the  eyelid,  the  brow 
and  the  eye.  You  do  this  by  use  of  a 
wide  sweep  with  eye  shadow  and  heavy 
mascara  on  the  upper  lashes. 

If  your  eyes  are  heavy-lidded,  then 
you  shadow  deeply  at  the  corners  of  the 
eyes  and  continue  the  eye  shadow  as 
far  out  toward  the  temple  to  a  point 
where  brow  and  lid  would  meet  if  a  line 
were  drawn  from  the  curve  of  the  brow 
and  from  the  end  of  the  eyelid. 

For  no-lidded  eyes,  you  can  create 
one  by  artificial  lashes  or  extra  heavy 
use  of  mascara  and  carry  the  shadow 
far  up  to  the  brow. 

IF  your  problem  is  a  puffy  eye,  you 
leave  the  shadow  off  the  lids  entirely 
and  use  it  only  where  the  puffiness  oc- 
curs. Use  it  carefully  to  conceal  rather 
than  emphasize  this  "drooping"  skin. 

"These  rules  apply  to  both  day  and 
night.  There's  no  difference  in  the  col- 
ors to  be  used  under  artificial  light  or 
in  the  sunlight.  The  skin  tones  are  still 
the  same,"  Jack  Dawn  says.  "If  there  is 
any  change  to  be  made,  use  a  heavier 
make-up  in  the  sunlight,  because  the 
sun,  with  its  bright  reflection,  has  a 
tendency  to  blot  out  color.  Artificial 
light  or  electric  light  adds  to  the  shad- 
ows of  the  face,  and  in  this  instance, 
make-up  should  be  in  lighter  tones." 

Jack  told  us,  too,  how  to  create  ideal 
eyebrows.  "Never  should  the  brows  be 
painted,  arched,  or  shaped  into  an  angle. 
Brows  should  follow  the  contour  of  the 
upper  eyelid.  A  shaping  of  the  brow 
curve  is  permissible,  but  pointed  brows, 


or  pencil  lines  or  elongated,  drooping 
lines  are  very  aging  to  the  face  and 
never  should  be  used." 

For  instance,  Lana  Turner  has  a  full 
face.  Her  eyelids  have  a  definite,  round 
curve,  so  Jack  makes  up  her  brows  in 
a  curved  high  arch.  Jeanette  MacDon- 
ald's  lids  do  not  have  quite  the  same 
high  curve  as  Lana's,  so  her  brows  are 
only  slightly  curved.  With  Hedy  La- 
marr, to  emphasize  the  wide  spread 
between  her  hazel  eyes,  the  brows  start 
far  from  the  center  of  her  face  and 
blend  into  a  slight,  graceful  arch. 

rARAMOUNT'S  make-up  expert  is 
Wally  Westmore.  Wally,  like  Jack 
Dawn,  emphasizes  naturalness  in  mak- 
ing up  eyes. 

Large  eyes,  like  Patricia  Morison's, 
for  instance,  can  stand  a  much  higher 
brow  than  a  girl  with  smaller  eyes. 
The  closer  the  brow  to  the  eye,  the 
larger  it  appears,  and  the  greater  dis- 
tance from  the  eye,  the  smaller. 

"For  creating  the  illusion  of  larger 
eyes,"  Wally  explained,  "when  using 
mascara  on  the  lashes,  mascara  just 
the  tips  of  the  lashes.  Never  bead  the 
lashes  heavily,  regardless  of  whether 
the  eyes  are  small  or  large.  And  al- 
ways remember  that  there  should  be 
one-tenth  the  amount  of  mascara  on  the 
lower  lashes  as  on  the  upper,  at  all 
times. 

"To  make  the  eyes  appear  larger,  take 
a  pencil  and  draw  a  soft  shadow  directly 
under  the  lashes  of  the  lower  lid.  Then 
take  your  finger  and  rub  that  line  until 
it  is  rubbed  almost  completely  off. 
You  will  thus  create  a  soft  shadow  and 
form  a  frame  to  the  eye,  giving  the  illu- 
sion of  more  eyeball.  If  your  eyes  are 
close  together,  mascara  is  most  ef-  j 
fective  if  applied  heavily  at  outer  cor- 
ners. 

"For  an  example,  Dorothy  Lamour's 
eyes  are  a  little  deeper  set  than  Made- 
leine Carroll's  eyes.  So,  in  making  up 
Dorothy,  we  use  more  eye  shadow  on 
the  eyelid  proper,  to  reduce  the  fullness 
of  the  upper  lid.  And  on  Madeline,  we 
use  one-third  as  much  eye  shadow  as 
on  Dorothy.  In  mascaraing  Dorothy's 
lashes,  lots  of  black  mascara  is  used. 
Madeleine  requires  much  less  and  since 
she  is  so  fair  we  use  brown  mascara 
for  her." 

Perc  Westmore,  too,  gave  us  much 
good  advice  on  how  to  bring  out  the 
beauty  of  eyes.  He  says  that  prominent 
eyes  such  as  Bette  Davis'  are  made  even 
lovelier  by  putting  mascara  lightly  on 
the  entire  upper  lashes  and  by  drawing 
a  normal  eyebrow  that  follows  the  line 
of  the  eye  and  is  neither  too  heavy  nor 
too  thin.  He  blends  eye  shadow  care- 
fully over  the  prominent  part  of  the 
upper  lid  and  uses  as  dark  a  shade  as 
possible,  carrying  it  very  lightly  up  to 
the  line  of  the  brow. 

"Do  not  outline  the  eyelids  of  promi- 
nent eyes,"  Perc  advises.  "Carry  rouge 
well  up  to  the  eyes  so  there  will  be  no 
white  space  between  cheeks  and  eyes 
to  accentuate  their  size." 

Perc,  too,  says  the  perfect  brow  is  one 
that  conforms  to  the  shape  of  the  eyelid 
and  starts  on  a  line  even  with  the  inner 
corner  of  the  eye.  "Beware  of  angular 
brows  that  give  a  masculine  look  to  the 
face,  of  winged  brows,  or  of  little  sky- 
hooks that  make  eyes  look  smaller,  of 
arrow  brows  that  swoop  up  from  a  low 
inner  corner  to  a  high  outer." 

Remember  that  beauty  and  glamour 
are  no  more  than  the  sum  of  your  per- 
sonality, and  all  these  tips  should  help 
you  make  up  your  eyes  and  brows  so 
that  they  express  the  full  seventy  per 
cent  of  your  personality. 


^sU40"t{AA*U~tb   Cj&vu 


A  breath  of  eternal  spring,-  a  lyric 
fragrance  tender  as  young  dreams. 
Eyes  turn,  and  are  captured.  Once 
again  you  have  woven  a  spell  with 
Evening  in  Paris... the  fragrance  of 
romance.  Evening  in  Paris  Perfume, 
$1.10  to  $10.00.  Face  Powder,  $1.00. 


^^CrfUfUj  i*ur^U/0 


BOURJOIS 


NEW  YORK 


MAY.     1940 


91 


wean 


cfllvin- 


A  beautifully  styled  Alvin  Watch 
in  one  of  these  thrilling  new  de- 
signs will  look  fine  on  the  wrist  of 
someone  you'd  like  to  please.  Alvins 
are  quality  watches  through  and 
through.  Each  is  a  masterpiece  of 
skilled  craftsmanship  and  scientific 
precision.  The  distinguished  styling 
and  superb  quality  make  the  compara- 
tively modest  prices  seem  astonishing 
.  .  .  yet  each  watch  is  exactly  as 
shown.  Alvin's  quality  is  inbuilt 
through  nearly  a  century  of  fine  watch- 
making. Go  to  the  nearest  Alvin 
jeweler  and  ask  to  see  these  outstand- 
ing new  models. 

ALVIN  WATCH  CO.,  SYRACUSE,  N.  Y. 


JO 


ViK_ 


WATC  HES 


Round-Up  of  Familiar  Faces 


and,  fastening  Bill  with  a  look  of  disgust 
said,  "I  hope  you  felt  as  silly  doing  that 
stuff  as  I  felt  sitting  watching  you." 

That  was  all.    There  wasn't  any  more. 

His  ideal  girl,  Bill  says,  is  one  who 
can  talk  intelligently  if  she  has  some- 
thing to  say,  but  who  doesn't  talk  just 
to  show  she's  intelligent.  And  then,  like 
a  problem  in  mathematics,  he  sums  up 
the  whole  girl  question  by  stating  Mag- 
gie Lindsay  is  his  idea  of  something  spe- 
cial in  beauty  and  brains. 

He  was  a  good  kid,  he  remembers, 
was  four  years  a  member  of  the  Boy 
Scouts  and  participated  in  all  school  ac- 
tivities. One  schoolday  incident  sticks 
in  his  memory.  The  school,  for  some 
reason,  didn't  include  Bill  in  its  annual 
play  and,  hurt  beyond  words,  he 
couldn't  bear  to  tell  his  mother.  "Oh, 
sure,  I'm  in  it.  I  lead  the  orchestra, 
that's  why  I  have  no  lines  to  rehearse," 
he  told  her.  With  great  ado  and  after 
much  bragging  to  others,  his  mother 
showed  up  at  the  entertainment.  Bill, 
of  course,  wasn't  in  it  and  to  this  day 
the  incident  has  never  been  mentioned. 

He  hasn't  enough  energy  to  get  real 
hopping  mad  about  anything,  but  boy, 
did  he  rant  when  they  called  him  "Dim- 
ples" in  school.  He  still  has  'em  in  both 
cheeks — the  dimples,  not  the  rants — and 
his  heavy  blond  hair  is  the  envy  of 
every  "thinning"  male  pate.  He  likes  to 
read.  He  reads  in  bed  and  never  puts  a 
book  down  until  it's  finished.  Loathes 
getting  up,  of  course.  Plays  golf  and 
goes  duck  hunting  with  Dennis  Morgan, 
and  eats  all  Morgan's  sandwiches  and 
his  own.  He  lives  by  one  code:  "Be 
decent."  After  years  of  piano  practice, 
he  plays  exactly  sixteen  measures  of  the 
"Desert  Song,"  and  not  another  note. 
Likes  Wagner  for  heavy  music,  Victor 
Herbert  for  light.  And  tweeds  for  any 
and  all  occasions. 

Test  Pilot 

Mary  Howard,  the  Ann  Rutledge  of 
"Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois,"  had  a  success 
scheme  that  other  young  starlets  had 
overlooked.  She  asked  Test  Director 
Freddy  Wilcox  of  M-G-M  to  be  allowed 
to  aid  other  stars  with  their  tests.  She 
figured  by  repeating  lines  with  Gable 
and  Tracy,  or  testing  with  Taylor  and 
Crawford  and  Shearer,  she'd  learn  more 
than  all  the  drama  teachers  could  give 
her.  And  she  was  right.  Mary,  the  Test 
Pilot  of  M-G-M,  as  she  called  herself, 
learned  voice  inflection,  technique  and 
camera  tricks,  from  those  who  had  ar- 
rived. Her  work  was  rewarded  when 
small  roles  in  short  subjects  grew  into 
a  small  part  in  "Marie  Antoinette."  Her 
best  part  on  that  lot  was  in  "Four  Girls 
in  White"  and  off  the  lot  in  "Nurse  Edith 
Cavell,"  and  "Abe  Lincoln  in  Illinois." 

Mary's  career  has  an  upside  down 
quality  in  that  she'd  already  been  fea- 
tured in  the  Ziegfeld  Follies  before  she 
began  in  the  lowest  ranks  of  camera  as- 
pirants. It  happened  when  she  and  her 
twin  sisters,  older  than  Mary,  were 
studying  with  Albertina  Rasch.  When 
Miss  Rasch  one  day  pointed  out  to  her 
visitor,  the  great  producer  Ziegfeld,  the 
three  beautiful  sisters,  he  was  so  im- 
pressed he  gave  the  girls  a  dancing  spot 
in  his  latest  revue. 

Mary  was  fifteen,  and  like  two  deter- 
mined chaperons,  her  older  sisters,  Vir- 
ginia and  Meredith,  looked  after  her 
welfare.  They  felt  responsible  for  Mary 
in  that  they  had  really  started  her  on 
her  career  road  at  the  terribly  ten- 
der age  of  three.  Feeling  very  proud 
of  their  baby  sister,  the  twins,  then  ten, 
taught  Mary  a  cute  little  song  and  on  a 


(Continued  from  page  29) 

Saturday  afternoon,  when  their  mother 
was  out,  proudly  marched  her  off  to  the 
amateur  contest  at  a  local  movie  house, 
where  she  walked  off  with  the  first 
prize.  Father  Howard,  a  building  con- 
tractor, was  horrified,  but  Mother  in- 
sisted that  Mary  have  proper  training, 
and  promptly  enrolled  the  baby  and  the 
twins  in  dancing  school. 

Mary  has  worked  hard  and  earnestly. 
In  New  York,  under  the  coaching  of 
Jack  Donahue  and  the  famous  Eddie 
Dowling,  she  progressed  rapidly.  For 
an  interval,  she  did  some  commercial 
photography  modeling  for  John  Powers, 
and  fashion  modeling  for  Anton  Bruehl, 
but  "Life  Begins  at  8:40"  with  Bert 
Lahr,  found  her  back  on  the  stage, 
dancing. 

Mary  was  born  in  Independence, 
Kansas,  on  August  24th,  but  the  family 
moved  to  Tulsa,  Oklahoma,  shortly  after 
her  birth.  Another  five-foot-fiver, 
Mary  has  all  the  vigor  of  an  athlete. 
While  in  school  she  won  the  diving 
championship  of  the  state  of  Oklahoma. 


Clarence  Brown, 
directing  the  sec- 
ond film  about  the 
great  inventor, 
watches  as  Spen- 
cer Tracy,  portray- 
ing "Edison,  the 
Man,"  installs  a 
tin-foil  "record"  in 
an  18  77  talking 
machine  (exact  re- 
plica of  the  orig- 
inal   invention) 


Her  coach,  an  Olympic  champion,  Her- 
bert Henrici,  considered  Mary  Olympic 
material,  but  Mary's  heart  was  set  on 
a  stage  career,  and  in  pursuing  it  she 
found  no  obstacle  too  difficult  to  over- 
come. When  a  teacher  pointed  out  to 
Mary  her  voice  lacked  resonance,  she 
thought  up  the  ingenious  plan  of  hiring 
a  deaf  maid  and  soon  put  all  the  volume 
she  needed  into  her  voice. 

Her  conversation  is  bright  and  gay 
with  stories  of  her  own  blunders,  show- 
ing her  awareness  to  life  and  to  people. 
Her  dimples  are  the  most  pronounced  in 
all  Hollywood.  She  loves  fussy  hats, 
and  her  very  best  beau  is  Director  Ed 
Marin. 

Recipe  for  Charm 

Mr.  Alan  Marshal's  charm  is  a  special 
and  unique  brand  all  his  own,  and  one 
any  star  might  covet.  Behind  the  most 
remarkable  hazel  eyes  in  existence 
(they  should  pass  a  law  against  a  man 
owning  such  eyes),  Mr.  Marshal  laughs 
with  others  at  himself,  refuses  to  take 
them  or  himself  too  seriously,  is  de- 
lighted to  be  involved  in  Hollywood, 
and  comes  nearer,  in  our  opinion,  to  be- 
ing the  ideal  normally  charming  hero 
that  motion  pictures  are  constantly  try- 
ing to  depict,  and  are  always  just  miss- 
ing. Missing,  because  instead  of  being 
the  fellow  that  gets  the  girl,  his  career 
in  pictures  has  been  a  monotonous 
round     of     die-in-the-last-reel-and- 


never-get-the-girl-at-all,  or  get-the- 
girl-and-die-in-the-first-reel,  or  may- 
be if  he  gets  the  girl  and  still  lives,  he 
doesn't  want  her  after  all. 

He's  an  Australian  who  has  been  in 
America  since  he  was  six  months 
old.  His  parents,  who  were  Shake- 
sperian  actors,  brought  him  to  New 
York  at  that  age,  and  he  spent  all  of 
his  boyhood  in  private  schools  while 
they  toured  the  country. 

He  left  Hamilton  Preparatory  School 
to  join  Fritz  Lieber's  Shakesperian 
troup,  he  became  Lorenzo  in  "The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,"  with  George  Arliss 
and  he  participated  in  a  whole  flock  of 
Broadway  shows  that  flopped  with 
monotonous  regularity.  Then  came  the 
test  that  landed  him,  by  way  of  a  Selz- 
nick  contract,  into  the  desert  waste  of 
Yuma,  Arizona,  buried  under  five  inches 
of  sand  for  eight  hot  (and  I  do  mean 
hot)  weeks  for  "The  Garden  of  Allah." 
For  fifteen  weeks  thereafter,  he  did 
nothing  but  play  tennis  across  from  the 
Roosevelt  Hotel  and  wait  for  Selznick's 


to  put  him  in  another  less  sandy  opus. 

That  was  three  years  ago,  and  he's 
still  waiting,  for  Selznick's  have  loaned 
him  about  like  a  neighborly  cup  of 
sugar,  to  every  other  studio  in  town. 
For  eight  solid  months  he  acted  like 
mad  in  "Conquest"  with  Garbo,  and 
came  the  preview  there  was  Marshal 
opening  a  door  and  saying,  "Madam," 
and  closing  it  again.  He  made  "Parnell" 
and  "After  the  Thin  Man,"  for  M-G-M; 
"I  Met  My  Love  Again,"  for  Walter 
Wanger;  has  just  completed  a  good  role 
(in  which  he  gets  the  gal  and  gets  shot 
too)  in  "Irene;"  and  is  all  set  to  leap  off 
a  cliff  in  "Tree  of  Liberty." 

In  real  life  he  did  get  the  girl — a  San 
Francisco  socialite  whom  he  married 
two  years  ago.  During  the  courtship, 
Alan,  who  loathes  planes,  spent  half 
his  life  up  in  the  air,  flying  up  to  San 
Francisco.  Christopher,  their  three- 
months-old  baby,  is  his  pride  and  joy 
and  is  destined  to  be  an  actor,  too,  Alan 
feels,  because  he  screams  like  fury 
when  taken  away  from  a  mirror. 

Dick  Cavell,  who  invented  the 
Australian  crawl,  taught  him  to  swim 
when  he  was  a  mere  babe.  He  lives  at 
Santa  Monica,  next  to  Ian  Hunter,  who 
also  never  gets  the  girl,  and  he  still 
swims. 

What,  No  Southern  Accent? 

Wanted:  Showgirls,  five-feet-six- 
inches    tall    for    chorus    sequence    in 


92 


PHOTOPLAY 


Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer  production.  Ap- 
ply Casting. 

Lynn  Bari,  currently  gracing  20th 
Century-Fox's  "The  Life  and  Loves  of 
Lillian  Russell,"  who  was  in  her  usual 
pre-breakfast  mood  of  speak-to-me- 
and-I'll-take-off-your-head,  stared  at 
the  item  in  a  Los  Angeles  newspaper. 
"•Five-feet-six,"'  she  murmured, 
"Why,  that's  me."  Ten  minutes  later 
Lynn,  who  had  never  seen  a  showgirl 
in  her  life,  and  her  mother,  who  wasn't 
even  sure  what  a  showgirl  was,  were 
on  their  way  to  Culver  City.  Crowds 
of  girls  of  assorted  sizes  and  coloring 
were  milling  before  the  casting  office — 
that,  remember,  was  back  in  the  Joan 
Crawford,  "Dancing  Lady"  days,  and 
long  before  studios  began  advertising 
for  showgirls  to  please  stay  away  from 
their  doors — but  shortly  the  number 
had  dwindled  to  three — and  one  of  the 
three  was  Lynn. 

She  stayed  on  at  M-G-M,  dancing  in 
such  musical  productions  as  "Stand  Up 
and  Cheer"  and  "Coming  Out  Party," 
which  turned  into  a  real  coming-out 
party  with  Lynn  coming  out  of  M-G-M 
and  signing  a  contract  with  20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox. For  two  years  Lynn  studied 
dramatics  at  that  studio,  playing  small 
roles  in  "The  Baroness  and  the  Butler" 
and  "Walking  Down  Broadway."  Then 
came  "Mr.  Moto's  Gamble,"  with  Lynn 
playing  the  romantic  lead  and  crowd- 
ing into  the  home  stretch. 

Roanoke,  Virginia,  gave  her  birth. 
For  a  while  the  family  lived  in  Lynch- 
burg, Virginia,  and  then  finally  moved 
to  Boston.  Lynn  doesn't  remember 
much  about  the  "ole  Souff"  but  recalls 
that  the  Boston  kids  used  to  gather 
around  her  and  her  brother  and  yell, 
"Go  on  and  say  something.  Gee,  you 
sure    have    a   funny    way    of    talking." 

Today,  Lynn  is  a  forerunner  of  to- 
morrow in  Hollywood.  Intelligent,  un- 
affected (she  loathes  show-offishness), 
quiet  and  genuine,  she  is  advancing  in 
such  pictures  as  "Hotel  for  Women," 
"Earthbound"  and  "Lillian  Russell." 
For  some  reason  she  always  plays  a 
meanie  on  the  screen.  If  only  once  the 
hero  would  pause  to  take  one  good  look 
at  the  way  Lynn's  mouth  quirks  at  the 
corners,  we're  sure  the  heroine  would 
be  out  of  the  running. 

Lynn  has  a  sense  of  humor,  loves 
shoes,  steak,  potatoes  and  anything 
chocolate,  wears  beautifully  tailored 
clothes  and  is  mad  over  perfume.  She's 
a  staunch  advocate  of  California  and  its 
climate  and  has  been  since  she,  her 
mother  and  brother,  now  a  student  at 
UCLA,  moved  there  several  years  ago. 

She's  been  married  to  Walter  Kane, 
an  agent,  for  a  year.  For  six  months 
Walter  had  carried  around  their  li- 
cense, hoping  Lynn  would  have  a  free 
moment  between  pictures  for  a  honey- 
moon. One  night  while  they  were 
having  dinner  at  Lamaze,  Walter  looked 
up  from  his  steak  and  said,  "Let's  get 
married  right  now." 

"But  I  have  a  six  o'clock  call  in  the 
morning,"  Lynn  protested. 

"Well,  when  haven't  you  a  six  o'clock 
call?"  Walter  protested.  Lynn  couldn't 
tell  him,  so  calmly  and  deliberately  they 
arose  from  the  table  and  set  out  to  find 
a  preacher.  None  was  available  at  that 
hour,  and  just  when  it  looked  hopeless, 
Walter  had  a  bright  idea.  He  pulled  out 
a  traffic  ticket  he'd  received  that  day 
and  on  the  ticket  was  the  name  of  the 
traffic  court  judge.  One  hour  later,  as 
man  and  wife,  Lynn  and  Walter  re- 
turned to  the  Lamaze  and  calmly  or- 
dered their  dessert. 

Actor- Extraordinary 

iT  was  war  time  in  America.  Train- 
ing camps  for  soldiers  dotted  the  land- 
scapes. In  one,  down  in  Camp  Lee,  Vir- 
ginia, a  too-tall,  lanky  boy  of  thirteen, 


son  of  the  Commanding  Officer,  Colonel 
Albert  Van  Dekker,  U.S.A.,  used  to  go 
dashing  through  the  camp  on  his  horse. 
We  watched  him  ride  more  than  once, 
with  a  little  prayer  of  thanks  that  he 
at  least  was  too  young  to  soldier.  A 
score  and  two  years  later  we  sat  op- 
posite that  boy,  now  an  actor  (still 
overgrown)  and  we,  an  interviewer,  our 
paths  crossing  again  in  life's  strange 
pattern. 

At  the  studio's  suggestion  he  dropped 
the  Van  from  his  name  when  he  left 
years  of  stage  work  behind  to  come  to 
Hollywood.  He  doesn't  mind  the  change 
in  name.  He  thinks  plain  Dekker  is  a 
common  denominator  sort  of  name  that 
could  belong  to  any  of  the  nationalities 
he  plays  —  German,  Swedish,  even 
French:  And  he  has  something  to  say 
about  playing  people  of  different  na- 
tionalities, too.  It's  not  so  much  the 
perfect  accent,  as  the  ability  to  catch 
the  lilt,  the  rhythm  of  a  language. 
Whatever  the  reason,  we  claim  Dekker 
is  the  finest  character  actor  to  come 
knocking  on  our  doors  in  recent 
months.  Watch  him  in  the  lead  of  "Dr. 
Cyclops."  Recall  him  as  Schwartz,  the 
German,  in  "Beau  Geste,"  as  the  king 
in  "Man  in  the  Iron  Mask,"  as  the  Cock- 
ney who  wrestles  with  Gable  in 
"Strange  Cargo."  I  tell  you  he's  mar- 
velous. 

He  gloats  over  his  rather  plain  face. 
"I  can  transform  it  into  any  type  face 
I  want."  He  likes  the  ever-so-slight 
slant  to  his  eyes.  "They  had  to  watch 
me  closely  in  'Cyclops,' "  he  says,  "or 
I'd  go  Oriental  on  them."  In  our  opin- 
ion he  went  Karloff  with  a  slight  dash 
of  Scare-the-daylights  out  of  King 
Kong,  simply  by  shaving  his  head  and 
affecting  thick  glasses. 

He  was  graduated  in  a  pre-medicine 
course  at  Bowdoin  College  in  Maine, 
but  a  friend  who  remembered  the  boy's 
appearances  in  school  theatricals,  was 
convinced  that  he  had  talent  and  gave 
him  a  letter  to  Alfred  Lunt.  Lunt,  in 
turn,  sent  him  to  Stuart  Walker  in  Cin- 
cinnati,  and   Dekker  became   an  actor. 

A  Hollywood  talent  scout  saw  him  on 
tour  with  the  stage  play,  "Parnell,"  and 
brought  him  to  Hollywood. 

He  married  Esther  Guerini,  whom  he 
met  on  the  stage  in  1929,  and  they  have, 
as  he  puts  it,  one  and  a  half  children. 
Their  new  baby  will  be  born  this  sum- 
mer. Jan,  their  little  daughter,  is  two 
and  one-half  years  old.  Albert's  father 
is  his  greatest  fan.  Goes  to  all  his  plays 
and  says  to  his  neighbors,  "Do  you  like 
him?  That's  my  son."  His  only  brother 
is  a  famous  physician  in  Newfoundland. 

His  voice  is  quiet,  his  bearing  one  of 
assurance,  and  we're  sure  he's  amused 
at  Hollywood,  but  loves  it,  remember. 
Wouldn't  go  back  to  New  York  (where 
he  was  born)  for  a  farm.  The  farm  he 
owns  in  San  Fernando  Valley.  He 
wields  his  own  sickle  and  scythe,  cut- 
ting his  weeds  and  clearing  his  land 
upon  which  he  will  build  his  house,  a 
ranch  with  a  copper  roof  that  will  green 
with  age. 

We're  rather  awed  over  the  fact  that 
once  we  watched  a  tall  gangling  boy, 
ride  through  a  soldiers'  camp  and  now 
we're  watching  a  tall  handsome  man 
actor  ride  over  a  stony  road  to  fame. 
Makes  us  feel  cozy,  darned  if  it  doesn't. 

Madame,  That  Figure! 

I  HERE'S  a  grapevine  system  in  Holly- 
wood through  which  word  somehow  al- 
ways travels  to  the  male  contingent 
when  something  pretty  special  hits 
town.  The  day  Russian  Irina  Baronova, 
M-G-M's  newest  glamour  find,  was  to 
execute  a  ballet  number  for  "Florian," 
the  men  on  the  lot,  one  by  one,  came 
slipping  in.  Did  they  care  for  ballet 
dancing  all  of  a  sudden?  Oh,  no.  They'd 
heard  the  lady  had  a  figure  that's  ter- 
rific! 


& 


ii)€ar 


ire  o/Xae/u^ta^  nm/)- 


"When  I  discovered  how  important  stockings  were  in 
the  impression  I  made,  I  promptly  took  the  hint. 

"Stockings  became  more  than  part  of  my  wardrobe;  I 
classed  them  with  my  make-up  and  perfume. 

"I  looked  and  looked  for  the  stockings  that  would  lend 

their  silken  flattery  to  my 

legs,  that  would  add  the 

right  color  touch  to  my 

costume,  and  see  me 

through  many  dates. 

"When  I  saw  Berkshire 
Stockings  their  beau 
ty  was  apparent; 
when  I  put  them  on 
and   found  they 
wore,  my  stocking 
search  was  over."    j 


STOCKINGS 


1 1   for  street   and 

gs]   business,  with 

daytime  shoes 


Look  for  one  of  these  seals  on  each  pair  of  Berkshire  Stockings, 
identifying  them  as  2,  3  or  4-thread. 


OPYRIQHI    1940  BY    BERKSHIRE 


ITTING  MILLS,  BtADINO 


MAY,      I  940 


93 


■haws 


^EAR  and  gentle  reader,  how  can  we 
make  you  realize'  the  difference 
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Tampax  now  is  made  in  three  sizes:  Regular,  Super, 
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94 


P-50-C 


TAMPAX  INCORPORATED 
New  Brunswick,  N.  J. 

Please  send  me  in  plain  wrapper  the  new  trial 
package  of  Tampax.  I  enclose  \0t  (stamps  or  sil- 
ver) to  cover  cost  of  mailing.  Size  is  checked  below. 
(   )    REGULAR  (    )    SUPER  (  )  JUNIOR 

Name 


Address- 
City 


The  most  cosmopolitan  of  ladies,  the 
sweetest  and  most  sincerely  natural,  is 
this  great  danseuse,  friend  of  the  great 
the  world  over.  She  is  actually  that 
glamorous  heroine  on  the  stage  and  the 
screen  that  one  seldom  sees  in  real  life. 
But,  now,  here  she  actually  is  in  Hol- 
lywood, and  wild  about  riding  on  roller 
coasters  while  eating  peanuts. 

When  she  was  a  baby  her  parents  fled 
Russia  and  the  Revolution  and  went  to 
live  in  Bucharest.  Her  father,  who  had 
been  a  lieutenant  in  the  Imperial  Navy, 
became  a  designer  of  theatrical  scenery. 
Even  then  Irina  had  begun  her  dancing 
lessons  and  when  the  family  moved  to 
Paris  her  real  training  began.  Four 
years  later,  Ballet  Producer  Colonel  W. 
de  Basil  and  Ballet  Master  George 
Balanchine  selected  her  for  the  Russian 
ballet  company  at  Monte  Carlo.  All 
over  the  world  she  went  on  her  toes. 

It  was  Winnie  Sheehan,  the  screen 
producer,  who  remembered  the  fasci- 
nating Irina  whom  he'd  seen  in  London 
and  Paris  when  the  role  in  "Florian" 
demanded  a  glamorous  dancer. 

A  clipper  ship  brought  her  to  New 
York  and  twenty-four  hours  later  she 
made  her  first  movie  scene.  It  was  a 
take  the  first  time.  Director  Ed  Marin 
said  he'd  never  had  it  happen  before. 
Her  accent  was  heavy  at  first.  "It  was 
too  full  of  borscht,"  Baronova  laughs. 
But  she  worked  hard  at  it  and  now 
speaks  almost  faultless  English.  Every- 
one loves  her  honesty.  After  a  ballet 
number  she  advanced  to  Director  Marin 
who  sat  entranced.  "What  I  just  did, 
steenks,"  she  said.   "Let  me  do  it  again." 

Well  does  Hollywood  remember  the 
excitement  a  year  or  two  ago  when  she 
eloped  with  Sevastianov  of  the  ballet. 
Several  screen  lads  did  penance  for  a 
long  while.  Her  husband  and  parents 
live  with  her  in  an  unpretentious  home 
in  Beverly  Hills. 

Five  feet  four,  she  has  blue  eyes  that 
twinkle  at  times  and  mourn  at  times. 
Her  light  brown  hair  grows  close  to  her 
forehead.  Her  figure — well — she  never 
diets— never  has  to,  doggone  it,  what 
with  her  dancing.  She  always  knows 
that  no  two  things — good  or  bad — ever 
happen  to  her  without  the  third  event 
coming  along.  Everything  happens  in 
threes.  Thirteen  is  her  favorite  num- 
ber. She  loves  "Dorian  Grey"  and 
American  mystery  stories.  And  when 
she  was  a  little  girl  like  the  miss  in  the 
rhyme,  she  was  horrid.  "If  they  say, 
don't  do  that,  why  I  do  it,"  she  shrugged. 
And  look  how  well  she  turned  out. 
And  sh-h-h  —  here's  something  else. 
She  hated  dancing  when  she  began,  but 
Mama  made  her  stick  to  it. 

Is  Irina  grateful! 

Well  Done— To  a  Crisp 

Way  back  in  the  days  when  motion 
pictures  began,  a  Scotchman  named 
Donald  Crisp  began  with  them.  Pic- 
tures and  Crisp  have  marched  along 
side  by  side  ever  since  except  for  that 
four  year  period  of  1914  to  1918  when 
the  Scotchman  went  home  to  fight  for 
his  country  in  the  World  War. 

Today,  over  a  score  and  a  half  years 
later,  Crisp  remains  a  permanent  and 
important  fixture  in  pictures,  figuring  in 


such  prominent  pictures  as  "The  Old 
Maid,"  "Dodge  City,"  "Juarez,"  "Eliza- 
beth and  Essex,"  "Dr.  Ehrlich's  Magic 
Bullet,"  and  his  latest,  "The  Sea  Hawk." 
He's  been  everything  from  villain  to — 
yes,  even  a  lover,  wooing  Fay  Bainter 
(and  giving  the  glamour  boys  a  run  for 
their  money)  in  "Daughters  Courage- 
ous." 

In  all  Hollywood  there  is  no  more 
colorful,  variant  personage  than  Crisp. 
Shrewd,  persistent,  respectful  of  dollars, 
he  has  climbed  through  those  turbulent 
years  of  colorful  personalities  that  laid 
down  their  hearts  and  lives  for  a  bigger 
and  better  Hollywood;  climbed,  not 
spectacularly  but  steadfastly  and  sane- 
ly, to  an  enviable,  but  still  not  too  spec- 
tacular position.  Today,  he's  a  million- 
aire, and  member  of  the  advisory  board 
of  a  great  bank  that  passes  on  loans  to 
motion  picture  companies.  No  amount 
of  persuasion  can  force  Crisp  to  yield 
when  he  doubts  the  advisability  of  a 
loan.  His  is  the  last  word.  He's  a 
yachtsman  who  holds  his  master's  pa- 
pers, and  can  sail  the  seas  with  the 
best  of  them.  And  for  all  of  this,  he 
still  puts  on  his  spectacles  and  his  old 
straw  hat  and,  with  market  basket  over 
his  arm,  carefully  scrutinizes  the  price 
lists  of  advertised  bargains  in  the  neigh- 
borhood grocery.  Yes,  a  Scotchman  to 
the  core  of  him,  he  is  that. 

He  came  to  this  country  in  1907  pur- 
posely to  view  the  remains  of  San 
Francisco  after  the  fire  and  earthquake. 
The  young  man  hadn't  realized  the  city 
was  way  over  to  t'other  end  of  the 
wide  United  States,  and  required  con- 
siderable passage  money  to  get  to.  So 
he  stayed  in  New  York  and  took  the 
first  job  that  came  his  way,  that  of 
stage  manager  for  the  Fisher-Reilly 
opera  company,  doubling  in  brass  when 
the  tenor  needed  replacing.  In  that 
year,  1907,  he  took  into  his  arms  the 
babe  called  "movies"  and  appeared  be- 
fore a  camera  for  the  first  time  in  a 
"Mustascope"  offering  called,  "The 
French  Maid."  He'd  had  enough  trav- 
eling from  one  end  of  the  country  to 
the  other  with  the  opera  company,  so 
he  settled  down  to  movies,  and  that  in 
those  days  was  a  make-shift  business 
indeed.  Early  in  1912  he  came  to  Holly- 
wood, an  orange  grove  on  either  side  of 
a  dusty  road,  and  with  the  Gish  girls, 
Blanche  Sweet,  Mae  Marsh  and  D.  W. 
Griffith  he  made  movie  history. 

Directing  seemed  a  good  idea  along 
about  then,  and  to  his  charge  was  given 
the  direction  of  all  battle  scenes  for 
"The  Birth  of  a  Nation."  After  his  war 
interlude,  he  became  director  of  one  up 
and  coming  actor  in  such  pictures  as  | 
"The  Mark  of  Zorro,"  "Don  Q,"  and 
"The  Black  Pirate."  Yes,  Doug,  Sr.,  was 
flashing  across  the  camera  screen  under 
this  man's  directorial  guidance.  It  was 
all  color,  clamor,  raw  and  wonderful  in 
those  days,  but  through  it  all  moved 
Crisp,  thrifty,  wise,  shrewd — to  turn 
once  again  to  acting;  to  marry  writer 
Jane  Murfin,  and  live  comfortably  in 
a   Hollywood  hillside  home. 

Yes,  the  story  of  Crisp  is  the  story  of 
Hollywood,  right  down  to  today  when 
an  actor  sits  among  his  bank  trustees 
and  says  "No"  (of  all  things)  to  Holly- 
wood! 


"THE   LIFE   AND   LOVES   OF   LILLIAN   RUSSELL 

A  book-length  novel  about  the  incredible-but-true  experi- 
ences of  one  of  the  most  fascinating  women  of  all  time,  as 
portrayed  in  the  20th-Century-Fox  film  starring  Alice  Faye, 
Don  Ameche,  and  Henry  Fonda. 

IN   JUNE   PHOTOPLAY 


PHOTOPLAY 


Time  Out  for  a  Lullaby 


(Continued  from  page  74) 


to  the  wise  maintenance  of  a  very  happy 
marriage.  Twice  before  she  has  slipped 
off  home  to  the  peace  of  Ireland,  when 
remaining  in  Hollywood  would  have 
speeded  stardom.  And  now,  at  the  very 
moment  Hollywood  is  about  to  break 
into  the  chorus  of  its  theme  song  to 
fame  in  her  honor,  Geraldine  is  taking 
time  out  to  sing  a  few  lullabies  behind 
the  curtains  of  her  private  life  which 
she  drew  aside  for  me  in  a  provocative 
interview  not  long  ago. 

IT  would  take  one  of  the  lyrical  poets 
of  her  own  Ireland  to  do  justice  to 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald.  To  say  her  beauty 
is  typically  Irish  would  be  like  dismiss- 
ing the  Taj  Mahal  as  a  sample  of 
Indian  design. 

No  camera  could  ever  capture  in  black 
and  white  the  rare  quality  of  her 
beauty,  so  much  of  which  is  in  her  rich 
coloring;  the  dark  red  of  her  flowing 
hair,  worn  in  a  long  bob;  the  deep  green 
of  her  very  knowing  eyes. 

She  has  all  the  intellectual's  love  of 
good  talk  and  a  vast  impatience  with 
stupidity.  Her  speech  is  rich  in  color- 
ful adjectives  and  she  has  the  Gaelic 
gift  of  gaiety  and  a  quick,  imaginative 
sense  of  the  dramatic. 

Geraldine  Fitzgerald  is  one  of  those 
rare  souls  born  to  achieve.  She  could 
have  been  a  fine  painter,  a  poet  per- 
haps, or  a  musician.  She  chose  to  be  an 
actress  because,  she  says,  the  stage  pre- 
sented a  better  opportunity  to  satisfy 
the  streak  of  the  exhibitionist  which 
Geraldine  declares  is  a  part  of  every 
creative  person. 

But  Hollywood  isn't  going  to  pin  a 
tag  on  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and  label 
her,  "Glamour  Girl,  Type  C."  Not  if 
Geraldine  has  anything  to  say  about  it. 

"That  habit  of  typing  everything  and 
everyone  is  the  one  thing  I  don't  like 
about  Hollywood,"  the  intensely  in- 
dividual actress  told  me.  "You  have  to 
fight  to  retain  your  individuality.  And 
often  they  will  pick  out  a  character  for 
you  and  build  up  a  public  legend  that 
is  completely  foreign  to  your  real  self. 

"I  had  fun  the  first  few  months  there 
because  they  decided  I  was  to  be  the 
'typical  Irish  actress.'  The  publicity 
boys  admitted  they  didn't  have  the 
faintest  notion  what  a  'typical  Irish 
actress'  was,  .beyond  her  having  red  hair 
and  a  fiery  temper.  So  I  pretended  a 
lot  of  temperament,  tried  to  justify  my 
red  hair,  and  everyone  was  happy. 

"But  aside  from  the  tendency  to  label 
you,  Hollywood  is  a  love  of  a  place.  I 
like  its  busy  tempo,  its  eager  curiosity, 
its  quick  confidences  and  its  friendly 
welcome  to  strangers.  The  people  are 
vivid,  intelligent  and  ambitious.  I'm 
fearfully  ambitious  myself  and  other 
ambitious  people  interest  me." 

Ambition  is  a  family  trait  with  the 
Fitzgeralds.  Her  father  is  Edward  Fitz- 
gerald, a  brilliant  barrister  of  Dublin. 
Her  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Justice 
Richards,  a  noted  jurist. 

The  spirit  of  Ireland  is  half  magic, 
half  music.  It  entered  the  soul  of  Ger- 
aldine Fitzgerald  when  she  was  quite 
young.  Her  natural  artistic  temperament 
tirst  found  expression  in  a  childhood 
bent  for  painting,  and  the  fall  she  was 
fourteen  years  old,  she  entered  the 
Dublin  School  of  Art. 

One  of  her  teachers  was  Sean  Keat- 
ing, perhaps  the  best  known  of  con- 
temporary Irish  artists,  and  it  was  to 
Keating,  when  her  course  was  com- 
pleted, that  Geraldine  went  for  advice. 

"Where  shall  I  go  now?"  the  eager 
girl  inquired. 

Keating    looked    from    her    drawing 


board  to  her  bright,  appealing  young 
beauty,  and  his  response  would  have 
crushed  a  less  dauntless  spirit. 

"Go  off  and  get  married!" 

But  if  no  one  else  believed  in  her 
ability  as  an  artist,  Geraldine  herself 
was  still  convinced  she  would  some  day 
be  collecting  thousand  pound  fees  for 
her  portraits  of  famous  folk.  And  so  off 
to  London  she  went. 

Geraldine  packed  an  ordinary  life- 
time of  exciting  adventures  in  the  next 
two  years.  She  tried  her  hand  at  com- 
mercial art.  She  modeled.  She  sold 
dresses  in  a  swank  Regent  Street  shop. 
For  a  time,  she  lived  alone  in  a  house- 
boat on  the  Thames. 

And  then  one  night,  a  thunderstorm 
and  a  toothache  combined  to  keep  her 
awake  in  her  little  houseboat  cabin.  She 
sat  up  all  night  and  reshuffled  her  plans 
for  the  future. 

If  she  couldn't  dramatize  people  in 
paint,  perhaps  she  could  in  person,  she 
thought.  "That's  what  I'll  be.  I'll  be 
an  actress,"  she  cried. 

Back  in  Dublin,  her  aunt,  Shelah 
Richards,  the  very  lovely  and  talented 
star  of  the  Abbey  Players,  lent  a  sym- 
pathetic ear  to  her  aspirations  and  a 
helping  hand  into  a  scholarship  with  the 
Abbey's  School  of  Acting,  where  Ger- 
aldine spent  six  months  of  a  iigorous 
apprenticeship. 

It  was  with  the  Gate  Theater,  the 
Abbey's  rival  stock  company  in  Dublin, 
however,  that  Geraldine  made  her  pro- 
fessional debut  as  Isabella  in  "Wuther- 
ing  Heights,"  the  same  role  she  later 
was  to  play  so  brilliantly  in  Hollywood. 

During  the  summer  of  her  second  sea- 
son with  the  Gate  Theater,  Geraldine 
went  to  London  to  attend  a  ball  and 
was  recruited  by  one  of  those  little  in- 
dependent English  film  companies. 

After  a  minor  bit  in  her  first  film,  the 
Irish  actress  was  given  the  lead  in  four 
straight  pictures,  none  of  which  quali- 
fied as  a  cinematic  masterpiece.  "They 
were  all  quota  quickies,"  Geraldine  rue- 
fully recalls,  "and  were  uniformly  poor. 
Then  came  a  real  opportunity  in  'The 
Turn  of  the  Tide,'  one  of  those  artistic 
little  miracles  that  every  now  and  then 
challenge  the  attention  of  the  film 
world.  Next,  I  had  the  lead  in  'The  Mill 
on  the  Floss.' " 

Both  pictures  were  doomed  to  poor 
releases  and  Geraldine  was  discouraged. 

Her  dissatisfaction  reached  a  crisis 
when  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  was 
given  its  London  premiere  and  no  one 
even  bothered  to  send  her  a  ticket,  ne- 
glected even  to  notify  her  of  the  open- 
ing. She  decided  to  desert  films  and 
return  to  Ireland  and  the  Gate  Theater. 

'  PUT  if  the  movie  moguls  were  paying 
her  scant  attention,  there  was  one  gen- 
tleman in  London  who  had  eyes  for  no 
one  else. 

Edward  Lindsay-Hogg  was  a  rich, 
romantic-minded  young  man  whose  vo- 
cation was  training  horses  and  whose 
avocation  was  writing  music.  Shortly 
after  leaving  college,  Lindsay-Hogg  had 
gone  to  Ireland  to  buy  horses  and  had 
fallen  so  in  love  with  the  lush  land,  he 
had  become  a  naturalized  citizen  of  the 
new  Free  State. 

In  Dublin  he  met  Geraldine  and  more 
than  ever  was  convinced  that  Ireland 
must  be  heaven.  One  evening,  shortly 
after  her  rebuff  by  the  producers  of 
"The  Mill  on  the  Floss,"  Geraldine  was 
recounting  to  her  tall,  young  admirer, 
this  second  stymie  of  her  career.  She 
narrated  how  her  first  ambitions  had 
been  quashed  by  Keating,  her  art 
teacher. 


Omartly  modern  . . .  brilliantly  different 
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that  graces  your  table.  Ask  your  jeweler 
to  show  you  Princess  Royal  today.  You'll 
be  surprised  that  so  much  loveliness  could 
cost  so  little. 

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BEFORE  TODAY^OTN  SETS 

I  SHALL  APPEArIs  YEARS  YOUNGER! 


Today  I  shall  walk  through  the  magic  portals  of  my  beauty  salon. 
Deft,  capable  fingers  will  brush  my  drab  hair,  examine  the  telling  gray 
streaks  at  the  temples,  and  in  a  few  moments  soft,  light  suds  will 
bubble  like  champagne  over  my  hair.  I  will  relax  my  tired  body,  close 
my  eyes  —and  open  them  later  to  see— my  hair,  the  glowing  burnished- 
gold  shade  it  used  to  be  .  .  .  fifteen  years  ago.  My  eyes  will  brighten.  I 
shall  sit  up,  newly-confident  and  poised.  I  shall  walk  out  with  grace 
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I  resolve  to  have  glorious  Youthful 
Looking  Hair  STARTING  TODAY! 
I  will  telephone  my  beauty  salon 
for  an  ETERNOL  Tint  Oil  Shampoo. 


NO  UNDERARM  ODOR  AFTER! 


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west  Pike  Street.  Pontiae.  Michigan 


"You  know,"  said  Lindsay-Hogg,  "I 
think  Keating  had  something  there." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"That  business  about  going  off  and 
getting  married.    Let's." 

They  did,  just  two  weeks  later. 

New  York  was  to  have  been  merely 
one  of  the  high  spots  of  a  protracted 
wedding  trip  but  when  they  arrived  in 
Manhattan,  Geraldine  began  to  feel  the 
tug  of  a  trouper  to  be  back  on  the  stage 
and  went  into  the  lead  in  Orson  Welles' 
production  of  "Heartbreak  House" 
which  brought  her  to  the  attention  of 
Hal  Wallis,  executive  producer  of  War- 
ner Brothers,  who  promptly  offered  her 
a  Hollywood  contract.  Geraldine  wasn't 
sure  she  wanted  it,  but  finally  she 
agreed  to  a  test. 

ThEY  had  hardly  developed  the  film 
of  her  tests  in  Hollywood  and  were  just 
clearing  their  throats  to  make  an  offer 
when  Geraldine  packed  off  to  Ireland. 
Before  she  actually  sailed  from  New 
York,  they  had  pushed  a  contract  into 
her  hand,  but  when  she'd  be  back,  in 
fact,  if  she  would  be  back  at  all,  Ger- 
aldine wouldn't  say  definitely. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  Irish  acumen, 
it  was  an  act  that  impressed.  The 
cables  between  Hollywood  and  Dublin 
hummed.  Geraldine  hemmed.  And  the 
result  was  that  instead  of  being  shunted 
into  a  few  unimportant  roles  for  a  try- 
out,  the  sagacious  actress  was  offered 
the  second  lead  in  "Dark  Victory"  as 
her  first  American  film.  "Wuthering 
Heights"  and  the  lead  in  "A  Child  Is 
Born,"  followed  in  quick  succession  and 
then   once  more   Geraldine   halted  her 


march  down  the  road  to  film  fame  to 
take  a  six-months  vacation  in  Ireland. 

Lindsay-Hogg  had  just  bought  a 
charming  old  country  house  in  County 
Kildare,  a  short  canter  away  from  one 
of  Ireland's  most  famous  race  courses, 
and  picking  out  the  wallpaper  for 
rooms,  built  in  Cromwell's  time,  ap- 
pealed to  Geraldine  more  than  staying 
in  Hollywood. 

When  she  came  back  to  America,  late 
last  fall,  Geraldine  was  met  with  the 
news  that  Warner  Brothers  were  plan- 
ning to  star  her.  An  impressive  sched- 
ule of  vehicles  was  lined  up,  the  first 
of  which  called  for  her  being  co-starred 
with  Laurence  Olivier  in  "Disraeli." 

Geraldine  listened  to  the  plans  and 
then  announced  that  stardom  would 
have  to  wait  until  she  filled  a  previous 
commitment  with  the  Lindsay-Hogg 
nursery.  With  Geraldine's  baby  due  in 
May,  production  of  "Disraeli"  was  post- 
poned and  she  was  cast  in  a  supporting 
role  of  "  'Til  We  Meet  Again,"  featuring 
George  Brent,  Merle  Oberon  and  Pat 
O'Brien. 

Geraldine  is  back  in  New  York  now, 
happily  awaiting  the  most  important 
premiere  of  her  life.  Lindsay-Hogg, 
is  just  about  the  proudest  prospective 
papa  who  has  ever  inspected  a  toy  store. 
It  was  from  him  that  I  learned  that 
Geraldine  fully  intends  to  pick  up  her 
screen  career  after  she  has  filled  her 
engagement  in  the  more  important  role 
of  a  mother. 

"It  is  a  role  that  will  become  her 
beautifully,"  said  Lindsay-Hogg,  and 
picturing  Geraldine  as  a  radiant  mother, 
we  were  in  complete  agreement. 


Memo  on  Melvyn 


(Continued  from  page  25) 


God  actors  now  in  Hollywood.  Briefly, 
you  may  have  seen  him  in  any  small 
town  in  the  Middle  West  playing  any 
Shakesperian  character  in  tights;  or,  if 
you  are  a  resident  of  Madison,  Wiscon- 
sin, you  may  remember  him  as  the  star 
of  a  stock  company  that  gave  you  a  new 
show  every  week.  The  point  is,  he  got 
ready  for  Hollywood  the  hard  way. 

The  first  time  they  brought  him  to 
Hollywood  they  yanked  him  out  of  a 
Broadway  show  called  "Tonight  or 
Never."  This  play  has  one  of  the  hot- 
test love  scenes  on  record.  During  its 
run  on  Broadway,  Douglas  married 
Helen  Gahagan,  the  girl  with  whom  he 
played  the  scene — and  an  elderly  lady 
subsequently  commented  that  it  was  the 
only  decent  thing  to  do.  Anyway,  they 
brought  Douglas  to  Hollywood  and 
filmed  the  play,  with  Gloria  Swanson 
in  his  bride's  role.  Out  of  respect  to 
his  bride,  the  bridegroom  again  did 
the  only  decent  thing:    He  laid  an  egg. 

A  few  months  later  he  was  back  in 
New  York,  and  he  was  happy  again.  But 
he  wasn't  happy  long,  for  right  away 
Hollywood  called  his  bride  to  star  in 
"She,"  and  Douglas  told  her  to  go  ahead 
and  find  out  what  he  had  found 
out.  Pretty  soon  she  was  back  in  New 
York,  and  she  was  through  with  pic- 
tures and  the  stage,  too,  because  she 
had  a  secret.  She  told  Douglas  after 
they  had  boarded  a  Japanese  boat  for  a 
world  cruise.  She  was  going  to  have  a 
baby — and  soon. 

The  world  cruise  could  have  been 
fun  if  Douglas  hadn't  tossed  through 
long  nights  wondering  if  his  child  would 
be  born  on  the  boat  and  automatically 
become  a  Japanese  citizen.  It  didn't — 
but  it  came  so  close  to  it  that  Douglas 
cringes  at  the  mention  of  sukiyaki. 

Well,  the  kid  now  is  six-and-one-half 
years  old,  and  his  name  is  Peter,  and 
there's  this  newer  bundle  called  Mary 
Helen.     Hollywood  has  found  out  that 


Douglas  is  head  man  if  you'll  give 
him  a  part  that  will  fit  the  humor  in 
his  eyes.  And  Mrs.  Douglas  is  con- 
cerned first  about  the  children  and 
secondly  about  her  relief  work,  and  she 
has  put  away  her  make-up  box  with- 
out remorse. 

Off-screen  Douglas  has  Hollywood 
baffled.  Some  want  to  pin  a  Communist 
label  on  him  because  he  has  liberal  poli- 
tical leanings,  but  then  he  confuses 
them  by  willfully  taking  part  in  a  pic- 
ture which  slyly  pokes  Stalin  in  all  of 
his  alloted  ribs.  The  fact  that  Garbo 
played  opposite  him  in  "Ninotchka"  was 
simply  whipped  cream  on  his  pudding. 

The  man's  own  statement  is  this:  He 
is  an  American  with  a  deep-rooted  in- 
terest in  his  government. 

And  now  back  to  Hollyood.  We  have 
finished  shooting  "Too  Many  Husbands." 
Everybody  shook  hands  with  everybody 
and  said  how  swell  it  was  working 
together.  Douglas  shook  hands  with 
MacMurray  and  said  that  tomorrow  he 
was  going  to  be  interviewed  on  how  it 
feels  to  work  in  a  picture  with  Fred 
MacMurray.  He  half-closed  his  eyes 
and  started  quoting  himself  from  this 
lousy  imaginary  interview. 

"I'll  never  forget,"  he  said,  "the  mo- 
ment that  Fred  MacMurray  first  walked 
on  the  set.  He  was  much  taller  than 
he  seems  on  the  screen.  I  was  quite 
disappointed  to  learn  that  he  was  mar- 
ried, and  that  his  chin  veers  definitely 
to  the  left.  He  also  has  a  dark  beard, 
which   photographs   in   the   afternoon." 

MacMurray  grinned  and  swung  at 
Douglas,  hitting  me.  This  brought  me 
to  Douglas'  attention. 

"We'll  have  to  get  together,"  he  said. 
"My  wife  and  your  wife  would  hit  it  off 
perfectly." 

I  said  yes,  we'd  have  to  get  together. 
And  we  will. 

But,  for  the  time  being,  that's  all  I 
know  about  Melvyn  Douglas. 


96 


PHOTOPLAY 


Which  Romance  Rumors  Are  Fakes? 


(Continued  from  page  23) 


and  if  the  work  gets  too  heavy  I  might 
move  back  to  it  for  a  while." 

Such  a  statement  makes  everything 
much,  much  too  simple,  as  Errol  very 
well  knows.  But,  as  a  continual  study 
in  how  people  can  separate  and  not  be 
separated,  he  and  Lili  deserve  a  special 
Oscar  from  the  Motion  Picture  Acad- 
emy of  Arts  and  Marriages. 

I  HEN  there  is  the  case  of  Mr.  Randolph 
Scott  and  Miss  Natalie  Draper,  who  was 
but  recently  Mrs.  Tom  Brown.  There 
is  also  a  Mrs.  Randolph  Scott,  whom 
Hollywood  persistently  forgets.  Never- 
theless, the  lady  does  exist,  and  she  is 
a  lady,  too,  just  as  Randy  is  a  very  real 
gentleman. 

For  the  past  few  months,  nonetheless, 
the  word  has  flown  that  Randy  and 
Natalie  were  about  to  get  married. 
They  said — the  great  anonymous  they 
— that  Randy  had  filed  his  action  for 
divorce.  Well,  what  Randy  said — 
Randy  himself,  not  anyone  anonymous 
— is,  "I  have  not  filed  any  action  for 
divorce,  nor  will  I  file  one.  If  any  di- 
vorce action  arises  between  Mrs.  Scott 
and  myself,  she  will  be  the  one  who  will 
file  it.  But  Mrs.  Scott  is  not  filing  a 
divorce."    So  there  you  are  on  that  one. 

Now  you  have  probably  also  been 
reading  about  the  sudden  though  death- 
less love  of  Director  Anatole  Litvak  for 
Bette  Davis.  Maybe  if  you  read  two 
papers  you  have  almost  at  the  same  time 
read  about  the  sudden  but  deathless 
love  of  Mr.  Litvak  for  Ann  Sheridan. 
And  maybe,  if  you  read  a  third  paper, 
you  have  read,  also  at  the  same  time, 
about  the  sudden  but  deathless  love  of 
George  Brent  (who  is  supposedly  pin- 
ing away  for  Miss  Davis)  for  Ann 
Sheridan,  too.  Well,  if  all  this  confuses 
you  a  bit,  I  do  wish  you  would  sit  back 
for  a  moment  and  realize  that  Messrs. 
Litvak  and  Brent  and  Miles.  Davis  and 
Sheridan  are  all  under  contract  to  one 
studio. 

In  the  above  cases,  the  facts  are  these. 
Tola  Litvak  is  a  charming,  intelligent 
man.  Ditto  for  George  Brent.  Tola 
had  dated  both  Bette  Davis  and  Ann 
Sheridan.  Ditto  for  George  Brent. 
From  personal  observation,  I  have  seen 
Tola  in  the  past  month  dating  five  dif- 
fent  other  girls  in  the  space  of  that 
many  nights  at  Ciro's,  the  spot  where 
everybody  goes  these  evenings.  I  can't 
say  ditto  on  that  for  George  Brent,  since 
George  immediately  upon  the  comple- 
tion of  his  most  recent  picture  went  to 
Honolulu,  and  when  he  is  working,  he 
never  goes  anywhere  save  home. 

However,  if  you  have  ever  heard  of 
two  people  freshly  enamoured  of  each 


other,  putting  thousands  of  miles  be- 
tween them,  the  instant  they  were  free 
to  enjoy  a  vacation,  don't  tell  me  about 
them.  They  sound  much  too  detached 
for  my  taste.  Merely  for  the  record, 
though,  I  wouldn't  consider  Brent  and 
Sheridan  as  the  detached  type,  would 
you?  Before  I  get  off  this  subject,  I 
would  also  like  to  add  that  Mr.  Litvak, 
even  as  Mr.  Scott  and  Miss  Crawford,  is 
still  married — in  his  case,  to  Miss  Miri- 
am Hopkins,  with  whom  he  has  also 
been  rumored  as  reconciling. 

There  are,  however,  two  divorces  in 
the  offing  and  one  current  romance  that 
do  seem  to  be  as  printed.  At  long  last 
Ginger  Rogers  has  filed  suit  to  divorce 
Lew  Ayres.  Why  now  and  not  several 
years  ago,  I  don't  know.  Ginger  and 
Lew  have  always  been  close-mouthed 
and  they  are  still  being  close-mouthed. 
The  people  who  know  a  friend  who 
knows  a  friend  scurry  around  and  an- 
nounce that  they  know  the  man  Ginger 
is  interested  in  (two  months  ago  that, 
supposedly,  was  William  Powell — you 
remember,  the  one  who  married  Diana 
Lewis)  and  that  Lew  is  fascinated  by 
little  Mary  Beth  Hughes. 

It  looks  authentic  that  Brenda  Mar- 
shall will  sue  for  divorce  in  May.  If 
she  does,  that  will  make  her  free  in 
May,  1941.  Possibly  then  she  will 
marry  William  Holden.  Possibly  she 
won't.  A  year  is  a  long  time  in  Holly- 
wood when  you  are  young  and  your 
career  is  just  developing. 

But  there  are  rainbows  around  the 
shoulders  of  Richard  Greene  and  Vir- 
ginia Field.  The  home  fires  burn  in 
their  enchanted  eyes.  You  never  see 
Richard  with  any  other  girl.  You  never 
see  Virginia  with  any  other  boy.  They 
are  a  continual  twosome  They  are  al- 
ways alone  together,  whether  they  are 
in  a  crowd  of  fifty  thousand  at  the  races 
or  in  a  racing  car  built  for  two.  Even  at 
that  Virginia  says  she  and  Richard 
won't  be  married  "right  now."  She 
states  that  Richard  is  too  busy  at  his 
career,  that  he  must  give  so  much  of 
his  time  to  it,  that  they  can't,  then,  think 
of  matrimony. 

Well,  you  and  I  know  that  it's 
love,  old-fashioned,  grade-one  love, 
particularly  when  unselfishness  comes 
into  it,  and  two  people  who  think  as 
one  begin  thinking  first  of  the  happi- 
ness of  the  other.  So,  no  matter  what 
fine  statements  they  make,  I'll  give  you 
odds  on  the  eventual  Greene -Field  nup- 
tials. Still,  I  never  made  a  cent  gam- 
bling, so  maybe  I'll  lose  this  time.  But 
I  don't  think  so,  even  though  the  Hol- 
lywood heart  is  a  very,  very  strange 
ticker. 


Hollywood's  "Extra  Racket" 


(Continued  from  -page  19) 


Before  Hymie  came  to  Hollywood  a 
bright  gang  of  petty  larceny  mobsters 
somehow  got  a  list  of  extras  who  were 
in  considerable  demand.  They  waylaid 
these  men  and  women.  They  offered  to 
protect  them  from  facial  injuries  and 
bodily  disabilities  which  might  bar 
them  from  life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit 
of  stardom.  The  fee  was  nominal.  It 
ranged  from  five  to  ten  dollars  a  month. 

And  just  to  show  they  meant  busi- 
ness, two  dozen  extras  mysteriously  got 
their  faces  battered  and  their  bodies 
bruised  and  torn  during  the  next  two 
weeks  and  their  injuries  were  so  severe 
they  couldn't  report  for  work.    Some  of 


the  victims  hadn't  heeded  the  offer  of 
"protection."  Some  had  never  even 
been  approached. 

For  some  weeks,  possibly  for  months, 
the  little  gang  reaped  a  steady  harvest 
of  five  and  ten  dollar  bills.  The  extras 
used  to  get  instructions  to  drop  their 
"dues,"  sealed  in  plain  envelopes, 
through  the  open  back  window  of  a 
sedan  parked  about  as  far  from  Hymie 
Miller's  delicatessen  as  you  could 
throw  a  racing  form. 

One  day  the  sedan  was  not  there. 
Overnight  the  mobsters  had  moved  on. 
They  were  out-of-towners,  mostly, 
trading  in  nickels  and  dimes.     But  lit- 


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tie  mobs  can  become  big  mobs — trad- 
ing in  nickels  and  dimes.  And  Los  An- 
geles' powerful  downtown  gambling 
and  vice  interests  had  too  much  at  stake 
in  Hollywood  and  environs  to  risk  an 
embarrassing  investigation  of  the  terri- 
tory caused  by  some  squawk  from  an 
extra  over  a  five  dollar  bill. 

So  the  little  mobsters  grumbled  and 
dissolved  and  left.  And  some  of  them 
didn't  go  willingly. 

That  particular  mob  was  dead,  but  the 
idea  wasn't.  Three  or  four  new  groups 
straggled  out  of  the  gutter.  In  their 
ranks  were  disgruntled  former  extras. 
Starving.    Sore  at  the  world. 

The  beatings  continued  sporadically. 
Hardly  a  month  has  passed  in  the  last 
five  years  in  which  there  has  not  been  a 
report  of  some  extra  or  extras  getting 
beaten.  For  nickels  and  dimes.  Three 
weeks  ago  Daily  Variety  reported  that 
goon  squads  were  again  attacking  the 
extras.  Some  of  these  attacks  took 
place  right  on  the  sets.  The  beatings 
were  severe. 

The  mobsters  aren't  all  there  is  in 
this  sordid  picture  of  extra  oppression. 
A  Guild  spokesman  admitted  a  few 
days  ago  that  300  of  the  5,600  extras 
listed  seem  invariably  to  be  preferred 
when  the  studio  calls  for  extras  and 
Central  Casting  places  them.  How  do 
the  300  get  favoritism?  Variety  also  re- 
ported that  it  was  rumored  certain 
extras  have  presented  gifts  to  someone 
responsible  for  casting  and  have  been 
presenting  these  gifts  with  a  regularity 
suspiciously  akin  to  bribery. 

Attacks  outside  and  in.  Bribery  ru- 
mors have  been  in  the  public  prints  and 
in  street  corner  conversation  in  Holly- 
wood almost  monotonously.  Rumors 
that  extras  have  to  buy  their  jobs,  buy 
favor.  It  isn't  buying  a  $2,500  a  week 
job.  It's  buying  a  five  or  ten  dollar  call 
— buying  a  break  that  may  mean  the 
month's  food  and  lodging. 

There  have  been  uglier  rumors.  Ru- 
mors of  extra  girls  having  to  sell  them- 
selves— for  "protection,"  or  a  job.  Hol- 
lywood still  remembers  the  sensational 
Dave  Allen  case.  Allen  was  head  of 
Central  Casting.  He  was  tried  on  the 
charges  of  an  extra  girl  that  she  had 
been  forced  by  him  to  submit  to  moral 
compromises  as  the  price  for  a  job  in 
the  movies.  She  told  a  story  of  being 
lured  to  parties,  of  other  girls  in  Allen's 
"clique"  who  sought  out  new  converts 
for  Allen.  At  the  first  trial  there  was  a 
hung  jury  and  subsequently  the  charges 
were  dismissed.  Allen  resigned  as  head 
of  Central  Casting. 

Is  Central  Casting  favoring  a  certain 
clique  of  extras?  Is  someone  in  Cen- 
tral taking  bribes — financial  or  phys- 
ical? Executives  at  Central  Casting 
would  like  to  know.  They  say  that  the 
Atherton  Detectives  have  not  yet  been 
around  to  quiz  them  officially.  They  say 
their  books  are  as  open  as  their  con- 
sciences. They  realize  that  outside 
gangs  are  apparently  beating  up  extras. 
But  that,  they  point  out,  is  hardly  the 
affair  of  a  placement  agency  such  as 
Central  Casting.  Time  alone  will  give 
the  answers  to  these  problems. 

In  their  own  words,  Central  Casting 
is  a  sort  of  extras'  employment  agency. 
A  clearing  house.  It  is  not  a  public  en- 
terprise, nor  is  it  engaged  in  public 
service.  It  is  a  private  corporation, 
backed  by  the  producers.  It  acts  as  of- 
ficial representative  of  certain  studios 
in  selecting  persons  it  believes  suitable 
for  the  needs  of  these  studios,  as  ex- 
pressed by  the  studios'  orders  for  extra 
talent.  In  performing  this  selection 
Central  Casting  acts  on  its  own  judg- 
ment. At  no  time  has  Central  Casting 
promised  work  to  anyone,  nor  does  it 
acknowledge  any  obligation  to  hire  any 
particular  person,  no  matter  what  his 
needs,  experience  or  influence  may  be. 
The  mere  fact  of  registering  with  Cen- 


tral Casting  is  no  guarantee  of  employ- 
ment. It  is  merely  a  convenience  to  the 
extra  and  the  studio.  Central  Casting 
charges  no  commission  to  those  it  places 
in  extra  work;  its  service  is  free. 

If,  in  its  judgment,  certain  persons 
are  unsuited  for  any  reason  to  the  work 
it  has  to  offer,  Central  exercises  the 
right  not  to  engage  those  persons. 

In  other  words,  when  a  studio  needs 
fifty  extras,  it  doesn't  have  to  go  to  all 
the  trouble  of  calling  fifty  individuals, 
finding  some  at  home,  some  not.  It 
simply  calls  Central  Casting  and  Central 
calls  the  extras.  It's  a  convenience  to 
the  studios  and  the  studios  support  Cen- 
tral Casting  and  pay  its  bills. 

Letter  after  letter  from  extras  to 
newspapers  charge  Central  Casting  with 
playing  favorites.  The  Screen  Actors 
Guild  wants  to  know  whether  Central 
is  really  playing  favorites. 

And  if  so — why? 

And  to  discover  the  answers  to  these 
questions,  and  to  the  racketeering  ques- 
tion and  to  the  question  of  whether 
casting  directors  or  their  assistants  are 
playing  favorites — and  why — the  Guild 
some  weeks  ago  hired  the  Atherton  De- 
tective Agency,  composed  of  former 
G-men,  to  make   the  investigation. 

The  detectives  will  have  their  full  re- 
port ready  by  the  time  this  issue  of 
Photoplay  is  on  the  stands. 

The  Guild  doesn't  want  any  playing 
of  favorites.  Central  Casting  submits  to 
the  Guild  daily  a  list  of  all  extras  used 
that  day.  If  the  same  name  was  on  too 
many  lists  there  would  be  trouble. 
For  it  would,  unless  it  could  be  ex- 
plained away,  indicate  favoritism. 

The  Guild  wants  to  find  out  whether 
all  the  people  named  on  the  daily  work 
sheets  actually  went  to  work.  Whether 
they  were  ever  even  notified  to  go  to 
work — or  whether  some  favored  extra 


Smile  provided  by  Norma  Shearer — 
tickets  provided  by  George  Raft — 
event  provided  by  "Grapes  of  Wrath" 


got  the  job  that  day  and  somebody 
else's  name  was  used  on  the  list. 

Will  the  detectives  uncover  enough 
evidence  to  back  them  up?  That's  the 
question  Hollywood  is  asking  today.  It 
is  a  sympathetic  Hollywood,  thoroughly 
sick  and  disgusted  with  the  miasma  of 
rumor  that  has  overhung  the  extra  sit- 
uation for  entirely  too  many  years. 

Certainly  not  all  of  the  charges  and 
complaints  are  valid.  Some  come  from 
crackpots.  Some  are  obviously  unrea- 
sonable from  people  with  grudges. 

Miraculously,  thanks  in  large  part  to 
Guild  protection,  most  extras  have  been 
untouched  by  mobsters  or  graft,  except 
so  far  as  attacks  and  bribes  endanger  the 
existence  of  them  all. 

A  few  years  ago  anybody  could  be  an 
extra — and  almost  everybody  was.    To- 


day only  Guild  members  can  get  jobs— 
and  the  Guild  books  have  been  closed. 
Fourteen  thousand  of  them  dropped  off 
when  dues  were  imposed.  Somehow 
the  rest,  paying  God  knows  how  out  of 
their  average  of  $30  to  $50  a  month, 
manage  to  keep  up  their  dues,  feed 
themselves,  keep  a  roof  over  their 
heads,  clothes  on  their  backs — and  hang 
on. 

The  Guild  has  done  much  for  the  ex- 
tras. It  removed  many  abuses,  set  up 
decent  wage  and  hour  schedules,  im- 
proved working  conditions.  But  in  set- 
tling the  extra  problem — the  problem  of 
too  many  extras— the  Guild  decided  to 
employ  the  rule  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest.  The  Guild  didn't  want  to  be  ac- 
cused of  favoritism  in  selecting  those 
they  thought  best  fitted  to  be  Guild 
members.  So  it  left  the  whole  thing  up 
to  chance. 

Those  who  could  pay  dues,  hung  on. 
Those  who  couldn't,  dropped  off. 

The  fittest  haven't  all  survived,  as 
usual.  I  have  heard  producers  and 
Guild  members  insist  that  it  was  im- 
perative to  keep  as  many  extras  on  hand 
as  possible  in  order  to  ensure  new  tal- 
ent. And  to  protect  pictures  from 
showing  the  same  extra  faces  over  and 
over  again.  But  new  talent  has  con- 
tinued to  flood  Hollywood,  extras  or  no 
extras,  and  the  new  talent  doesn't  us- 
ually come  from  extra  ranks.  And  if  it 
is  true  that  300  extras  have  been  favored 
out  of  the  5,600  or  9,849,  apparently  pic- 
tures haven't  suffered  from  a  sameness 
of  the  300  faces. 

That's  the  extra  situation  in  Holly- 
wood.   Except  this— 

After  Hymie  Miller's  death  the  police 
worried  about  reprisals.  They  thought 
it  was  a  gang  murder.  Police  detective 
J.  A.  Page,  who  helped  investigate  the 
case,  says  Hymie  Miller  was  not  the 
head  man.  There  seemed,  he  said,  to  be 
a  gang  of  racketeers  always  hanging 
about  Hymie's  delicatessen. 

The  head  man,  Page  says,  probably 
worked  in  Central  Casting  or  The 
Screen  Actors  Guild  or  at  some  major 
studio. 

Page  and  his  investigators  were  con- 
vinced the  extras  had  been  paying  off. 
But  they  couldn't  gather  enough  evi- 
dence to  make  any  arrests  or  drum  up 
any  kind  of  a  case. 

Once  each  week,  for  the  past  few 
weeks,  the  Atherton  Agency  men  have 
been  presenting  to  Guild  directors  facts 
uncovered  during  the  preceding  week. 
The  information  discovered  thus  far  has 
been  kept  secret.  The  complete  Ather- 
ton report,  as  I  write  this,  is  about  ready 
for  submission. 

Central  Casting  executives  say  defi- 
nitely that  there  are  cliques  who  have 
been  milking  the  $5.50  a  day  extras  of 
their  small  pennies.  They  muscle  onto, 
sets  where  there  are  a  hundred  extras 
working  for  $5.50  a  day.  They  collect 
fifty  cents  "protection"  from  each  extra. 
And  in  Hollywood  $50  thus  collected 
is  just  a  few  minutes'  work  in  a  town 
that  last  year  spent  more  than  $3,000,000 
on  so  lowly  an  item  as  extra  players. 

How  much  of  that  three  million  went 
to  line  the  pockets  of  dishonest  officials 
and  employees,  in  the  form  of  bribes? 
How  much  to  line  the  pockets  of  racke- 
teers for  "protection,"  for  these  already 
starving  extra  folk? 

Who  killed  Hymie  Miller? 
Who  were  the  mobsters  who  beat  up 
scores  upon  scores  of  humble  extras  so 
badly   that  they   couldn't  answer  their 
rare,  pitiful  calls  for  work? 

Do  casting  directors  take  physical  or 
financial  bribes  from  these  penny -paid 
folk? 

Is  there  fire  behind  the  smoke  of  all 
these  rumors,  charges  and  complaints? 

Hollywood  wants  to  know.    The  Guild 
is  determined  to  find  out. 
The  Atherton  report  will  show. 


98 


PHOTOPLAY 


The  Shadow  Stage 


(Continued  from  page  73) 


WOMEN  WITHOUT  NAMES-Paramount 

nS  low-budget  prison  pictures  go,  this 
one  goes  well;  the  performances  are 
good,  the  story  is  sympathetic  and  there 
is  plenty  of  suspense.  Plot  revolves 
around  a  boy  and  girl  convicted  of  a 
murder  on  circumstantial  evidence. 
Robert  Paige  and  Ellen  Drew  have  top 
roles  and  Judith  Barrett's  a  heavy. 

BLONDIE  ON  A  BUDGET-Columbia 

OLONDIE'S  yen  for  a  fur  jacket  and 
Dagwood's  desire  to  join  a  trout  club 
he  can't  afford  are  hardly  important 
enough  problems  to  make  you  care. 
Blondie  budgets,  and  Dagwood  has  his 
worries  because  an  old  girl-friend,  of 
whom  his  wife  is  jealous,  comes  to  town, 
and  Baby  Dumpling  dumpies  engag- 
ingly, and  that's  all  there  is.  Penny 
Singleton,  Arthur  Lake,  Rita  Hayworth 
and  Larry  Simms  do  what  there  is  to  do. 

*  NORTHWEST  PASSAGE-M-G-M 

I  HIS  picture,  done  on  epic  lines  and  in 
Technicolor,  is  so  big  and  beautiful  that 
it's  all  a  little  too  much  to  take  in  one 
evening.  It  covers  the  first  half  of  Ken- 
neth Roberts'  book,  that  portion  which 
deals  with  the  journey  of  Rogers' 
Rangers  through  the  wilderness  to  at- 
tack the  Indian  stronghold,  St.  Francis. 
Essentially,  it's  the  story  of  one  man, 
Major  Rogers,  whose  indomitable  will 
carries  the  entire  expedition  over  seem- 
ingly insurmountable  barriers  and  on 
to  bloody  climax.  Faithful  history  is 
combined  with  magnificent  action  scenes 
to  create  entertainment  worthy  of  su- 
perlatives. Spencer  Tracy,  as  Rogers, 
has  never  given  a  finer  performance, 
Robert  Young,  playing  his  young  aide, 
does  excellent  work  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  cast  live  up  to  the  demands  of  Di- 
rector King  Vidor. 

SEVENTEEN-Paramount 

BoOTH  TARKINGTON'S  famous  story 
of  teen-age  love,  brought  up  to  date, 
is  an  amiable  little  thing  with  Jackie 
Cooper  playing  Willie  Baxter.  The 
crush  he  gets  on  Betty  Field,  the  ruth- 
less siren  from  Chicago,  nearly  drives 
him  frantic  and  you  will  ache  for  the 
boy.  All  the  troubles  Tarkington  wrote 
into  his  book — the  tuxedo,  the  horrid 
little  sister,  Norma  Nelson,  the  parents 
— are  here.  Young  Cooper  gives  his 
role  reality.  Miss  Field  is  a  perfect 
choice  for  the  ingenue. 

MILLIONAIRE  PLAYBOY-RKO-Radio 

lAKE  Joe  Penner.  Give  him  a  com- 
plex, started  in  the  cradle,  so  that  when- 
ever a  pretty  girl  kisses  him  he  gets 
hiccups.  Make  him  the  son  of  a  mil- 
lionaire. Send  him  to  a  resort  hotel 
where  there  are  scores  of  pretty  girls, 
all  on  the  make.  And  there  you  have 
this  picture,  which  will  be  immensely 
funny,  to  all  Penner  fans.  Linda  Hayes 
is  the  girl  who  finally  cures  him. 

BLACK  FRIDAY— Universal 

FRIDAY  the  Thirteenth  is  the  date  of 
beginning,  and  results  in  an  accident  to 
Boris  Karloff's  best  friend.  Karloff's  a 
doctor  with  a  formula  for  transplanting 
brains,  the  friend's  a  professor,  the 
driver  of  the  accident  car  a  criminal. 
Dr.  Karloff  puts  the  criminal's  mind  into 
the  cranium  of  his  friend  and  starts  a 
trend  of  events  that  will  keep  you  en- 
thralled   to    the    bitter    end.      Such    an 


imaginative  setup  is  a  natural  for  hor- 
ror and  suspense;  you  can't  stand  it, 
until  you  find  out  what's  going  to  hap- 
pen. That's  suspense  as  is  suspense. 
Bela  Lugosi,  troupes  along,  while  Stan- 
ley Ridges  as  the  professor  walks  calmly 
off  with  almost  all  the  honors.  Anne 
Nagel  provides  the  spot  of  beauty. 

BULLET  CODE-RKO  Radio 

I  HE  Perennial  O'Brien  is  still  galloping 
over  the  sage  brush,  righting  wrongs 
and  saving  homesteads.  In  this  case  he 
thinks  he's  killed  a  young  man  and  goes 
to  break  the  news  to  the  deceased's 
father  and  sister.  These  two  are  about 
to  lose  their  ranch  to  a  gang  of  rustlers. 
Virginia  Vale  plays  the  sister,  and 
George  O'Brien  has  not  changed  during 
the  years.     There's  plenty  of  action. 

THE  GHOST  COMES  HOME-M-G-M 

IRANK  MORGAN'S  incomprehensible 
attempts  at  speaking  consecutive  Eng- 
lish sentences  and  Billie  Burke's  vapor- 
ings  are  all  very  well  as  comedy  relief. 
But  in  this  it's  all  too  much.  Morgan  is 
supposed  to  be  a  kind  of  Mr.  Average 
Man  who  is  nagged  by  his  wife,  Miss 
Burke,  into  energetic  action.  He  goes 
too  far,  turns  into  an  unpleasantly 
dominant  person.  Ann  Rutherford  and 
John  Shelton  are  in  the  cast. 

THE  MARINES  FLY  HIGH-RKO-Radio 

REMEMBER  when  a  picture  featuring 
Richard  Dix  and  Chester  Morris  would 
have  been  really  big-time  entertain- 
ment? Not  this  one,  though — it's  over- 
done and  embarrassingly  melodramatic. 
Two  marines  are  after  the  same  girl, 
Lucille  Ball.  She's  a  plantation  owner 
on  a  wild  island,  and  needs  the  marines 
in  their  professional  capacity  because 
of  bandits  in  the  neighborhood. 

STRANGE  CARGO— M-G-M 

I  HE  original  name  of  this  was  "Not 
Too  Narrow,  Not  Too  Deep,"  and  it 
referred  to  graves  people  dig  for  them- 
selves. There  is  much  of  death  about 
the  film.  It  is  a  weird,  allegorical 
preachment  having  to  do  with  escaping 
convicts  in  the  jungles  surrounding  a 
tropical  prison  camp.  Clark  Gable 
plays  the  toughest  of  the  convicts,  Joan 
Crawford  a  brothel  gal.  She  is  kicked 
off  the  island,  has  no  money  for  steamer 
fare,  and  joins  the  band.  Through  all 
the  tribulations  of  these  miserable  peo- 
ple strides  a  Christlike  figure  in  the 
person  of  Ian  Hunter,  who  struggles  to 
bring  about  their  regeneration.  Miss 
Crawford  gives  a  superb  dramatic 
portrayal  and  goes  off  the  glamour 
standard  for  the  first  time.  Hunter  looks 
benevolent  and  Gable  seems  a  little  em- 
barrassed with  a  role  that  would  em- 
barrass practically  anybody.  Peter 
Lorre  is  M.  Pig,  and  most  expressive 
about  it. 

HALF  A  SINNER— Universal 

OPRING  is  in  the  air,  so  schoolmarm 
Heather  Angel  buys  a  glamour  ensem- 
ble, and  goes  out  into  the  big  world  to 
seek  adventure.  She  finds  it  with  a 
capital  A  in  the  shape  of  a  stolen  car,  a 
mysterious  corpse,  a  series  of  cops  and 
robbers  and  a  handsome  young  man, 
John  King.  Constance  Collier  and  Wal- 
ter Catlett  add  comic  touches.  In  a  mild 
sort  of  way,  this  will  be  good  for  what 
ails  you. 


Statues  never  have  dates, 
w  but... Beauty  in  Motion 
keeps  busy! 


vaistline  intriguingly  slender 
hips  trimly  tailored 


PANEL-ART  foundations  and 
Thrill  Bras  by  Formfit  give  you 
easy,  graceful  freedom  while 
conforming  your  figure  to  the 
Scissors  Silhouette.  Girdles,  $5.00 
to  $12.50  — Brassieres,  $1.00  to  $3.50. 


Jwmjrt"   FOUNDATIONS 


G42fAaaed  luj,  £cJu&pa/ieli 


MADE    BY   THE    FORMFIT    COMPANY  •  CHICA< 


oracious 

.  COAST  TO  r 


A.   S.    KIRKEBY, 


KIRKEBy 
HOTEL* 


MAY,      1940 


99 


Brief  Reviews 


tJ* 


Nobody  can  blame  you  for  looking  sad, 
tired  —  or  feeling  cross  —  when  you're 
troubled  with  eliminative  sluggishness. 
But  someone  should  blame  you  if  you  don't 
hurry  up  and  do  something  about  it! 

You  Can  Be  a  Different  Person 

Free  yourself  from  those  distressing  symp- 
toms of  common  constipation.  Get  enough 
of  nature's  own  healthful  herbs.  Get  a 
package  of  SWISS  KRISS  Brand  Herbal 
Laxative. 

A  Different  Kind  of  Laxative 

SWISS  KRISS  owes  its  effectiveness  and 
pleasant  taste  to  14  important  ingredients 
— leaves,  berries  and  seeds  harvested  from 
Nature's  own  herbs.  Ask  for  it  at  health 
food,  drug  and  department  stores. 


50c  and  $1.00       ^jSn^*- 


TJse  Mercolized  Wax  Cream  to  help  you  obtain 
.  a  fresher,  smoother,  lovelier  complexion.  It 
flakes  off  the  duller,  darker,  older  superficial  skin  in 
tiny,  invisible  particles.  You  will  be  thrilled  with  the 
wonderful  improvement  in  your  appearance.  Trv 
Mercolized  Wax  Cream  today. 

Use  Phelactine  Depilatory 

REMOVES  superfluous  facial  hair  quickly  and 
.  easily.  Skin  appears  more  attractive. 

S.™  ,Tr*  Sa*olrte  Astringent 
AXOLITE  Astrinftent  refreshes  the  skin.  De- 
lightfully pleasant  to  use.  Dissolve  Saxolite 
in  one-half  pint  witch  hazel  and  pat  briskly  on 
the  skin  several  times  a  day. 

Sold  at  all  Cosmetic  Counters 


(Continued  from  page  6) 


•  DAY-TIME  WIFE— 20th  Century-Fox 

The  old  secretary-wife-husband  triangle,  done 
vnv  entertainingly.  Tyrone  Power  is  at  his  gay 
l«  -1  a-;  tin-  erring  husband.  Linda  Darnell  registers 
as  his  wife.  Windy  U.irne  as  hi-,  pretty  secretary, 
U'.nri'ii  William  complicates  the  plot,  and  Binnie 
Barnes  helps  to  straighten  it  out  again.    {Feb.) 

ic  DESTRY  RIDES  AGAIN— Universal 

This  honey  of  a  Western  has  Brian  Donlevy  as  a 
frontier  crime  king,  with  Marlene  Dietrich  a 
honky-tonk  queen.  Enter  Jimmy  Stewart  in  the 
title  role,  determined  to  clean  up  the  town  without 
shootin'  irons.  Festivities  are  also  helped  along  by 
Una  Merkel,  Mischa  Auer  and  Irene  Hervey,  but 
Jimmy,  Marlene  and  Charlie  Winninger  are  some- 
thing terrific!    {Feb.) 

•  DR.  EHRLICH'S  MAGIC  BULLET-Warners 

Edward  G.  Robinson  takes  full  advantage  of  the 
greatest  chance  of  his  career,  as  the  brilliant  doctor 
who  fired  the  first  effective  shots  in  the  battle 
against  diphtheria  and  syphilis.  It's  another  of 
Warners'  moving  documents  of  medical  history, 
with  Ruth  Gordon  outstanding  in  a  splendid  cast. 
(.Apr.) 

•  EARL  OF  CHICAGO,  THE— M-G-M 

Something  new — and  it's  grand.  Robert  Mont- 
gomery, a  Chicago  gangster,  inherits  a  title  and  es- 
tates from  an  English  ancestor  and  goes  abroad  to 
liquidate  them.  Up  against  tradition,  you  watch 
the  conflict  between  the  man  he  is  and  the  man  he 
might  have  been.  Edward  Arnold  plays  the  financial 
adviser  Montgomery  double-crosses.  There's  no 
love  interest.    {March) 

•  ENTENTE  CORDIALE— Glass 

Victor  Francen  does  superb  work  in  the  role  of 
Edward  VII  of  England — that  royal  playboy  whose 
love  for  Paris  brought  about  the  friendly  alliance 
between  his  country  and  France.  Wise  and  witty, 
with  Victoria  faithfully  portrayed  by  Gaby  Mor- 
lay.    {March) 

EVERYTHING   HAPPENS   AT   NIGHT— 20th 
Century-Fox 

Ah.  the  pity  of  it!  Sonja  Henie  skates  only  once 
in  tli-is  triangle  story — this  time  Ray  Milland  and 
Robert  Cummings — who  chase  her  all  over  Switzer- 
land's icy  mountains.    {March) 

•  FIGHT  FOR  LIFE,  THE-United  States  Film 

Inspired  by  Paul  de  Kruif's  book  of  the  same 
name,  this  Pare  Lorenz  documentary  film  about 
the  heroic  work  of  the  Chicago  Maternity  Center 
in  the  face  of  almost  insuperable  odds  is  unspar- 
ingly realistic,  possibly  shocking,  but  undeniably 
powerful  and  moving.    {Apr.) 

•  FIGHTING  69th,  THE— Warners 

The  story  of  New  York's  famous  regiment  has 
Jimmy  Cagney  giving  a  memorable  performance  as 
the  toughy  who  cracks  up  under  shell  fire.  George 
Brent  is  excellent,  but  it's  the  performance  of  Pat 
O'Brien,  as  the  beloved  Father  Duffy,  that  will 
leave  a  lasting  impression.  Jeffrey  Lynn,  Alan  Hale, 
Dick  Foran,  Dennis  Morgan,  William  Lundigan; 
"Big  Boy"  Williams,  Frank  McHugh  and  Sam 
Levene  help  make  this  more  than  just  an  evening's 
entertainment.    {March) 

GERONIMOI-Paramount 

Nicely  authentic  in  feeling,  this  is  the  story  of 
the  cruel  Apache  Indian  chief  who  ravaged  the 
frontier  in  bygone  days.  Ralph  Morgan  is  the 
general  who  sets  out  to  fight  Geronimo  (Chief 
Thundercloud).  Bill  Henry  is  his  son  from  West 
Point.  There  isn't  much  personal  story,  but  there's 
a  riot  of  action.  {Feb.) 

*  GONE  WITH  THE  WIND-Selznick-M-G-M 

So  magnificent  is  this  re-creation  of  the  modern 
classic  about  the  Civil  War's  effect  on  the  South 
that  it  would  take  volumes  to  review  it  adequately. 
In  brief:  Full  justice  has  been  done  the  novel. 
Clark  Gable  IS  Rheli.  Vivien  Leigh  is  magnificent 
as  Scarlett.  Olivia  de  Havilland  does  her  best  work 
as  Melanie.  Leslie  Howard  (Ashley)  and  the  others 
fulfill  all  expectations.  The  whole  film  is  overwhelm- 
ing, even  to  the  finest  Technicolor  yet.  {Feb.) 

GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN-Warners 

May  Robson  is  cast  as  an  indomitable  old  woman 
who  fights  for  the  safety  of  her  granddaughter 
(Margot  Stevenson),  when  her  divorced  husband 
(Hardie  Albright)  is  murdered.  It's  much  ado 
about  people  who  aren't  very  nice.    {March) 

*  GRAPES  OF  WRATH,  THE-20th  Century- 

Fox 

Steinbeck's  unforgettable  Joad  family  lives  and 
breathes  with  startling  reality  in  the  screen  saga  of 
migratory  workers  who  fled  the  Oklahoma  Dust 
Bowl  in  a  vain  search  for  jobs  among  the  orange 
groves.  Fine  acting  of  Henry  Fonda,  Jane  Darwell 
and  the  entire  cast  is  on  a  par  with  the  uncompro- 
mising news-reel  quality  of  the  whole  film.    {Apr.) 

•k  GREAT   VICTOR   HERBERT,   THE-Para- 


With  that  music — and  plenty  of  it — how  could  it 
fail  to  please?  Not  a  biography  of  the  composer 
(Walter  Connolly),  but  the  love  story  of  two  of  his 
-tars  fictional  characters  played  by  Allan  Jones 
and  Mary  Martin.  They're  both  great,  in  voice  and 
acting — as  is  young  Susanna  Foster.  (Feb.) 

•  GREEN  HELL-Universal 

Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.  is  exploring  the  South 
American  jungle  for  Inca  treasure  when  Joan 
Bennett,  widow  of  one  of  his  men,  arrives.  Between 
the  struggle  over  this  one  pretty  girl  in  a  group  of 
rough  men  (grand  actors  all)  and  Indian  hostiles, 
everybody   has  a   most  exciting   time.     (Feb.) 


Every  comfort  cleverly  contrived 
to  make  your  visit  to  New  York  a 
success.  Overlooking  Central  Park 
the  Savoy-Plaza  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  city.  Fine  shops  and  theatres 
nearby  .  .  .  subway  direct  to 
World's  Fair  at  the  door. 

Special  Summer  Rates* 
during  the  World's  Fair 

Single  from  $5  ■  Double  from  $7 


lenry  A.  Rost,  Mc 


Resident   Manager 


SAVOY-PLAZA 

FIFTH  AVE..  58+h  to  5»th  STS„  NEW  YORK' 


*  GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS-Fleischer-Paramount 

Sweet  music  and  the  still-pungent  satire  of  the 
original  Jonathan  Swift  classic  are  only  two  of  the 
many  virtues  of  this  full-length  animated  color 
cartoon.  Story,  of  course,  is  that  of  Gulliver,  ship- 
wrecked among  six-inch-high  Lilliputians,  and 
how  he  settles  their  foolish  little  war— with  a  Lilli- 
putian romance  thrown  in  for  good  measure.  (Feb.) 

*  HARVEST-Marcel  Pagnol 

Depth  of  spirit  and  soundness  of  characteriza- 
tion highlight  this  French  glorification  of  the 
simple  life.  Gabriel  Gabrio  is  a  farmer  who  remains 
faithful  to  the  good  earth  and  becomes  almost  a 
hermit,  until  Orane  Demazis  joins  him  and  they 
prove  what  honest  labor  can  accomplish.  (Feb.) 

HE  MARRIED  HIS  WIFE-20th  Century-Fox 

Joel  McCrea,  Nancy  Kelly,  Mary  Boland  and 
Cesar  Romero  are  gay  as  all  get-out,  but  they  can't 
do  much  to  lift  this  out  of  the  doldrums.  Nancy 
divorces  Joel  because  of  his  penchant  for  horse 
races,  alimony  trouble  sets  in,  and  Mary,  as  a 
screwball  matron,  adds  to  the  confusion.    (Apr.) 

HENRY  GOES  ARIZONA-M-G-M 

Vaudevillian  Frank  Morgan  inherits  an  Arizona 
ranch  when  his  half-brother  is  murdered  by  a  gang 
who  wants  the  property.  Virginia  Weidler  bosses 
the  ranch  while  Frank  sees  that  justice  is  done. 
There  you  have  it.  (March) 

*  HIGH  SCHOOL-20'h  Century-Fox 

The  first  of  a  one-school-picture-a-year  plants 
Jane  Withers  in  San  Antonio's  famous  Jefferson 
""'gh  where  her  uncle  is  principal.  She  thinks  she's 
lug  potatoes  till  the  kids  snub  her  down  to  her  size. 
Joe  E.  Brown,  Jr.  adds  to  the  film's  merits.  (March) 

*  HIS  GIRL  FRIDAY-Columbia 

Ultra-modern  version  of  "The  Front  Page,"  with 
Rosalind  Russell  as  an  ace  reporter,  divorced  from 
editor  Cary  Grant.  His  attempts  to  keep  her  on 
the  job  with  exciting  assignments  —  and  from 
marrying  Ralph  Bellamy  — ■  create  complications, 
but  it's  the  witty  performances  which  put  this 
over.  {Feb.) 

HONEYMOON'S  OVER,  THE-20th  Century-Fox 

Stuart  Erwin  and  Marjorie  Weaver  are  teamed 
in  this  unassuming  but  brisk  and  often  amus- 
ing film.  The  two,  as  newlyweds,  go  into  debt  try- 
ing to  keep  up  with  the  country-club  set,  with  re- 
sultant situations  straight  from  life.  (Feb.) 

*  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  BAY,  THE-Wanger- 

United  Artists 

As  a  gambler's  wife,  Joan  Bennett  is  whirled 
from  the  heights  of  luxury  to  the  depths  of  despair 
when  husband  George  Raft  is  sentenced  to  Alca- 
traz.  Then  Walter  Pidgeon  enters  the  picture.  The 
social  problems  of  a  convict's  "widow"  make  for 
compelling  drama.  Gladys  George  is  excellent  as 
Joan's  friend.    (Apr.  ) 

HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  THE-RXO- 


Charles  Laughton  is  the  hunchback  of  Victor 
Hugo's  imagination  and  emerges  as  the  pitiful  bell 
ringer  who  found  in  his  warped  soul  a  quality 
called  compassion.  Maureen  O'Hara  is  pretty  as 
the  gypsy.  Edmond  O'Brien  and  Sir  Cedric  Hard- 
wicke  do  excellent  work.    (March) 

•  INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE-Universal 

It's  fascinating,  this  monstrosity  of  a  plot  in 
which  Vincent  Price  is  to  be  executed  for  the  mur- 
der of  his  brother.  A  doctor  (John  Sutton)  uses  a 
formula  to  make  Price  totally  invisible.  What 
happens  after  that  will  give  you  a  permanent  up- 
coiffure.   (March) 

INVISIBLE  STRIPES-Warners 

What  happens  when  an  ex-convict  returns  to  the 
living  and  finds  he  isn't  wanted  is  graphically 
portrayed  with  George  Raft  wearing  the  invisible 
stripes.  The  story  has  new  twists — and  Jane  Bryan. 
William  Holden  plays  George's  weak  younger 
brother.  (March) 

I  TAKE  THIS  WOMAN-M-G-M 

With  lesser  stars  than  Spencer  Tracy  and  Hedy 
Lamarr — cast  as  a  doctor  and  his  wife,  for  whom 
he  deserts  his  poor  man's  practice — this  second- 
rate  story  might  have  been  passable.  As  it  is, 
Verree  Teasdale  contributes  the  only  brightness  to 
a  dull  film  which  should  have  remained  shelved. 
(Apr.) 

JOE  AND  ETHEL  TURP  CALL  ON  THE  PRESI- 
DENT-M-G-M 

Joe  (William  Gargan)  and  Ethel  (Ann  Sothern) 
get  pretty  mad  when  their  veteran  postman  gets 
fired,  so  they  go  right  to  Washington  to  protest, 
t's  a  bit  dull  in  spots,  but  Lewis  Stone  is  swell 
as  the  President  and  Annie's  great,  too.  First  of  a 
new  series?  (Feb.) 

LEGION  OF  THE  LAWLESS-RKO-Radio 

With  the  usual  business  about  a  lawless  town,  a 
horde  of  vigilantes,  and  a  pretty  girl  (Virginia 
Vale),  this  latest  George  O'Brien  Western  turns  out 
to  be  topnotch,  full  of  pace  and  excitement.  (Feb.) 

if  LIGHT  THAT  FAILED,  THE-Paramount 

This  new  version  of  Kipling's  novel  is  a  four- 
handkerchief  film.  Ronald  Colman,  a  successful 
artist,  finds  himself  going  blind  from  an  old 
Sudanese  battle  injury,  paints  one  last  master- 
piece of  Ida  Lupino — then  she  destroys  it.  Colman, 
Walter  Huston  (as  his  friend)  and  the  photography 
are  superb.  (Feb.) 

LION  HAS  WINGS,  THE-Korda-United   Artists 

Merle  Oberon.  Ralph  Richardson  and  other  Brit- 
ish players  contributed  their  services  to  this,  which 
is  frankly  war-time  propaganda  showing  what  the 
Royal  Air  Force  can  do — but  it's  well-done  propa- 
ganda and  a  reassuring  lesson  in  preparedness. 
(Apr.) 

LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK-20th  Century-Fox 

Alice  Faye  and  Fred  Mac  Murray  do  some  gal- 
lant trouping  as  a  couple  of  happy-go-lucky  water- 


.100 


PHOTOPLAY 


front   people   who   help   Robert   Fulton   (Richard 
Greene)  launch  hi<  invention,  the  steamboat,  but 

the  net  result  is  an  opulent  masterpiece  of  banality 
about  the  days  when  Manhattan  was  young.   (Apr.) 

LONE  WOLF  STRIKES,  THE-Columbia 

Warren  William  plays  the  not-too-reformed  crook 
who  steps  back  into  his  nefarious  practices  t,,  help 
Joan  Perry  recover  a  string  of  pearls — and  gets 
mixed  up  in  a  murder  for  his  pains.  It's  the  old 
formula,  but  it's  still  good.    (.Apr.) 

MAN  FROM  DAKOTA,  THE-M-G-M 

There's  a  Civil  War  background  for  dr., ma.  Wal- 
lace Beery  and  Donald  Meek  for  riproanu^  humor, 
Dolores  Del  Rio  and  John  Howard  for  romance, 
and  an  exciting  dash  through  the  Confederate  lines 
for  some  bang-up  suspense.  It's  all  a  bit  mixed  up, 
but  undeniably  interesting.     (Apr.) 

MAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  TALK,  THE-20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox 

In  this  remake  of  "The  Valiant,"  Lloyd  Nolan 
does  excellent  work  as  the  confessed  murderer  who 
refuses  to  reveal  either  his  name  or  his  reason  for 
the  crime.  Jean  Rogers  is  svmp  ithctic  and  appeal- 
ing as  the  sister  who  tries  to  make  him  talk.    {Apr.) 

■k  MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE-RKO-Radio 

This  is  the  story  of  a  married  woman  trying  to 
get  back  an  old  sweetheart,  and  his  struggle  to 
keep  faith  with  his  unglamorous  wife.  Helen  Vinson 
is  the  other  woman;  Alan  Marshal  the  man.  and 
Barbara  Read  the  wife.  It's  unpretentious — and 
superior  cinema.   (March) 

•  MEXICAN  SPITFIRE-RKO-Radio 

Pure  slapstick,  with  no  compromise.  Lupe  Velez 
c >mes  from  Mexico  as  the  bride  of  Donald  Woods, 
scion  of  a  rich  family  who  give  l.upe  the  lorgn  >n 
treatment.  Leon  Errol  is  excellent  in  a  dual  role 
of  an  English  lord  and  Donald's  eccentric  uncle. 
Elisabeth  Risdon  and  Linda  Hayes  play  the  nasty 
aunt  and  previous  fiancee.   (March) 

MUSIC  IN  MY  HEART-Columbia 

Tony  Martin  returns  to  star  as  a  Broadway  un- 
derstudy who-  threatened  with  deportation  just 
gets  his  big  chance.  He  crashes  into  Rita 
Hayworth's  taxi — comes  lovr — and  the  result  is  a 
pleasant  little  musical  with  nice  tunes  and  Andre 
Kostelanetz  to  play  them.    (Apr.) 

MY  LITTLE  CHICKADEE-Universal 

Mae  West  is  the  little  flower  of  the  frontier,  and 
W.  C.  Field-  masquerades  a-  .,  bold  bad  bandit 
and  shoots  Indians  with  a  sling  shot.  The  result 
is  just  about  what  you'd  expect — ribald  but  gen- 
uinely comic,  with  both  stars  at  top  form.    (Apr.) 

NICK  CARTER,  MASTER  DETECTIVE-M-G-M 

— or.  Dime  Xovel  Hero  Comes  to  the  Screen  at 
Last.  Walter  Pidgeon  plays  the  title  role  and  tracks 
down  the  missing  rocket-ship  blueprints,  while 
Rita  Johnson  flies  the  plane  for  him,  after  a  terrific 
gun  battle  in  the  desert.  (Feb.) 

NIGHT  OF  NIGHTS,  THE-Paramount 

Lugubrious  Laugh-Clown-Laugh  story  with  Pat 
O'Brien  playing  Paghacci  so  his  little  girl,  Olympe 
Bradna  won't  know  how  low  he's  sunk.  Pretty  good 
until  the  last  half,  when  it  bogs  down  with  its  own 
pathos.  (Feb.) 

•  OF  MICE  AND  MEN-Roach-UA 

John  Steinbeck's  wormwood-and-sugar  story  re- 
mains gripping  despite  censorship.  Burgess 
Meredith  is  George,  the  wandering  ranch  worker 
who  befriends  poor  Lemiie.  (Lon  Chaney,  Jr.) — 
who  doesn't  know  his  own  strength  and  winds  up  a 
murderer.  They're  swell,  and  so  are  Betty  Field, 
Charles  Bickford  and  Bob  Steele.  (Feb.) 

OH,  JOHNNY,  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE-Universal 

A  slap-happy  little  ditty  in  which  traveling  sales- 
man Tom  Brown  gets  mixed  up  with  heiress  Peggy 
Moran,  gangster  Allen  Jenkins  and  a  tourist  camp. 
You'll  remember  Betty  Jane  Rhodes  singing  the 
title  song.  (March) 

•  OUTSIDER,  THE-Alliance 

Tearful  but  compelling  is  this  story  of  the  hope- 
lessly crippled  daughter  of  a  brilliant  London  doc- 
tor who  goes  to  an  arrogant,  publicity-mad  bone 
specialist  as  a  last  resort.  Mary  Maguire  is  the  girl, 
George  Sanders  the  specialist  suspected  of  quackery, 
and  the  interplay  of  character  is  beautiful  to  watch. 
{Apr.) 

•  PINOCCHIO-Disney-RKO 

Collodi's  fable  of  the  wooden  puppet  who  learns 
how  to  become  a  real  little  boy  and  a  kind  son  to 
woodcarver  Gepello  comes  to  the  screen  as  the  finest 
animated  cartoon  feature  ever  made.  Characteri- 
zations, from  tiny  voice-of-conscience  Jiminy  Crick- 
el  to  enormous  Monslro,  the  whale,  compare  favor- 
ably with  the  finest  human  talent.  You  can't  afford 
to  miss  this!    (Apr.) 

•  RAFFLES-Goldwyn-U.A. 

It's  the  same  old  storv,  but  it's  still  swell  drama. 
This  time  David  Niven  is  the  suave  Raffles.  Olivia 
de  Havilland  his  fiancee,  and  Dudley  Digges  the 
inspector.  You  remember.  Raffles  decides  to  reform 
when  he  meets  Olivia,  but  her  brother  (Douglas 
Walton)  is  in  trouble,  so  Raffles  goes  on  the  prowl 
again.  (March) 

REMEMBER  THE  NIGHT-Paramount 

Even  Fred  MacMurray  and  Barbara  Stanwyck 
can't  pull  this  out  of  the  average  class.  He's  a 
District  Attorney.  She's  a  wayward  girl  whom  he 
exposes  to  an  old-fashioned  Christmas  back  home 
in  Indiana  with  Mother,  Beulah  Bondi— after 
which  the  anticipated  reform  sets  in.  (Feb.) 

SAINT'S  DOUBLE  TROUBLE,  THE-RKO  Radio 

This  latest  in  the  modern  Robin  Hood  series 
gives  you  plenty  of  excitement  for  your  money — 
at  least  three  murders,  and  George  Sanders  in  a 
dual  role  (because  a  diamond-smuggler  goes  around 
impersonating  him).  Helene  Whitney  is  the  girl 
in  the  case.    (Apr.) 


L-TORAl 


fSwpa 

GIRDLEs!  •O-lhStSS.r* 
PANTIES  up"  dnj  .  °r  "'ke- 
rn Tea  Rose  teed  rZ  '*  guar«n- 
and  White  /  JJ. no"-"«n.  At  d/| 
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\ 


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for  a    Great 

AUTOGRAPH  COLLECTION 

/"*HECK  our  registration  cards  for  the 
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find,  again  and  again,  the  signatures  of 
many  of  the  world's  foremost  men  and 
women  .  .  .  one  of  the  greatest  auto- 
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But  we  want  your  name  on  our  registration 
card  when  you  come  to  Boston.  Distinguished 
visitors  turn  to  us  naturally  .  .  .  because  The 
Copley-Plaza  represents  a  New  England  inter- 
pretation of  American  hostelry  at  its  best  .  .  . 
because  the  Copley-Plaza  was  built  and  staffed 
as  New  England's  finest  hotel  and  has  main- 
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ter century. 

And  you  will  be  happy  too  to  find  that  we 
offer  you  luxurious  living — without  pretension 
or  extravagance — with  rooms  for  as  little  as 
$4.00  a  day.   Illustrated  folder  on  request. 

The 

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PLAZA 


BOSTON 

ARTHUR  L.  RACE,  Managing  Director 


•  SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER,  THE  - 

M-G-M 

This  is  a  gem,  packed  with  the  inimitable 
Lubitsch  touch,  it's  a  simple  story — about  a  boj 
and  girl  (Jimmy  Stewart  and  Margaret  Sulla  van  i 
who  are  working  in  a  gift  shop  and  find  romance  by- 
writing  to  an  unknown  sweetheart  through  a  cor- 
respondence agency.  Of  course  they  discover  they 
are  writing  to  each  other.  Frank  Morgan  is  superb 
in  a  straight  role.  (Manh) 

ir  SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON-Mayflower-Par- 
amount 

Vivien  Leigh  is  a  Scarlett  O'llura  character  (to 
Charles  Laughton  this  time)  in  the  story  of  a  girl 
who,  by  ruthless  determination,  succeeds  in  rising 
above  the  lowly  "busking"  (those  London  sidewalk 
entertainers)  profession.  There  are  fine  scenes  be- 
tween Leigh  and  Laughton.  (Manii) 

•  SLIGHTLY  HONORABLE-Wanger-U.A. 

Murder  and  comedy  all  mixed  up,  this  has  Pat 
O'Brien  as  the  attorney  plotting  the  downfall  of 
political  boss  Edward  Arnold.  When  Arnold's 
sweetheart,  and  then  Pat's  secretary  are  killed, 
things  look  bad  for  Pat.  You'll  be  mad  about  Ruth 
Terry,  the  little  singer  who  pursues  Pat.  (March) 

SOUTH  OF  THE  BORDER-Republic 

Popular  singing  cowboy  Gene  Autry  breaks  into 
the  Big  Time  a-  a  Federal  agent  who  set-  out  to  f,  il 
a  foreign-inspired  revolution  in  South  America.  It's 
the  best  picture  Gene  has  ever  made.  (Apr.) 

•  SWANEE  RIVER-20th  Century-Fox 

Here's  the  life  of  Stephen  Foster,  song  writer, 
with  Don  Ameche  playing  the  role  of  composer, 
Andrea  Leeds  contributing  to  romance  and  Al 
Jolson  doing  a  grand  minstrel  man.  (March) 

if  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON-RKO-Radio 

Towne-and-Baker's  first  production  adds  a  new 
owning  theme  to  the  childhood  classic,  with  Thom- 
as Mitchell  packing  up  his  fami'y  (Edna  Best, 
Freddie  Bartholomew,  el  al.)  and  moving  them  out 
<  f  the  London  of  Napoleonic  days.  But  their  famous 
adventures  on  the  desert  island  on  which  they're 
shipwrecked  are  here  in  toto.  (Apr.) 

THAT'S  RIGHT-YOU'RE  WRONG-RKO-Ra- 


Kay  Kyser  brings  his  College  of  Musical  Knowl- 
edge to  the  screen  with  a  better  story  and  better 
support  than  radio  stars  usually  get.  The  result  is 
pleasant  and  Kyser  proves  to  be  a  screenable  per- 
sonality as  the  band  leader  whose  group  goes  Holly- 
wood on  him.  With  Adolphe  Menjou.   (Feb.) 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL-Republic 

Religion  is  usually  taboo  on  the  screen,  but  this 
deals  with  a  minister  who  takes  the  confession 
of  a  murderer  when  a  priest  can't  get  there  to  do 
it.  Charles  Bickford  plays  the  minister.  (March) 

THREE  CHEERS  FOR  THE  IRISH— Warners 

Thomas  Mitchell  plays  the  blustering  Irish  cop, 
ready  to  fight  at  the  drop  of  a  pin.  His  beat  is  taken 
over  by  a  young  Scotchman,  who  falls  for  one  of 
Casey's  lovely  daughters.  A  good  homey  comedy 
with  plenty  of  laughs  and  a  dig  or  two  at  the  poli- 
ticians. Dennis  Morgan  as  the  Scotty,  Priscilla  Lane 
as  the  daughter,  and  Alan  Hale  as  Casey's  right- 
hand  man  take  the  other  acting  honors. 

TOWER  OF  LONDON-Universal 

English  history  turns  out  to  be  more  gruesome 
than  a  modern  horror  film,  with  Basil  Rathbone  as 
King  Richard,  who  spends  his  time  killing  off  heirs 
to  the  throne,  with  Boris  Karloff  as  his  pet  ex- 
ecutioner. First-rate  mellerdrammer.  (Feb.) 

if  TWO  THOROUGHBREDS— RKO-Radio 

Fine  writing  and  beautiful  acting  prove  once 
more  what  this  studio  can  do  with  a  simple,  un- 
pretentious story.  Jimmy  Lydon  gathers  honors  as 
an  orphan  who  finds  a  foal,  then  has  to  struggle 
with  his  honor  when  he  discovers  it  belongs  to 
people  who  later  befriend  him.  (Feb.) 

•  WE  ARE  NOT  ALONE-Warners 

Paul  Muni  is  an  English  country  doctor  who 
befriends  a  young  Austrian  (Jane  Bryan)  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  last  war.  His  wife  (Flora  RobsonJ 
dies,  and  Paul  and  Jane  are  accused  of  her  murder. 
An  uncompromising  presentation  of  the  James 
Hilton  story,  with  fine  direction,  acting.  (Feb.) 


HOW  WELL  DO  YOU  KNOV/ 
YOUR  HOLLYWOOD? 

Check  your  answers  to  the  statements 
on   page   11    with  these    correct   ones: 

1 .  Three  times 

2.  Helen  Parrish 

3.  Rudy  Vallee 

4.  Ginger  Rogers 

5.  Cesar  Romero,  George  Raft 

6.  Dick  Powell 

7.  The  Squaw  Man 

8.  Wuthering  Heights 

9.  Pat  O'Brien,  Rosalind  Russell 
10.  Miriam  Hopkins 

I  I .  Joan  Crawford 

12.  Olivia  de  Havilland,  Jane  Eryan 

I  3.  Gene  Raymond 

14.  Three  years 

15.  Marion   Davies,   Carole   Lombard 

16.  Jane  Bryan 

17.  Warner  Bros. 

18.  M-G-M,  Selznick  International 

19.  Gail  Patrick 

20.  Linda  Darnell 


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It's  the  newest  of  many  exquisitely 
beautiful  Don  Juan  shades.  Try  it 
today— In  a  plastic  cameo  case,  $1.00. 
Refills,  60c.  Trial  Size,  10c.  Rouge 
to  match,  $1.00.  Prices  slightly 
higher  in  Canada.  Don  Juan,  Inc., 
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formula). 


"  BLACK  FRIDAY  "  —  Universal.  —  Original 
story  by  Sum  Robins.  Directed  by  Arthur  Lubin. 
Cast:  Dr.  Ernest  Sovac,  Boris  Karloff;  Mar  nay,  Bela 
Lugosi;  George  Kingsley,  Stanley  Ridges;  Sunny 
Rogers,  Anno  Nagel;  Jean  Sovac,  Anne  Gwyune; 
Margaret  Kingsley,  Virginia  Brissac;  Miller, 
Edmund  MacDoiiahl;  Kane,  Paul  Fix;  Devon;  Ray 
Bailey. 


"BLONDIE  ON  A  BUDGET"—  Columbia.— 
Screen  play  by  Richard  Flournoy.  From  a  story  by 
Charles  Mulyneux  Brown.  Based  upon  the  comic 
strip  created  by  Chick  Young.  Directed  by  Frank 
R.  Strayer.  Cast:  Blondie,  Penny  Singleton;  Dag- 
wood,  Arthur  Lake;  Baity  Dumpling,  Larry  Simms; 
Daisy,  Himself;  Joan  Forrester,  Rita  Hayworth; 
Alvin  h'nddle,  Danny  Mummert;  Marvin  Williams, 
Don  Beddoe;  Mr.  Fuddle,  John  Qualen;  Mrs. 
Fuddle,  Fay  Helm;  Mailman,  Irving  Bacon;  Brice, 
Thurston  Hall;  Theater  Manager,  William  Brisbane. 


"BULLET  CODE"  —  RKO-Radio.  —  Screen 

play  by  Doris  Schroeder.  Based  on  the  original  story 
by  Bennett  Cohen.  Directed  by  David  Howard. 
Cast:  .Steve Condon,  George  O'Brien;  Molly  M alliens, 
Virginia  Vale;  John  Mathews,  Howard  Hickman; 
Cass  t  lunline,  Harry  Woods;  Scar  Alwood,  William 
Haade;  Gorman,  Walter  Miller;  Pop  Norton,  Slim 
Whitaker;  Bud  Mathews;  Robert  Stanton;  Ware, 
ob  Burns. 


"DR.  CYCLOPS"  —  Paramount.  —  Original 
screen  play  by  Tom  Kilpatrick.  Directed  by  Ernest 
B.  Schoedsack.  Cast:  Dr.  Thorkel,  Albert  Dekker 
Dr.  Mary  Mitchell,  Janice  Logan;  Bill  Stockton, 
Thomas  Coley;  Dr.  Bui  finch,  Charles  Halton;  Steve 
Baker,  Victor  Kilian;  Pedro,  Frank  Yaconelli. 


FARMER'S  DAUGHTER.  THE"— Para- 
— Screen  play  by  Lewis  R.  Foster.  Based  on 
a  story  by  Delmer  Daves.  Directed  by  James 
Hogan.  Cast:  Patience  Bingham,  Martha  Raye; 
Nickie  North,  Charlie  Ruggles;  Dennis  Crane, 
Richard  Denning;  Clarice  Sheldon,  Gertrude 
Michael;  Scoop  Trimble,  William  Frawley;  Emily 
French,  Inez  Courtney;  Victor  Walsh,  William 
Demurest;  Shimmy  Conway,  Jack  Norton;  Tom 
Bingham,  William  Duncan;  Mrs.  Bingham,  Ann 
Shoemaker;  Monk  Beldon,  Benny  Baker. 


"FREE,  BLONDE  AND  21  "—20th  Century- 
Fox. — Original  screen  play  by  Frances  Hyland. 
Directed  by  Ricurdo  Cortez.  Cast:  Carol,  Lynn 
Bari;  Jerry,  Mary  Beth  Hughes;  Nellie,  Joan 
Davis;  Dr.  Mayberry,  Henry  Wilcoxon;  Dr.  Stephen 
Creig,  Robert  Lowery;  Mickey,  Alan  Baxter; 
Adelaide,  Katharine  Aldridge;  Amy,  Helen  Ericson; 
Gus,  Chick  Chandler;  Yicki,  Joan  Valerie;  Marjorie, 
Elise  Knox;  Linda,  Dorothy  Dearing;  Mr.  Crane, 
Herbert  Rawlinson;  Mrs.  Crane,  Kay  Linaker; 
Inspector  Saunders,  Thomas  Jackson;  Lieutenant 
Lake,  Richard  Lane. 


"GHOST  COMES  HOME,  THE"— M-G-M.— 
Screen  play  by  Richard  Maibaum  and  Harry 
Ruskin.  Based  on  a  play  by  Georg  Kaiser. 
Directed  by  William  Thiele.  Cast:  Vern  Adams, 
Frank  Morgan;  Cora  Adams,  Billie  Burke;  Billie 
Adams,  Ann  Rutherford;  Lanny  Shea,  John  Shel- 
ton;  Hemingway,  Reginald  Owen;  Mortimer  Hop- 
kins, Sr.,  Donald  Meek;  Roscoe,  Nat  Pendleton; 
Ernest,  Frank  Albertson;  Tony,  Harold  Huber; 
Ambrose  Buudy,  Hobart  Cavanaugh;  Myra,  Ann 
Morriss;  "Spig,"  Don  Castle;  Mortimer  Hopkins, 
Jr.,  Tom  Rutherford;  Sarah  Osborn,  Renie  Riano; 
John  Reed  Thomas,  Richard  Carle. 


"HALF  A  SINNER"  — Universal. —  Screen 
play  by  Frederick  Jackson.  From  an  original  story 
by  Dalton  Trumbo.  Directed  by  Al  Christie.  Cast: 
Anne  Gladden,  Heather  Angel;  Larry  Camerson, 
John  King;  Mrs.  Jefferson  Breckenbridge,  Constance 
Collier;  Station  Allen, taut,  Walter  Catlett;  Red,  Tom 
Dugan;  Officer  Kelly,  Robert  Elliot;  Snuffy,  Clem 
Bevans;  Granny  Gladden,  Emma  Dunn;  Handsome, 
Henry  Brandon;  Slick,  William  B.  Davidson;  Mar- 
garet Reed,  Fern  Emmett;  Willy,  Sonny  Bupp; 
Mason,  Wilbur  Mack;  Steve,  Joe  Devlin. 


"HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES,  THE"— 
Universal. — Screen  play  by  Lester  Cole.  Based  on 
the  novel  by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  Directed  by 
Joe  May.  Cast:  Hepzibah  Pyncheon,  Margaret 
Lindsay;  Jaffrey  Pyncheon,  George  Sanders;  Clifford 
Pyncheon,  Vincent  Price;  Phoebe  Pyncheon,  Nan 
Grey;  Matthew  Maule,  Dick  Foran;  Gerald  Pynch- 
,  Gilbert  Emery;  Philip  Barton,  Cecil  Kellaway. 


"  MARINES  FLY  HIGH,  THE"— RKO- Radio. 
— Screen  play  by  Jerry  Cady  and  Lt.  Commander 
A.  J.  Bolton.  From  the  story  by  A.  C.  Edington. 
Directed  by  George  Nicholls,  Jr.,  and  Ben  Stoloff. 
Cast:  Lt.  Darrick,  Richard  Dix;  Ll.  M alone,  Chester 
Morris;  Helen  Grant,  Lucille  Ball;  Teresa,  Steffi 
Duna;  J.  Henderson,  John  Eldredge;  Col.  Hill,  Paul 
Harvey;  Monk  O'Hara,  Horace  MacMahon;  Corp. 
Haines,  Dick  Hogan;  Lt.  Hobbs,  Robert  Stanton; 
Mrs.  Hill,  Ann  Shoemaker;  Fernandez,  Nestor 
Paiva. 


"MILLIONAIRE  PLAYBOY"— RKO-Radio. 
— Screen  play  by  Bert  Granet  and  Charles  Roberts. 
Based  on  an  original  story  by  Bert  Granet.  Directed 
by  Leslie  Goodwins.  Cast:  Joe  Zany,  Joe  Penner; 
Lois  Marlowe,  Linda  Hayes;  Bob  Norman,  Russ 
Brown;  Gorla,  Fritz  Feld;  Stafford,  Granville  Bates; 
Murph,  Tom  Kennedy;  J.  B.  Zany,  Arthur  Q. 
Bryan;  Eleanor,  Adele  Pearce;  Betty,  Kathryn 
Adams;  Haltie,  Diane  Hunter;  Jerry,  Grady 
Sutton;  Bertha,  Mary  Milford;  Marie,  Dorine 
McKay;  Muriel,  Julie  Carter;  Bell  Boy,  Mantan 


Five  *»•"[•  "*„*.,.  B«*et        «W* 

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DON'T  LET 

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Moreland;  Mrs.  Barcomb,  Gwen  Kenyon;  Truck 
Driver,  Si  Jenks;  Nurse,  Rita  Owen;  Aunt,  Maxine 
Leslie;  Mr.  Jameson,  Clarence  Wilson;  Zany'-: 
Secretary,  Luana  Walters;  Cop,  William  Haade; 
Girl  in  Park,  Jody  Gilbert;  Coach,  Arthur  Loft; 
Coach's  Daughter,  Mary  Jane  Carey;  Radio  An- 
nouncer, Tom  Hanlon. 


"MY  SON,  MY  SON!"  — Edward  Small- 
United  Artists. — Screen  play  by  Lenore  Coffee. 
From  the  novel  by  Howard  Spring.  Directed  by 
Charles  Vidor.  Cast:  Lima  Yaynol,  Madeleine 
Carroll;  William  Essex,  Brian  Aherne;  Oliver  Essex, 
Louis  Hayward;  Maeve  O'Riorden,  Laraine  Day; 
Dermot  O'Riorden,  Henry  Hull;  Nellie  Essex, 
Josephine  Hutchinson;  Sheila  O'Riorden,  Sophie 
Stewart;  Rory  O'Riorden,  Bruce  Lester;  Oliver,  as  a 
child,  Scotty  Beckett;  Maeve,  as  a  child,  Brenda 
Henderson;  Rory,  as  a  child,  Teddy  Moorwood; 
Annie,  May  Beatty;  The  Colonel,  Stanley  Logan; 
Mr.  Moscrop,  Lionel  Belmore;  Captain  Sawle, 
Howard  Davies;  Mrs.  Mulvanev,  Mary  Gordon; 
Drayman,  David  Clyde;  Butler,  Vesy  O'Davoran; 
Joe  Baxter,  Pat  Flaherty;  Pogson,  Victor  Kendull; 
First  Jeweler,  Montagu  Shaw;  Second  Jeweler, 
Lelund  Hodgson;  First  Maid,  Mary  Field;  Second 
Maid,  Audrey  Manners;  First  Landlady,  Sibyl 
Harris;  Second  Landlady,  Connie  Leon;  Sergeant 
Major,  Colin  Kenny. 


"NORTHWEST  PASSAGE"  —  M-G-M.  — 
Screen  play  by  Laurence  Stallings  and  Talbot 
Jennings.  Based  on  the  novel  by  Kenneth  Roberts. 
Directed  by  King  Vidor.  Cast:  Major  Rogers, 
Spencer  Tracy;  Langdon  Towne,  Robert  Young; 
"Hunk"  Marriner,  Walter  Brennan;  Elizabeth 
Browne,  Ruth  Hussey;  "Cap"  Huff,  Nat  Pendleton; 
Reverend  Browne,  Louis  Hector;  Humphrey  Towne, 
Robert  Barrat;  Lord  Amherst,  Lumsden  Hare; 
Sergeant  McNott,  Donald  McBride;  Jennie  Coil, 
Isable  Jewell;  Lieutenant  Avery,  Douglas  Walton; 
Lieutenant  Croflon,  Addison  Richards;  Jesse 
lieu,  turn,  Hugh  Sothern;  Webster,  Regis  Toomey; 
lr.ran.in  Clagelt,  Montagu  Love;  Sam  Livermore, 
Lester  Matthews;  Captain  Ogden,  Truman  Bradley. 


"PRIMROSE    PATH"— RKO-Radio.— Screen 

play  by  Allan  Scott  and  Gregory  LaCava.  From  the 
play  by  Robert  L.  Buckner  and  Walter  Hart. 
Directed  by  Gregory  LaCava.  Cast:  Ellie  May 
Adams,  Ginger  Rogers;  Ed  Wallace,  Joel  McCrea; 
Mamie  Adams,  Marjorie  Rambeau;  Gramp,  Henry 
Travers;  Homer,  Miles  Mander;  Grandma,  Queenie 
Vassar;  Honeybell,  Joan  Carroll;  Thelma,  Vivienne 
Osborne;  Carmelila,  Carmen  Morales. 


"REBECCA"  —  Selznick  International- 
United  ARTISTS. — Screen  play  by  Robert  Sher- 
wood and  Joan  Harrison.  From  the  novel  by 
Daphne  du  Maurier.  Directed  by  Alfred  Hitchcock. 
Cast:  Maxim  de  Winter,  Laurence  Olivier;  Mrs.  de 
Winter.  Juan  Fontaine;  Jack  Favell,  George  Sanders; 
Mrs.  Danvers,  Judith  Anderson;  Major  Giles  Lacy, 
Nigel  Bruce;  Colonel  Julyan,  C.  Aubrey  Smith; 
Frank  Crawley,  Reginald  Denny;  Beatrice  Lacy, 
Gladys  Cooper;  Robert,  Philip  Winter;  Frith, 
Edward  Fielding;  Mrs.  Van  Hopper,  Florence 
Bates;  Coroner.  Melville  Cooper;  Dr.  Baker,  Leo  G. 
Carroll;  Chalcroft,  Forrester  Harvey;  Tabbs, 
Lumsden  Hare;  Ben,  Leonard  Carey. 


"ROAD  TO  SINGAPORE"— Paramount.— 
Screen  play  by  Don  Hartman  and  Frank  Butler. 
Based  on  a  story  by  Harry  Hervey.  Directed  by 
Victor  Schertzinger.  Cast:  Josh  Mallon,  Bing 
Crosby;  Mima,  Dorothy  Lamour;  Ace  Lannigan, 
Bob  Hope;  Mr.  Mallon,  Charles  Coburn;  Gloria 
Wycolt,  Judith  Barrett;  Caesar,  Anthony  Quinn; 
Aihilles  Bombanassa,  Jerry  Colonna;  Timothy 
Willow,  Johnny  Arthur. 


"SEVENTEEN"—  Paramount.  —  Screen  play 
by  Agnes  Christine  Johnston  and  Stuart  Palmer. 
Based  on  the  story  by  Booth  Tarkington  and  the 
play  by  Stuart  Walker,  Hugh  Stanislaus  Stange  and 
Stannard  Mears.  Directed  by  Louis  King.  Cast: 
Willie  Baxter,  Jackie  Cooper;  Lola,  Betty  Field; 
Mr.  Baxter,  Otto  Kruger;  Mrs.  Baxter,  Ann  Shoe- 
maker; Jane  Baxter,  Norma  Nelson;  May  Parcher, 
Betty  Moran. 


STRANGE  CARGO"— M-G-M.— Screen  play 
by  Lawrence  Hazard.  Based  on  the  book  "Not  Too 
Narrow,  Not  Too  Deep"  by  Richard  Sale.  Directed 
by  Frank  Borzage.  Cast:  Verne,  Clark  Gable;  Julie, 
Joan  Crawford;  Cambreau,  Ian  Hunter;  M'Sieu 
Pig,  Peter  Lorre;  Hessler,  Paul  Lukas;  Moll,  Albert- 
Dekker;  Flaubert,  J.  Edward  Bromberg;  Telez, 
Eduardo  Ciannelli;  Dufond,  John  Arledge;  Grideau, 
Frederic  Worlock;  Marfeu,  Bernard  Nedell;  Fisher- 

,  Victor  Varconi. 


TOO  MANY  HUSBANDS"— Columbia  — 
Screen  play  by  Claude  Binyon.  Based  upon  the  play 
by  W.  Somerset  Maugham.  Directed  by  Wesley 
Ruggles.  Cast:  Vicky  Lowndes,  Jean  Arthur;  Bill 
Cardew,  Fred  MacMurray;  Henry  Lowndes,  Melvyn 
Douglas;  George,  Harry  Davenport;  Gertrude 
Houlihan,  Dorothy  Peterson;  Peter,  Melville 
Cooper;  McDermoll,  Edgar  Buchanan;  Sullivan, 
Tom  Dugan. 


WOMEN  WITHOUT  NAMES"  —  Para- 
mount.— Screen  play  by  William  R.  Lipman  and 
Horace  McCoy.  Based  on  a  play  by  Ernest  Booth. 
Directed  by  Robert  Florey.  Cast:  Joyce,  Ellen 
Drew;  Fred  Ma,  Neil,  Robert  Paige;  Peggy,  Judith 
Barrett;  John  Marlin,  John  Miljan;  Millie,  Fay 
Helm;  Ferris,  John  McGuire;  Ivory,  Louise  Beavers. 


YOUNG  TOM  EDISON"— M-G-M.— Original 
screen  play  by  Bradbury  Foote,  Dore  Schary  and 
Hugo  Butler.  Based  on  material  by  H.  Alan  Dunn, 
Directed  by  Norman  Taurog.  Cast:  Tom  Edison, 
Mickey  Rooney;  Mrs.  Samuel  Edison,  Fay  Bainter; 
Samuel  Edison,  George  Bancroft;  Tannic  Edison, 
Virginia  Weidler;  Mr.  Nelson,  Eugene  Pallette;  Mr. 
Dingle,  Victor  Kilian;  Joe  Dingle,  Bobbie  Jordan; 
Mr.  McCarney,  J.  M.  Kerrigan;  Dr.  Pender,  Lloyd 
Corrigan;  Bill  Edison,  John  Kellog;  Mr.  Wadded. 
Clem  Bevans;  School  Teacher,  Eily  Malyon; 
Captain  Bracket!,  Harry  Shannon. 


102 


PHOTOPLAY 


Maybell.ne  Solid-form 
Mascara  in  stunning  tnH- 
colored  vanity.  75c.  Re- 
fills 35c.  Shades—  Black, 
Brown.  Blue. 


Maybelline  Cream -form 
Mascara  (applied  with- 
out water)  comes  in 
dainty  zipper  case.  Black, 


Q 


g.a    **■  "£.  e"y  co  see  «^ea  duUne*  ^  «  ao 


Maybelline   Smooth- 

Maybelline   Eye   Shadow 

marking   Evebrow  Pencil 

in   six    flattering    shades 

in    Black,    Brown    (and 

Blue,   Gray.    Blue-  gray, 

Blue  for  eyelid  liner). 

Brown,    Green,   Violet. 

I     ** 


M)T* 


W«S 


farmers  have  grown  the  finest  tobacco  in  300  yeai 


...and  Luckies  always  buy  the 
A-l  grades/7  says  Tom  Smothers, 
20  years  a  tobacco  auctioneer 

THREE  SIMPLE  FACTS  tell  why  we  ask:  "Have  y 
tried  a  Lucky  lately?" 

Fact  No.  1.  In  recent  years,  tobacco  farmers  h< 
used  Uncle  Sam's  scientific  growing  metho 
Result:  The  finest  tobacco  in  history. 

Fact  No.  2.  Tom  Smothers,  15  years  a  Lucky  Str 
smoker,  is  typical  of  the  independent  experts^ 
tioneers,  buyers  and  warehousemen— who  pre 
Luckies,  2  to  1.  They  know  Luckies  buy  the  cho! 
grades  of  these  improved  tobaccos.  Rest 
Luckies  are  better  than  ever! 

Fact  No.  3.  After  2  to  4  years  of  aging,  these  fi< 
tobaccos  go  through  the  "Toasting"  proce 
which  takes  out  certain  throat  irritants  found 
all  tobacco.  Result:  A  better -than -ever  smo 
plus  throat  protection. 

Try  Luckies  for  a  week.  Check  each  fa| 
You'll  see  why  . .  WITH  MEN  WHO  KNO 
TOBACCO  BEST— IT'S  LUCKIES  2  TO  1 


&& 


jfr&ty 


» 


I 


I 


JUNE 


.' 


If 


i 


;' 


THE  MARRIAGE  PLANS  OF  GINGER  ROGERS  AND  HOWARD  HUGH 

Complete  Novel  in  this  Issue    LILLIAN    RUSSELL 


^rewMvfW1uUUS1»ue    "i<"»nn    "VUJLl/L     The  Loves  of  a  Beautiful  Vv\  tan  of  D 

JMMER  FASHION  CARNIVAl  Exciti™  Pn„es  «i «»«,  r ..  v™  r.„,  *„„ 


why 


have  I  never 
married  T) 


Ohe  was  one  of  those  stunning,  Aquarius  types  .  .  . 
tall,  regal,  red-haired ...  about  thirty;  of  obvious 
means,  and   with   a  hand  that  showed  personality, 

health,  brilliance  of  mind,  daring  and  romance.  For- 
tune's child  if  ever  I  saw  one. 

Yet  here  she  was  confessing  unashamedly  that 
she'd  had  little  luck  with  men  and  almost  tearfully 
demanding  to  know  why.  Should  I  tell  her  .  .  .  dare 
/  tell  her  .  .  .  that  the  answer  lay  not  in  Iter  hand — 
but  in  something  else  that  most  people  do  not  eren 
mention,  let  alone  discuss. 


Telling  meant  losing  a  good 
patron  .  .  .  one  irlto  might  return 
again  and  again,  probably  bring- 
ing friends  equally  well  off.  Yet 
it  seemed  cruel  to  withhold  the 
secret*.  . .  to  let  her  go  on,  living 
the  lonely  life  into  which  her 
ignorance  had  plunged  her.  So 
I  told  .  .  .  and  my  reward  was  the 
announcement  of  her  marriage 
some  months  later  to  a  most  attractive  man. 

It's  Unforgivable 

One  of  the  most  damning  faults  in  a  woman  is  hali- 
tosis (bad  breath)?  Yet  every  woman  may  offend  this 
way  some  time  or  other — without  realizing  it.  That's 
the  insidious  thing  about  halitosis. 

How  foolish  to  take  unnecessary  risks  of  offending 
others  when  Listerine  Antiseptic  is  such  a  delightful 
precaution  against  this  humiliating  condition.  You 
simply  rinse  your  mouth  with  it  night  and  morning, 


and  between  times  before  engagements  at  which  y 
wish  to  appear  at  your  best. 

Makes  Breath  Sweeter 

Some  cases  of  halitosis  are  caused  by  systemic  condi 
tions.  But  usually — and  fortunately — say  some  author 
ities,  most  bad  breath  is  due  to  fermentation  of  tin; 
food  particles  on  teeth  and  gums. 

Listerine  Antiseptic  quickly  halts  such  fermentation 
then  quickly  overcomes  the  odors  it  causes.  The  bread 
becomes  sweeter,  purer,  more  agreeable,  and  less  likeh 
to  offend  others. 

In  the  matter  of  charm,  your  breath  may  often  b 
more  important  than  your  clothes,  your  hair,  you 
skin,  your  figure.  Take  precautions  to  keep  it  on  th 
agreeable  side  with  the  antiseptic  and  deodoran 
which  is  as  effective  as  it  is  delightful. 

Lambert  Pharmacal  Co.,  St.  Louis,  Mo. 

LISTERINE  for  HALITOSIS 


Cory's  Wires  Gef  Cr0$Se</ 
yj\vcs  Get  Crosser,  /„ 


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''  «/, 


JUNE,     1940 


A  LIFETIME  LIVED  IN  A  SINGLE  DAYI 


Vivien  Leigh  returns  to  you  —  beautiful,  tender, 
appealing  and  talented  beyond  description  —  in  a 
role  which  might  have  been  created  for  her  alone 
...  A  girl  whose  emotions  mirrored  the  chaos  of  the 
world  around  her . . .  grasping  fervently,  eagerly 
at  the  love  that  belongs  to  youth... Robert  Taylor 
attains  new  dramatic  stature  as  the  man  who  shares 
this  absorbing  romance  with  her.  Together,  they 
create  an  emotional  experience  you'll  never  forget. 


4m 


VIVIEN  LEIGH    ROBERT  TAYLOR 

in  Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's 

WATERLOO  BRIDGE 

with  LUCILE  WATSON  •  VIRGINIA  FIELD 
MARIA  OUSPENSKAYA  •  C.  AUBREY  SMITH 

A  Mervyn  LeRoy  Production 
Screen  play  by  S.  N.  Behrman,  Hans  Rameau,  and  George  Froeschel 

Based  on  the  play  "Waterloo  Bridge"  by  Robert  E.  Sherwood 
Directed  by  MERVYN  LeROY    •    Produced  by  SIDNEY  FRANKLIN 


PHOTOPLAY 


°?  MOTIOH  ** 


ERNEST  V.  HEYN 

EXECUTIVE    EDITOR 


HEYWORTH  CAMPBELL 

ART   EDITOR 


RUTH  WATERBURY 

EDITOR 


FRED  R.  SAMMIS 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR 


On  ihe  Cover — Jeanette  MacDonald,  Natural  Color  Photograph  by  Paul  Hesse  /^  i 

HIGHLIGHTS   OF   THIS    ISSUE  &£€&f2&bd 

— I  Thee  Wed 15 

A  famous  artist's  ''bride' s-'eye  view'''  of  Vivien  Leigh  '  ,       I  OLLYWOOD  has  an  expression  borrowed  from  rac- 

Hollywood  Birth  Rate — Going  Up! Kay  Proctor        16  |       |    ing   lingo  to  describe   a   picture   or  a   player  who 

A  bumper  crop  of  babies  brings  a  message  of  renewed  faith  and  courage  unexpectedly  achieves  kudos. 

Can  Hollywood  Mothers  Be  Good  Mothers?    .       .        .        .        Barbara  Stanwyck        17  0ne  of  +he  mos+  TmpreSsive  "sleepers"  of  recent  months 

Who  can  answer  that  better  than  Mrs.  Robert  Taylor?  .....                ,                      ,                   L   J    •       AIL 

The  Marriage  Plans  of  Ginger  Rogers  and  Howard  Hughes  .        .  Ruth  Waterbury        18  ,      r.              i                             r  ,~        /■*           ■ ' 

How  love  may  make  two  headlines  one  Georgia,  as  the  first  producing  venture  of  Gary  Cooper  s 

Glamour  Girls  Off  Their  Diet Dorothy  Kilgallen       20  right-hand  man,  Jack  Moss,  and  presented  with  the  unat- 

If  you  think  the  gals  don't  eat,  you  haven' t  watched  them  with  Miss  K.f  tractive  title     The    Biscuit   Eater 

Categorically  Speaking Howard  Sharpe  '        '                        .  * 

Jeanet,e-as  seen  by  Nelson  Eddy 22  AlthoU9h   YOUn9    B'"y   Ue    IS  *n? '   a   df°9   and,   a   llHle 

Nelson-as  seen  by  Jeanette  MacDonald '        .        23  colored   boy  are  the   unexpected   hits  of  this  charming, 

Hawahan  Honeymoon Hagar  Wilde       24  sentimental  low-budget  picture.     I  doubt  if  Promise    the 

In  which  a  would-be  family  circle  becomes  a  Hollywood  triangle  dog,  or  Cordell   Hickman  will  ever  be  stars,   but  we   shall 

"My  Life  with  John" Ida  Zeitlin       26  watch  eagerly  for  both  of  them  in  other  pictures. 

Elaine  Barrie  Barrymore  speaking-with  refreshing  frankness  Producer    Selznick    has    spoken    SO    much    of    his   faith    in 

Lillian  Russell    •        •        •        ■        •        •        ■        ■        •      Novelized  by  Ethelda  Bedford       27  Joan   Fontaine  as  a  star  +hat  we  were  not  as  surprised 

Complete  m  this  issue:   Exciting  new  movie  book  of  the  fascinating  i                                                  r 

Alice  Faye  film  by  her  brilliant  performance  in  Rebecca  as  by  the  unex- 

One-Man  Studio Frederick  Van  Ryn       48  pected    characterization   of   Florence    Bates   in   the   very 

Arthur  William  Brown's  list  of  ex-models  reads  like  a  cinema  Blue  Book!  m|nor  rQ|e  of  fhe  wea|+Ly  soda|  c|;mber. 

Photoplay  Fashions  .        .       .       .       .                               .        .        .    Gwenn  Walters       53  In  a  similar  manner,  we  have  expected  for  a  long  while 

A  gay  summer  carnival  of  star  clothes  that  you  can  buy  '                             "                                    =» 

Round-Up  of  Pace  Setters Sara  Hamilton       70  that  Walter  Pidgeon  would  emerge  as  the  potent  star  he 

Eight  vibrant  personalities  who  are  thundering  down  the  home  stretch  proves  himself  to  be  in   It's  a  Date  (in  contrast  how  color- 

The  Camera  Speaks: —  less    he    seemed    in   The    Dark   Command),    but   the    real 

All  This — and  Bette.  Too! 42  "sleeper"  of  It's  a  Date  is  the  genial  gentleman  with  the 

Portraits  of  M.  Boyer  and  Mile.  Davis  strange  name  of  S.  Z.  Sakall.  You  of  course  remember  him 

Fashion  Aquacade 44  as    the    German    dramatist    struggling    with    the    English 

The  bathing  suit  will  soon  be  trump!  What  will  you  bid? 

Our  Town 46  ;*..                            .             ,    ..  ,,            .    _   ..       _ 

Hollywood  holds  the  mirror  up  to  America's  memory  album  Albert  Basserman  in  Dr.  Ehrlich  s  Magic  Bullet,  Oueenie 

With  or  Without? 50  Vassar  in  The  Primrose  Path,  Ian  Hunter  in  Strange  Cargo, 

Your  chance  to  solve  the  Great  Mustache  Controversy!  a||  these  are  "sleepers"  who  deserve  our  applause.     So  is 

NEWS      VIEWS    AND     REVIEWS  *he  P'c*ure  And  One  Was  Beautiful,  which  no  one  ex- 

Shopping  for  You  and  the  Stars Frances  Hughes         4  Pected  to  be  anythin9   (>ut  a   Xf*  ,B,bu+  whIch,  re*eals 

Brief  Reviews  of  Current  Pictures 6  Jean  Mulr  as  a  potential  star  of  real  beauty  and  talent. 

How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 9  Three  years  at  another  studio  failed  to  prove  these  po- 

Boos  and  Bouquets 10  tentialities.     In  the  same  picture  is   Laraine   Day,  whose 

Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots Ruth  Waterbury        13  performance  in  another  movie,   My  Son,   My  Son!   puts 

We  Cover  the  Studios Jack  Wade       52  [       .     .,    .     ,      .»     ..          ,  .  ,          ,             ,                    . 

•    .      ,  «__  ,        »«.    .  _,     ,    -o       _   t»                  .»                                                       cn  her  in  that  classification  which   makes   such   an   amusing 

Animal  Crackers  (Photoplay  s  Beauty  Department) 59 

Cotton  in  the  Making  (PHOTOPLAY-McCall  Patterns) 60  9ame  of  9oIn9  to  movies— the    sleepers. 

Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 65  ^-\ 

The  Shadow  Stage 68  (                -iAt~dWif^/ 

Complete  Casts  of  Pictures  Reviewed  in  This  Issue 96  //lAii4^'V^^ 

VOL  LIV.,  No.  6,  JUNE,  1940 

Published  Monthly  by  Macladden  Publications,  Inc.,  333  N.  Michigan  Ave.,  Chicago,  111.  •  Bernarr  Macfadden,  President  •  Irene  T.  Kennedy,  Treasurer  •  Wesley  F.  Pape,  Secretary  •  General  Offices. 
205  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.   •  Editorial  and  Advertising  Offices,  Chanin  Building,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York,  N.  Y.,  Curtis  Harrison,  Advertising  Manager  •  Charles  H.  Shattuck,  Manager,  Chicago 

Office  •  London  Agent,  Atlas  Publishing  and  Distributing  Company,  Ltd.,  18  Bride  Lane,  London,  E.  C.  4  •  Price  per  copy  in  the  United  States  and  Canada:  2Sc.  Yearly  Subscription:  $2.50  in  the  United 

States  and  Possessions,  Canada  and  Newfoundland.  $3.00  in  Cuba,  Mexico,  Haiti,  Dominican  Republic,  Spain  and  Possessions,  and  Central  and  South  American  countries  excepting  British  Honduras,  British, 
Dutch  and  French  Guiana.  All  other  countries  $5.00.  Remittances  should  be  made  by  check,  or  postal,  or  express  money  order  •  CAUTION — Do  not  subscribe  through  persons  unknown  to  you  •  While 
manuscripts,  photographs  and  drawings  are  submitted  at  the  owner's  risk,  every  effort  will  be  made  by  this  organization  to  return  those  found  unavailable  if  accompanied  by  sufficient  1st  class  postage,  and 
explicit  name  and  address.  But  we  will  not  be  responsible  for  any  losses  of  such  matter.  Entered  as  second-class  matter  April  24,   1912,  at  the  post-office  at  Chicago,  111.,  under  the  act  of  March3,  1879. 

Copyright,  1940,  by  Macfadden  Publications,  Inc.  Registro  Nacional  de  la  Propiedad  Intelectual. 

Title  trademark  registered  at  U.  S.  Patent  Office 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


SHOPPING  FOR  YOU    AND  THeJTrS 


Tsk!  Tsk!  Tsk!  Hen-  it  is  spring — and  all  there  is  to  us  is  just  one 
mass  of  yearning  I  But  we  know  what  will  fix  it  1  Something  new  1  Anew 
coiffure — or  better  still — brand  new  color  hair.  Why  not?  If  the  stars  can 
change  from  golden  to  raven  beauty  and  vice  versa  at  the  drop  of  a  hat, 
why  not  we— or  you?  And  what  about  a  new  perfume — a  new  make-up 
.  .  .  new  slioes  .  .  .  new  gloves?  But  leave  money  in  the  bank  for  wedding 
presents  .  .  .  graduation  presents  .  .  .  new  vacation  luggage,  too  .  .  .  and 
write  to  the  Fashion  Secretary,  Photopi  ay,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  City 
about   those   that    interest   you   most.      We'll   tell   you    where   to    find   them. 


1.  HAIR  AND  HEARTBREAK 

For  the  35,000,000  gals  in  the  U.  S.  A.  who 
are  over  twenty-five,  there's  a  horrid  ogre 
lurking  loathsomely  'round  the  corner — fear 
of  those  first  grey  hairs.  "But,"  say  we, 
"have  none  of  it!"  Take  $5  to  $7.50  and  be 
off  to  the  nearest  beauty  shop.  Ask  for  "In- 
ecto  with  Lustrium"  and  your  trouble's  over. 
You'll  see! 


2.  HAVE  A  CIGARETTE 

Be  the  first  little  siren  in  your  set  to  switch 
to  "king  size"  cigarettes,  but  carry  them 
properly  in  Volupte's  new  "king  size"  case. 
This  proves  you're  "up"  on  your  smoking 
fashions  and  impresses  your  friends.  Cases 
come  in  gold  or  silver  or  colored  enamel — 
and  fourteen  cigarettes  should  amply  see  you 
through  the  day.    $2. 


1  'ROUND  THE  CLOCK  HELP  FOR  HANDS 

Thank  you,  Revlon.  First  you  provided  our 
favorite  nail  polishes.  Next  you  cooked  up 
lipsticks  to  match.  And  now  you've  taken 
our  hands  in  hand — and  about  time,  too — 
with  a  "Round  the  Clock  Kit"  that  provides  a 
lubricating  cream  to  wear  at  night  under  pro- 
tective mitts,  and  a  pearly  hand  lotion  to  use 
by  day — all  at  $1.45  complete. 


4.  WINKEN,  BLINKEN  AND  "NODS" 

It's  one  thing  to  count  sheep  on  a  grassy 
meadow,  but  quite  another  to  count  them  at 
night  'cause  you  can't  sleep.  What  you  need 
is  "Nods,"  nice  little  pink  noise  mufflers  of 
Goodyear's  Airfoam  latex  and  wax.  Even  a 
city  slicker  relaxes  into  deep,  untroubled 
sleep — and  isn't  that  something  for  the  simple 
sum  of  $1  for  three  sets! 


t 


BY  FRANCES  HUGHES 


IMPORTANT  CORREC- 
TION: Max  Factor's  Pancake 
Make-Up  was  wrongly  quoted 
at  $1.00  in  MAY  PHOTO- 
PLAY. The  correct  price  for 
this  favorite  foundation  for 
the    movie    stars    is    $1.50. 

6.  TIME  ON  YOUR  HANDS 

Time  on  your  hands,  yet  well  concealed  in 
Helbros'  Monogram  Watch  Ring.  The  watch 
- — you  may  be  sure — is  one  of  Helbros'  finest 
— 17-jewels  and  accurately  timed.  The  ring 
in  which  it  hides  away  so  cunningly  has  a 
spot  for  a  monogram  on  its  golden  lid  and 
a  spot  for  your  darling's  photo  underneath — ■ 
$29.75 — and  it's  yours! 


7.  ONE  QUARTER  OF  YOUR  COSTUME 

One  quarter  of  your  costume  consists  of — 
guess  what — Stockings! — so  they'd  better  be 
good,  since  that's  where  appraising  glances 
usually  come  to  rest.  You  can  be  socially 
secure  in  Rollins  Runstop  Stockings,  thanks 
to  their  super  Dura-Glo  finish  and  lock-stitched 
tops  that  defy  those  devastating  garter  runs. 
$1  a  pair. 


8.  "SLEEPING"  BEAUTY 

The  best  little  waker-upper  we've  met  is 
Schiaparelli's  new  "Sleeping" — the  most  ex- 
otic perfume  yet  distilled.  It  comes  from 
Paris,  of  course,  in  such  limited  quantities 
that  having  it  at  all  puts  you  into  a  class  of 
your  own.  A  four-ounce  crystal  candle  comes 
topped  by  a  snuffer  of  gold  and  "Sleeping 
Blue."    $55  a  shock. 


9.  GOING  PLACES? 

You'd  scarcely  think  of  setting  off  in  a  horse 
and  buggy,  so  why  travel  with  antiquated 
luggage?  Why  indeed — when  for  $10  cash 
you  can  be  the  proud  possessor  of  Samson- 
ite's  streamlined  "Ladies  Wardrobe  Hanger 
case"!  To  all  but  the  expert  eye,  it  looks 
like  expensive  rawhide,  with  hangers,  pockets 
and  a  neat  protective  curtain. 


5.  FREEDOM  FOR  FINGER  TIPS 

Gloves,  at  last,  that  allow  for  finger  tips  and 
nicely  nurtured  nails!  No  one  thought  of 
such  a  thing  till  Merry  Hull  freed  our  fingers, 
but  now  her  emancipation  program  includes 
even  tips  and  nails.  Ona  Munson  wears 
finger-tip  gloves.  Why  don't  you?  They're 
from  Aris — in  solid  or  contrasting  colors. 
SS  a  pair. 


■^3  J 

■■■ 

10.  FLOWERS  .. .  MUSIC...  LET'S  EAT! 

And  dinner's  twice  as  festive  when  there 
are  lovely  flowers  on  the  table.  Expensive? 
Not  necessarily  .  .  .  not  while  Norton  makes 
crystal  centerpieces  like  the  "Lyre  Log  Tube" 
that  costs  only  $2  but  permits  the  most  un- 
usual flower  arrangements  that  can  be 
worked  out  with  as  little  as  six  blooms! 


(For  More  Shopping  News,  See  Page  88) 


PHOTOPLAY 


The  Story  of 
a  Love  Affair 

It's  a  real,  human  story.  It's  got  real 
love  in  it  — the  kind  that  begins  in 
childhood  and  then  bursts  out  in  a 
flame  of  romance  that's  more  thrill- 
ing than  anything  in  the  world.  And 
it's  got  real  drama  — so  true  and 
powerful  it  won  the  Pulitzer  Prize 
as  a  play.  Don't  miss  OUR  TOWN. 


/ 


SOL  LESSER  presents 


OUR  TOWN 


from  the  Pulitzer  Prize  Play  by  Thornton  Wilder 

WILLIAM  MARTHA 

HOLDEN • SCOTT 

FAY  BAINTER  •  BEULAH  BONDI 
THOMAS  MITCHELL  •  GUY  KIBBEE 

stuart  erwin  •  FRANK  CRAVEN 

Directed  by  SAM  WOOD  ("Goodbye  Mi.  Chips") 
Released  Thru  United  Artists 


Coming  soon  to  your  favorite  theatre 


JUNE,     I  940 


•  ABE  LINCOLN  IN  ILLINOIS-RKO-Radio 

It  would  be  hard  to  improve,  technically  or  artistically,  on  this 
exceptional  motion  picture  from  Robert  Sherwood's  Pulitzer  Prize 
play.  Raymond  Massey  is  extraordinary  as  the  Lincoln  of  pre- 
pre'sidential  davs.  ably  supported  by  Gene  Lockhart  as  Stephen 
Douglas,  Ruth  Gordon  as  Mary  Todd,  Mary  Howard  as  Ann  Rut- 
ledge.    (Apr.) 

ADVENTURE  IN  DIAMONDS-Paramount 

Superior  jewel-thief  story  with  South  African  mining  background, 
in  which  the  ingratiating  George  Brent  and  John  Loder  appear  to 
advantage,  but  which  doesn't  offer  much  opportunity  to  Isa  Mi- 
randa as  the  lady  crook  who  goes  straight  against  her  will.    (Apr.) 

•  BAKER'S  WIFE,  THE-Marcel  Pagnol 

She  ran  away  with  a  handsome  shepherd,  and  the  baker  (Raimu) 
was  so  upset  the  villagers  had  to  combine  efforts  to  bring  her  back. 
It's  farcical,  but  so  true  to  type  it  seems  a  real  slice  of  Provencal 
village  life.  It's  French,  with  John  Erskine's  English  subtitles.  (Apr.) 

BARRICADE-20th  Century-Fox 

A  hodge-podge — but  Alice  Faye,  Warner  Baxter  and  Charles 
Winninger  do  beautiful  jobs  with  their  material.  It's  about  a  for- 
gotten American  consul  in  China  whose  station  is  used  by  brigands, 
a  reporter  and  a  girl  evading  a  murder  charge.  (March) 

BUCK  FRIDAY-Universal 

Put  Boris  Karloff  in  the  role  of  a  doctor  who  transplants  the 
brain  of  a  criminal  into  the  cranium  of  his  professor-friend,  Stanley 
Ridges,  and  you'll  have  a  trend  of  events  that  will  keep  you  en- 
thralled. Anne  Nagel  provides  the  spot  of  beauty.  (May) 

BLONDIE  ON  A  BUDGET-Columbia 

Blondie  has  a  yen  for  a  fur  coat,  Dagwood  wants  to  join  a  club 
he  can't  afford.  Toss  in  a  girl-friend  to  make  Blondie  jealous,  and 
let  Baby  Dumpling  turn  on  his  charm.  There  you  have  the  latest 
effort  of  Penny  Singleton,  Arthur  Lake,  Rita  Hayworth  and  Larry 
Simms.   (May) 

•  BLUE  BIRD,  THE-20th  Century-Fox 

Shirley  Temple  reveals  her  maturing  art  in  a  genuine  characteri- 
zation, as  the  rather  naughty  Maeterlinck  heroine  who  sets  out  on 
a  search  for  the  fabled  bird  of  happiness.  Little  brother  Johnny 
Russell  accompanies  her  through  a  Technicolor  dreamland  which 
is,  on  the  whole,  conceived  with  imagination  and  taste.    (Apr.) 

•  BROADWAY  MELODY  OF  1940-M-G-M 

It's  a  dancing  field  day  for  Fred  Astaire,  Eleanor  Powell  and 
George  Murphy — and  it  makes  the  best  screen  musical  in  some  two 
years.  Fred  and  George  are  a  dance-hall  team,  until  George  gets  a 
Broadway  bid  to  co-star  with  Eleanor,  and  the  fun — lots  of  it — 
begins.    Frank  Morgan  provides  much  of  the  humor.    (Apr.) 

ic  BROTHER  RAT  AND  A  BABY-Warners 

This  rib-cracker  makes  for  delicious  comedy.  Wayne  Morris,  the 
"fixer,"  gets  Eddie  Albert  a  coaching  job,  but  the  baby  (remember 
Eddie  was  secretly  married  to  Jane  Bryan)  gums  up  everything. 
Priscilla  Lane.  Jane  Wyman,  Ronald  Reagan  and  young  Peter  B. 
Good  will  have  you  yelling  for  more.  (March) 

BULLET  CODE-RKO  Radio 

George  O'Brien  is  still  galloping  over  the  sage  brush  and  righting 
wrongs.  Virginia  Vale  plays  the  girl  whose  ranch  he  saves  from  a 
gang  of  rustlers.  There's  plenty  of  action.  (May) 

CALLING  PHILO  VANCE-Warners 

Philo  Vance's  patriotism  is  surpassed  only  by  his  ingenuity 
in  this  mystery  which  has  to  do  with  selling  secret  airplane  plans 
to  foreign  powers.  Henry  Stephenson  lacks  the  suavity  we've  come 
to  expect  of  Vance.  Henry  O'Neill,  Margot  Stevenson  and  Edward 
Brophy  carry  on  in  hackneyed  roles.  (March) 

CHARLIE  MCCARTHY,  DETECTIVE-Universal 

You'll  overlook  this  weak  murder-mystery  plot  if  you're  a 
devotee  of  Charlie  McCarthy.  Edgar  Bergen  has  his  hands  full 
with  both  Charlie  and  Mortimer  Snerd  going.whimsical.  (March) 

CHILD  IS  BORN,  A-Warners 

A  re-make  of  that  maternity-ward  drama,  "Life  Begins,"  with 
Geraldine  Fitzgerald  portraying  the  prospective  mother  who  is  re- 
leased from  prison  to  have  her  baby.  Spring  Byington,  Jeffrey 
Lynn,  Gladys  George  and  many  others  are  well  cast.  (March) 

CHUMP  AT  OXFORD,  A-Roach-U.A. 

Slapstick  comedy  within  the  sacred  portals  of  dear  old  Oxford, 
with  ex-street  cleaners,  Stan  Laurel  and  Oliver  Hardy  getting 
their  English  education  the  hard  way.  The  humor  is  forced  in 
spots,  but  there  are  some  genuinely  amusing  bits. 

•  CONGO  MAISIE-M-G-M 

Gorgeous  comedy,  with  stars  Ann  Sothern  and  John  Carroll 
capably  backed  up  by  Rita  Johnson  and  Shepperd  Strudwick. 
The  scene  is  laid  at  the  medical  post  of  a  rubber  plantation,  where 
a  former  surgeon  gets  mixed  up  with  a  stranded  show  girl  who 
helps  him  subdue  witch  doctors.  You'll  like  this.  (March) 

DR.  CYCLOPS-Paramount 

A  weird  tale  of  a  mad  scientist  who  finds  a  radium  mine  and 
makes  people  shrink  to  the  size  of  rabbits.  A  fascinating  novelty, 
with  Albert  Dekker  doing  a  fine  job  in  the  title  role.  Thomas 
Coley,  Janice  Logan  and  Charles  Halton  support.  (May) 


PICTURES   REVIEWED   IN 

SHADOW    STAGE 

THIS  ISSUE 


AND  ONE  WAS  BEAUTIFUL 95 

BEYOND  TOMORROW-RKO-Radfo    ...  68 

BILL  OF  DIVORCEMENT,  A-RKO-Radio     .  69 

BISCUIT  EATER,  THE-Paramount ....  68 

BUCK  BENNY  RIDES  AGAIN-Paramount     .  69 

DOCTOR  TAKES  A  WIFE,  THE-Cotumbia    .  68 
COURAGEOUS  DR.  CHRISTIAN,  THE-RKO- 

Radlo 95 

DARK  COMMAND,  THE-Republic  .69 

DOUBLE  ALIBI— Universal 95 

FLORIAN-M-G-M 95 

FORTY  LITTLE  MOTHERS-M-G-M        .68 

FRENCH  WITHOUT  TEARS-Paramourrt  .    .  95 

HUMAN  BEAST— Juno 95 

IRENE-RKO-Radto 68 

IT  ALL  CAME  TRUE-Warners 95 

IT'S  A  DATE-Universal 95 

STAR  DUST-20th  Century-Fox 95 

STARS  LOOK  DOWN,  THE—  M-G-M-British  95 

'TIL  WE  MEET  AGAIN-Warners    .     ...  69 

TWO  GIRLS  ON  BROADWAY-M-G-M    .     .  69 

VIRGINIA  CITY-Warners 95 

VIVA  CISCO  KID~20th  Century-Fox  .95 


•  DR.  EHRLICH'S  MAGIC  BULLET-Warners 

Edward  G.  Robinson  takes  full  advantage  of  the  greatest  chance 
of  his  career,  as  the  brilliant  doctor  who  fired  the  first  effective  shots 
in  the  battle  against  diphtheria  and  syphilis.  It's  another  of 
Warners'  moving  documents  of  medical  history,  with  Ruth  Gor- 
don's work  outstanding.  (Apr.) 

•  EARL  OF  CHICAGO,  THE-M-G-M 

Something  new — and  it's  grand.  Robert  Montgomery,  a  Chicago 
gangster,  inherits  a  title  and  estates  from  an  English  ancestor  and 
goes  abroad  to  liquidate  them.  Up  against  tradition,  you  watch 
the  conflict  between  the  man  he  is  and  the  man  he  might  have 
been.  Edward  Arnold  plays  the  financial  adviser  Montgomery 
double-crosses.  There's  no  love  interest.   (March) 

•  ENTENTE  CORDIALE-Glass 

Victor  Francen  does  superb  work  in  the  role  of  Edward  VII  of 
England — that  royal  playboy  whose  love  for  Paris  brought  about 
the  friendly  alliance  between  his  country  and  France.  Wise  and 
witty,  with  Victoria  faithfully  portrayed  by  Gaby  Morlay.  (March) 

EVERYTHING  HAPPENS  AT  NIGHT-20th  Century-Fox 

Ah,  the  pity  of  it!  Sonja  Henie  skates  only  once  in  this  triangle 
story — this  time  it's  Ray  Milland  and  Robert  Cummings  who  chase 
her  all  over  Switzerland's  icy  mountains.  (March) 


With  Randolph  Scott  and  Miriam  Hopkins 
representing  the  South,  and  Errol  Flynn, 
a  Union  Intelligence  Officer,  Warners' 
"Virginia  City"  gives  us  a  page  from 
history  of  one  of  the  most  exciting 
events    in    the   war    between   the    States 


friend  to  a  barn-theater  to  get  her  out  of  town.  You'll  get  plenty 
of  laughs  from  Martha,  Charlie  Ruggles  and  Gertrude  Michael. 
(May) 

•  FIGHT  FOR  LIFE,  THE-United  Artists  Film 

Inspired  by  Paul  de  Kruif's  book  of  the  same  name,  this  Pare 
Lorenz  documentary  film  about  the  heroic  work  of  the  Chicago 
Maternity  Center  in  the  face  of  almost  insuperable  odds  is  un- 
sparingly realistic,  possibly  shocking,  but  undeniably  powerful  and 
moving.  (Apr.) 

*  FIGHTING  69th,  THE-Warners 

The  story  of  New  York's  famous  regiment  has  Jimmy  Cagney 
giving  a  memorable  performance  as  the  toughy  who  cracks  up 
under  shell  fire.  George  Brent  is  excellent,  but  it's  the  perfo 


FARMER'S  DAUGHTER,  THE-Paramount 

A  subdued  Martha  Raye,  but  still  amusing,  gets  caught  up  in  the 
cross-fire  when  a  Broadway  producer  sends  his  gold-digging  girl- 


of  Pat  O'Brien,  as  the  beloved  Father  Duffy,  that  will  leave  a 
lasting  impression.  Jeffrey  Lynn,  Alan  Hale,  Dick  Foran,  Dennis 
Morgan,  William  Lundigan,  "Big  Boy"  Williams,  Frank  McHugh 
and  Sam  Levene  help  make  this  more  than  just  an  evening's 
entertainment.  (March) 

FREE,  BLONDE  AND  21— 20th  Century-Fox 

Like  "Hotel  for  Women,"  this  has  a  woman's  hostelry  for  back- 
ground. Mary  Beth  Hughes  gets  herself  into  a  murder  jam;  Lynn 
Bari  holds  out  on  men  and  lands  a  millionaire;  and  Joan  Davis  is 
wonderfully  funny  as  a  chambermaid.  Henry  Wilcoxon,  Robert 
Lowry  and  Chick  Chandler  make  life  interesting  for  the.girls.  (May) 

GHOST  COMES  HOME,  THE-M-G-M 

Frank  Morgan's  incomprehensible  English  and  Billie  Burke's 
vaporings  are  okay  for  comedy  relief,  but  it's  all  too  much  in  this 
story  of  a  man  who  is  nagged  by  his  wife  into  becoming  an  un- 
pleasantly dominant  person.  Ann  Rutherford  and  John  Shelton 
are  in  the  cast,  too.  (May) 

GRANNY  GET  YOUR  GUN-Warners 

May  Robson  is  cast  as  an  indomitable  old  woman  who  fights 
for  the  safety  of  her  granddaughter  (Margot  Stevenson),  when  her 
divorced  husband  (Hardie  Albright)  is  murdered.  It's  much  ado 
about  people  who  aren't  very_nice.  (March) 

*  GRAPES  OF  WRATH,  THE-20th  Century-Fox 

Steinbeck's  unforgettable  Joad  family  lives  and  breathes  with 
startling  reality  in  the  screen  saga  of  migratory  workers  who  fled 
the  Oklahoma  Dust  Bowl  in  a  vain  search  for  jobs  among  the 
orange  groves.  Fine  acting  of  Henry  Fonda,  Jane  Darwell  and  the 
entire  cast  is  on  a  par  with  the  uncompromising  newsreel  quality 
of  the  whole  film.  (Apr.) 

HALF  A  SINNER-Universal 

Schoolmarm  Heather  Angel  goes  on  a  glamour  spree;  finds  ad- 
venture in  the  shape  of  a  stolen  car,  a  mysterious  corpse  and 
handsome  John  King.  Constance  Collier  and  Walter  Catlett  add 
comedy.  (May) 

(Continued  on  page  8) 


PHOTOPLAY 


Bette  DavisZj  Charles  Boyer 


are       HO 


O         OFFER 


Included  in  the  notable  supporting  cast  are 

FREY  LYNN  •  BARBARA  O'NEIL 

Virginia  Weidler   .  Henry  Daniell 
Walter  Hampden  •  George  Coulouris 

I  ANATOLE   LITVAK  PRODUCTION 

Screen  Play  by  Casey  Robinson   .   Music  by  Max  Steiner 
A  Warner  Bros. -First  National  Picture 


ALL  THIS  AND 
HEAVEN  TOO' 


ROM    THE    WORLD-APPLAUDED    NC 


(Continued  from  page  6) 


HE  MARRIED  HIS  WIFE-20th  Century-Fox 

Joel  McCroa.  Nancy  Kelly,  M.iry  Boland  and 
CYs.it  Romero  at,  hut  they  can't 

do  much  to  lift  this  out  of  the  doldrums 

Joel  because  of  his  penchant  for  horse 
r.Kvs.  alimony  trouble  sets  in,  .mil  Mary,  as  a 
screwball  matron,  adds  to  the  confusion.     (Apr.) 

HENRY  GOES  ARIZONA-  M-G-M 
Vaudevillian  Frank  Morgan  inherits  an  Arizona 

ranch  when  his  half-brother  is  murdered  by  a  sang 
who   wants  the  property.  Virginia  WeiilK 
the  ranch  while   Frank   sees  that  justice  is  done. 
There  you  have  it.  {March) 

•  HIGH  SCHOOL-20th  Century-Fox 

The  first  of  a  ono-school-picturc-a-year  plants 
Jane  Withers  in  San  Antonio's  famous  Jefferson 
High  where  her  uncle  is  principal.  She  thinks  she's 
big  potatoes  till  tlie  kids  snub  her  down  to  her  size. 
Joe  E.  Brown,  Jr.  adds  to  the  film's  merits.  (Marcli) 

HONEYMOON  DEFERRED— Universal 

This  murder  mystery  has  Edmund  Lowe  as  an 
insurance-claim  investigator  who  resigns  to  get 
married,  disappears  on  his  honeymoon  to  help  a 
pal.  Margaret  Lindsay,  the  bride,  follows  in  a  state 
of  high  indignation,  and  the  outcome  is  swell. 

•  HOUSE  ACROSS  THE  BAY,  THE-Wanger- 

United  Artists 

As  a  gambler's  wife,  Joan  Bennett  is  whirled 
from  the  heights  of  luxury  to  the  depths  of  despair 
when  husband  i,e,ij,  Raft  is  sentenced  to  Alca- 
traz.  Then  Walter  1'idgeon  enters  the  picture.  The 
social  problems  of  a  convict's  "widow"  make  for 
compelling  drama.  Gladys  George  is  excellent  as 
Joan's  friend.    (Apr.  ) 

HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES,  THE- 
Universal 

Hawthorne's  famous  classic  comes  to  the  screen 
with  Vincent  Price  as  the  man  sent  to  prison  for  a 
murder  he  didn't  commit.  Ever-faithful  to  Price  is 
his  sweetheart,  Margaret  Lindsay,  who  suffers 
George  Sanders'  continuing  menace  until  her  lover 
can  return  to  her.  The  atmosphere  of  evil  is  well 
created.  {May) 

HUNCHBACK  OF  NOTRE  DAME,  THE-RKO- 
Radio 

Charles  Laugh  ton  is  the  hunchback  of  Victor 
Hugo's  imagination  and  emerges  as  the  pitiful  bell 
ringer  who  found  in  his  warped  soul  a  quality 
called  compassion.  Maureen  O'Hara  is  pretty  as 
the  gypsy.  Edmond  O'Brien  and  Sir  Cedric  Hard- 
wicke  do  excellent  work.    (March) 

•  INVISIBLE  MAN  RETURNS,  THE-Universal 

It's  fascinating,  this  monstrosity  of  a  plot  in 
which  Vincent  Price  is  to  be  executed  for  the  mur- 
der of  his  brother.  A  doctor  (John  Sutton)  uses  a 


fot  inula    to    make    Price    totally    invisible.    What 
after  that  will  give  you  a  permanent  up- 
coiffure.  (March) 

INVISIBLE  STRIPES-Warners 

What  happens  when  an  ex-convict  returns  to  the 
living  and  finds  he  isn't  wanted  is  graphically 
portrayed  with  George  Raft  wearing  the  invisible 
stripes.  The  story  has  new  twists — and  Jane  Bryan. 
William  Holden  plays  George's  weak  younger 
brother.  (March) 

I  TAKE  THIS  WOMAN-M-G-M 

With  lesser  stars  than  Spencer  Tracy  and  Hedy 
Lamarr — cast  as  a  doctor  and  his  wife,  for  whom 
he  deserts  his  poor  man's  practice — this  second- 
rate  story  might  have  been  passable.  As  it  is, 
Verne  Teasdalc  contributes  the  only  brightness  to 
a  dull  film.   (Apr.) 

LION  HAS  WINGS,  THE-Korda-United   Artists 

Merle  Oberon.  Ralph  Richardson  and  other  Brit- 
ish players  contributed  their  services  to  this,  which 
is  frankly  war-time  propaganda  showing  what  the 
Royal  Air  Force  can  do — but  it's  well-done  propa- 
ganda  and  a  lesson   in   preparedness.    (Apr.) 

LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK-20»h  Century-Fox 

Alice  Faye  and  Fred  MacMurray  do  some  gal- 
lant trouping  as  a  couple  of  happy-go-lucky  water- 
front people  who  help  Robert  Fulton  (Richard 
Greene)  launch  his  invention,  the  steamboat,  but 
the  net  result  is  an  opulent  masterpiece  of  banality 
about  the  days  when  Manhattan  was  young.   (Apr.) 

LONE  WOLF  STRIKES,  THE-Columbia 

Warren  William  plays  the  not-too-reformed  crook 
who  steps  back  into  his  nefarious  practices  to  help 
Joan  Perry  recover  a  string  of  pearls — and  gets 
mixed  up  in  a  murder  for  his  pains.  It's  the  old 
formula,  but  it's  still  good.    (Apr.) 

MAN  FROM  DAKOTA,  THE-M-G-M 

There's  a  Civil  War  background  for  drama,  Wal- 
lace Beery  and  Donald  Meek  for  riproaring  humor, 
Dolores  Del  Rio  and  John  Howard  for  romance, 
and  an  exciting  dash  through  the  Confederate  lines 
for  some  bang-up  suspense.  It's  all  a  bit  mixed  up, 
but  undeniably  interesting.    (Apr.) 

MAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  TALK,  THE-20th  Cen- 
tury-Fox 

In  this  remake  of  "The  Valiant,"  Lloyd  Nolan 
does  excellent  work  as  the  confessed  murderer  who 
refuses  to  reveal  either  his  name  or  his  reason  for 
the  crime.  Jean  Rogers  is  sympathetic  and  appeal- 
ing as  the  sister  who  tries  to  make  him  talk.   (Apr.) 

MARINES  FLY  HIGH,  THE-RKO-Radio 

An  overdone  melodrama  of  two  marines,  Richard 
Dix  and  Chester  Morris,  after  the  same  girl,  Lucille 
Ball,  who  needs  them  to  save  her  plantation  from 
bandits.  (May) 


*  MARRIED  AND  IN  LOVE-RKO-Radio 

This  is  the  story  of  a  married  woman  trying  to 
get  back  an  old  sweetheart,  and  his  struggle  to 
keep  faith  with  his  unglamorous  wife.  Helen  Vinson 
is  the  other  woman;  Alan  Marshal  the  man,  and 
Barbara  Read  the  wife.  It's  unpretentious — and 
superior  cinema.   (March) 

*  MEXICAN  SPITFIRE-RKO-Radio 

Pure  slapstick,  with  no  compromise.  Lupe  Velez 
comes  from  Mexico  as  the  bride  of  Donald  Woods, 
scion  of  a  rich  family  who  give  Lupe  the  lorgnon 
treatment.  Leon  Errol  is  excellent  in  a  dual  role 
of  an  English  lord  and  Donald's  eccentric  uncle. 
Elisabeth  Risdon  and  Linda  Hayes  play  the  nasty 
aunt  and  previous  fiancee.  (March) 

MILLIONAIRE  PLAYBOY-RKO-Radio 

Guaranteed  to  tickle  the  Penner  fans.  Joe  has  a 
complex  that  results  in  hiccups  when  any  pretty 
girl  kisses  him,  and  plenty  want  to  do  it.  Linda 
Hayes  is  the  one  who  finally  cures  him.  (May) 

MUSIC  IN  MY  HEART-Columbia 

Tony  Martin  returns  to  star  as  a  Broadway  un- 
derstudy who's  threatened  with  deportation  just 
as  he  gets  his  big  chance.  He  crashes  into  Rita 
Hay  worth's  taxi — comes  love — and  the  result  is  a 
pleasant  little  musical  with  nice  tunes  and  Andre 
Kostelanetz  to  play  them.    (Apr.) 

MY  LITTLE  CHICKADEE-Universal 

Mae  West  is  the  little  flower  of  the  frontier,  and 
W.  C.  Fields  masquerades  as  a  bold  bad  bandit 
and  shoots  Indians  with  a  sling  shot.  The  result 
is  just  about  what  you'd  expect — ribald  but  gen- 
uinely comic,  with  both  stars  at  top  form.    (Apr.) 

ir  MY  SON,  MY  SON!-Small-U.A. 

Adapted  from  Howard  Spring's  best  seller,  this  is 
a  superb  study  of  an  adoring  father  who  gives  his 
son  everything,  and  of  the  boy  who  ruins  the  lives  of 
all  those  near  to  him.  Brian  Aherne,  as  the  father, 
and  Louis  Hayward,  as  the  son,  are  superb.  Laraine 
Day's  performance  forecasts  stardom  for  her. 
Madeleine  Carroll,  Henry  Hull,  Josephine  Hutchin- 
son, Bruce  Lester  and  Scotty  Beckett  are  all  good 
in  their  roles.  (May) 

*  NORTHWEST  PASSAGE-M-G-M 

The  first  half  of  Kenneth  Roberts'  book,  the  jour- 
ney of  Rogers'  Rangers  through  the  wilderness  to 
attack  the  Indians  at  St.  Francis,  is  filmed  in  Tech- 
nicolor to  bring  you  a  picture  so  beautiful  that  it  can 
be  labeled  epic.  Spencer  Tracy  has  never  given  a 
finer  performance  as  the  man  whose  indomitable 
will  conquers  all.  Robert  Young  is  excellent  as  his 
young  aide.  (May) 

OH,  JOHNNY,  HOW  YOU  CAN  LOVE-Universal 

A  slap-happy  little  ditty  in  which  traveling  sales- 
man Tom  Brown  gets  mixed  up  with  heiress  Peggy 
Moran,  gangster  Allen  Jenkins  and  a  tourist  camp. 


•  OUTSIDER,  THE-Alliance 

Tearful  but  compelling  is  this  story  of  the  hope- 
lessly crippled  daughter  of  a  brilliant  London  doc- 
tor who  goes  to  a  publicity-mad  bone  specialist  as 
a  last  resort.  Mary  Maguire  is  the  girl,  George 
Sanders  the  specialist  suspected  of  quackery,  and  the 
interplay  of  character  is  beautiful  to  watch.   (Apr.) 

•  PINOCCHIO-Disney-RKO 

Collodi's  fable  of  the  wooden  puppet  who  learns 
how  to  become  a  real  little  boy  and  a  kind  son  to 
woodcarver  Gcpetto  comes  to  the  screen  as  the  finest 
animated  cartoon  feature  ever  made.  Characteri- 
zations, from  tiny  voice-of-conscience  Jiminy  Crick- 
el  to  enormous  Monslro,  the  whale,  compare  favor- 
ably with  the  finest  human  talent.  You  can't  afford 
to  miss  this!    (Apr.) 

•  PRIMROSE   PATH,   THE-RKO-Radio 

Not  a  pretty  story,  this,  of  a  family  whose 
nominal  head  has  a  weakness  for  gin,  and  a  mother 
who  supports  her  family  by  going  on  parties  with 
men  who  can  afford  the  money  to  buy  groceries  for 
her  brood  on  February  Hill.  It's  a  shock,  but  a 
pleasant  one  to  see  Ginger  Rogers'  acting  in  this 
simple,  honest  story,  and  Joel  McCrea  is  the  most 
convincing  he  has  ever  been.  (May) 

ir  RAFFLES-Goldwyn-U.A. 

It's  the  same  old  story,  but  it's  still  swell  drama. 
This  time  David  Niven  is  the  suave  Raffles,  Olivia 
de  Havilland  his  fiancee,  and  Dudley  Digges  the 
inspector.  You  remember,  Raffles  decides  to  reform 
when  he  meets  Olivia,  but  her  brother  (Douglas 
Walton)  is  in  trouble,  so  Raffles  goes  on  the  prowl 
again.  (March) 

ir  REBECCA— Selznick  International-U.A. 

The  main  character,  Rebecca,  never  appears  in  the 
film,  but  dominates  the  whole.  She  was  the  first  wife 
of  Laurence  Olivier.  After  her  death,  Olivier  mar- 
ries Joan  Fontaine,  brings  her  to  his  country  estate, 
Manderley,  and  there  she  discovers' — but  we  can't 
spoil  the  story  for  its  success  depends  on  the  sur- 
prise twists  of  the  plot.  The  mood  for  haunting  fear 
is  magnificently  contrived,  aided  by  the  superior 
work  of  Olivier,  Miss  Fontaine,  Judith  Anderson, 
George  Sanders  and  Reginald  Denny.  (May) 

•  ROAD  TO  SINGAPORE-Paramount 

One  of  the  gayest,  most  amusing  films  of  the 
season  has  Bing  Crosby,  son  of  a  rich  ship  owner, 
desert  his  fiancee  .it  tie-  altar,  root  out  his  laziest  pal 
(Bob  Hope),. and  head  for  the  South  Seas  where, 
when  they  team  up  with  Dottie  Lamour,  peace  goes 
chattering  out  the  window.  Crosby's  grand  and 
Hope  has  never  been  better.  Don't  miss  this.  (May) 

SAINT'S  DOUBLE  TROUBLE,  THE-RKO  Radio 

This   latest   in   the   modern   Robin   Hood   series 

gives  you  plenty  of  excitement  for  your  money — 

(Continued  on  page  96) 


PEPSI 


PETE 


THE    PEPSI-COLA    COPS 


•tssfl? 


d%e 


^'^ed- 


**+  *t£»*** 


\^°x 


GOOD  NEWS  FOR  HOSTESSES 

It's  easy  and  economical  to  entertain  when 
you  have  Pepsi-Cola  in  the  house.  The 
handy  home  carton  holds  6  big  bottles— 
and  each   bottle  holds    12  full  ounces. 


PHOTOPLAY 


How  Well  Do  You  Know  Your  Hollywood? 


Bob  Young  and   Helen  Gilbert  for  human  interest,  a 
white  stallion  for  the  title  role  in  M-G-M's  "Florian" 


GRADE  yourself  five  points  for 
every  one  you  guess  right.  If 
you  get  sixty  or  less,  you  don't 
keep  up  with  Hollywood.  If  your  score 
is  eighty,  you're  doing  quite  well;  and 
if  you  have  a  score  of  one  hundred, 
you  know  as  much  as  PHOTOPLAY. 
Check   up  on    page  89. 

1.  She  has  appeared  in  pictures  with 
both  her  husbands,  William  Powell  and 
Clark   Gable: 

Joan  Crawford        Carole  Lombard 
Joan  Bennett  Ginger  Rogers 

2.  A  Washington  university  gave  him 
the  degree  of  "Doctor  of  Music": 
Eddie  Cantor         Rudy  Vallee 

Bing  Crosby 

actors     is     the 


Don  Ameche 

3.   Which     of     th 
tallest? 

Gary  Cooper 
Cary  Grant 


Brian  Aherne 
Robert  Young 


4.  Two    of    these    actors    have    only 
been  married  once: 

James  Cagney       Melvyn  Douglas 
Spencer  Tracy      Humphrey  Bogart 

5.  Two    of    these    actors    have    been 
married    three    times: 

William  Powell        Clark  Gable 
Pat  O'Brien  Henry  Fonda 

b.    Her   pals   call    her   "Minnie": 
Margaret  Sullavan        Mary  Martin 
Marlene  Dietrich  Myrna  Loy 

7.  She   never   can    pronounce  the  let- 
ter "R": 

Claudette  Colbert     Shirley  Temple 
Alice  Faye  Kay  Francis 

8.  All   Hollywood  was  disturbed  when 
this  actor  was   reported   lost  in   Mexico: 
Jeffrey  Lynn  Ray  Milland 
Eddie  Albert            Joel  McCrea 

9.  Her  real   name  is  Gladys  Greene: 
Jean  Arthur  Patricia  Morison 
Gloria  Jean  Helen  Gilbert 

10.  He  played  the  title  role  in  "Frank- 
enstein": 


Boris  Karloff  Bela  Lugosi 

Colin  Clive  Basil  Rathbone 

11.  Two  of  these  stars  are  married 
to  motion  picture  producers: 

Ann  Sothern  Merle  Oberon 

Hedy  Lamarr         Virginia  Bruce 

12.  In  "The  Great  Profile,"  this  player 
will   impersonate  John   Barrymore: 
Warren  William       Fredric  March 
John  Barrymore      Adolphe  Menjou 

13.  Two  of  these  players  changed 
their  names  after  they  had  started  their 
careers  in  movies: 

Bob  Hope  Mickey  Rooney 

Anne  Shirley  Brenda  Joyce 

14.  Bing  Crosby's  extra-curricular  en- 
thusiasm is: 

Collecting  rare  books        Farming 
Horse  racing  Painting 

15.  One  of  these  studios  issues  an 
annual   musical   picture: 

RKO  Goldwyn 

M-G-M  20th  Century-Fox 

16.  Clark  Gable  and  Joan  Crawford 
appeared  together  in  which  two  films?: 
Chained  Red  Dust 
Gorgeous  Hussy  Love  on  the  Run 

17.  This  popular  dancer  once  worked 
as  a    coal    miner: 

Fred  Astaire  Johnny  Downs 

Cesar  Romero       George  Murphy 

18.  Harvard  University  recently 
voted  this  actress  as  the  least  likely  to 
gain  success  on  the  screen: 


Joan  Fontaine 
Ann  Sheridan 


Martha  Raye 
Rosemary  Lane 


.  A    Western     star, 
engineer  in  the   U. 


he    was    once 
S.  Army: 

Ken  Maynard         Gene  Autry 
Roy  Rogers  Hoot  Gibson 

20.  This  prominent  actor  is  the  author 
of    "Lorenzo    Goes    to    Hollywood": 
Frank  Morgan  Edward  Arnold 

C.  Aubrey  Smith       Thomas  Mitchell 


"Do  you  know  that  a 

GLAMOROUS 
NEW  SKIN 

is  'ABOUT  to  be  BORN'  to  you?" 


Why  let  your  new  skin  look  dull  and 
drab?  It  can  bring  you  new  beauty  if 
you  help  remove  those  tiny,  menacing 
flakes  of  older  skin ! 

RIGHT  NOW  you  have  a  new  skin  crowd- 
,  ing  eagerly  forward  to  replace  your 
old  skin  that  is  departing  in  almost  invis- 
ible, worn-out  flakes.  Lady  Esther  asks, 
why  let  these  tiny  flakes  menace  the  love- 
liness of  your  new  skin  ?  Why  not  help  your 
new  skin  bring  new  youthfulness  to  you? 
Each  unfolding  of  your  skin  can  bring 
you  Reborn  Beauty,  says  Lady  Esther,  if 
only  you  will  let  my  4-Purpo*e  Cream 
help  you  to  remove  gently  those  tiny 
flakes  of  worn-out  skin  beclouding  the 
glory  of  your  new  skin ! 

un  your  fingertips  over  your  face  now. 
you  feel  little  rough  spots  left  by  your 
dry  skin?  They're  the  thieves  that 
steal  your  loveliness— keep  even  the  finest 
powder  from  going  on  smoothly.  My  4-Pur- 
pose  Cream  loosens  each  tiny  flake— and 
other  impurities— enahles  you  to  whisk 
them  away  gently.  It  helps  Nature  refine 
your  pores  and  reveal  the  fresh  youthful- 
ness of  your  "new-born  skin"  ! 
Ask  Your  Doctor 
About  Your  Face  Cream 
Ask  him  about  so-called  skin  foods— about 
hormones  and  vitamins.  I'll  be  amazed, 
if  he  tells  you  that  vitamin  deficiencies 
should  be  remedied  by  your  face  cream. 
But  ask  him  if  every  word  Lady  Esther 
says  isn't  absolutely  true— that  her  cream 
removes  the  dirt,  impurities  and  worn-out 
flakes  of  older  skin... that  it  helps  Nature 
refine  your  pores. ..and  thus  brings  beauty 
to  your  new-born  skin! 

Try  my  4-Purpose  Face  Cream  at  my 
expense.  Use  it  twice  a  day  or  oftener. 
Try  it  before  you  powder.  Let  my  cream 
help  keep  your  Accent  on  Youth! 


Accept  Lady  Esther's  7-Day  Tube  FREE! 


(You  can  paste  thi,  on  a  penny  postcard) 

Lady  Esther, 

7118  West  85th  St.,  Chicago,  III. 
FPPP  Please  send  trie  your  frener- 
1/  Xv  Ci  X-i  ous  sample  tube  of  Lady 
Esther  Face  Cream;  also  tei.  shade-;  6f  Face 
Powder,  i  ri  i  ami  postpaid.  (Offer  limited  to 

one  per  family.) 


CunaJa,  write  l.a.ly  rather.  Toronto,  Onl.  5 

l  \\\  mmuvwvuwiiwwwvvhmmmmmm/ma$ 


JUNE,      I  940 


#*»z 


«*oM«* 


S0\ 


:fP 


\ 


■^0:300 


THE  NEW 

LIPSTICK  FOR  SMOOTH 
PETAL-SOFT  LIPS 

When  you  try  Tangee  Theatrical 
Red,  you're  going  to  wonder 
how  you  were  ever  satisfied  with  an 
ordinary  "grease  base"  lipstick! 

Here's  one  that  goes  on  more 
smoothly  than  you  dreamed  possi- 
ble—"shapes"  your  lips  any  way 
you  want  — doesn't  smear  or  come 
off —"sets"  more  quickly— lasts 
longer  — and  never  gives  you  that 
"wet  paint"  look  that  smart  women 
of  today  avoid. 

And  what  a  shade!  Clear,  glow- 
ing, glamorous  — a  smash  hit  with 
brunettes  — the  perfect  touch  of 
drama  for  blondes! 

To  complete  this  modern  make- 
up, use  Tangee  Theatrical  Red 
Rouge— compact,  or  the  even  newer 
creme  — and  your  favorite  shade  of 
flatteringTangee  Powder.  When  you 
want  a  more  delicate  pastel  effect, 
ask  for  the  Natural  shade  of  Tangee. 

A  VIVID    RED    SHADE 


10 


THE  PEOPLE'S  CHOICE? 

NEVER  having  complained  before,  I 
feel  I  am  entitled  to  do  so  now. 
I  sat  through  "Gone  with  the 
Wind"  twice,  thanks  to  Clark  Gable's 
excellent  performance  (and  he  is  not  my 
favorite  actor).  Everyone  I  have  seen 
since  the  picture  was  shown  here  was 
highly  enthusiastic  over  his  marvelous 
portrayal  of  Rhett  Butler.  Now  it  seems 
he  has  been  completely  ignored,  and 
consideration  given  to  a  silly  and  boring 
performance  by  James  Stewart  in  "Mr. 
Smith,  etc."  Finally  the  Academy 
Award  was  given  to  Robert  Donat.  Nice 
going!  It's  a  wonder  to  us  that  Gable's 
name  was  even  recalled  in  connection 
with  the  picture,  now  that  the  profits 
are  rolling  in.  Oh,  we  know  that  he  was 
well  paid,  but  so  are  the  others. 

It  is  not  a  matter  of  begrudging  any 
star  what  the  voters  believe  he  has 
earned,  but  it  is  a  matter  of  giving  the 
public  a  chance  to  express  itself  before 
these  awards  are  made.  We  pay  for  it 
all,  and  we  (my  friends  and  I)  think 
that  both  Mr.  Gable  and  Miss  de  Havil- 
land  have  been  unjustly  ignored. 

Of  the  men  to  select  from,  just  who 
could  or  would  have  given  as  fine  a  per- 
formance in  the  role  of  Rhett  Butler? 
Many  of  us  have  noticed  that  when  a 
really  big  part  comes  along,  such  as  the 
leads  in  "Strange  Interlude,"  "San  Fran- 
cisco," "Men  in  White,"  this  one  and 
many  others,  they  know  where  to  find 
Mr.  Gable.  Well,  for  our  part,  it's  high 
time  they  knew  where  to  find  him  when 
thanks  are  extended! 

Marie  Alberta  Callaghan, 
San  Antonio,  Tex. 

P.  S.  I  heartily  agree  with  the  senti- 
ments herein  expressed. 

Theresa  Estelle  Morin, 
San  Antonio,  Tex. 

HOME-MAID 

nEDY  Lamarr  and  Joan  Bennett  cer- 
tainly do  look  enough  alike  to  be  twins, 
but  when  it  comes  to  real  glamour  Joan 
leaves  Hedy  as  far  behind  as  if  she  were 
still  in  her  native  Vienna.  La  Bennett 
also  (in  my  opinion)  is  far  the  better 
actress.  Hedy  Lamarr  emotes  through 
picture  after  picture  without  being  very 
convincing  to  me — which  goes  to  show 
our  American  gals  still  have  what  it 
takes  and,  if  it  were  not  for  the  huge 
build-up  most  of  these  foreign  stars  get 
when  they  first  come  over,  no  one  would 
even  look  at  them  twice. 

Eleanor  Rose, 
Sandston,  Va. 


"IN"  WITH  THE  ARMY  NOW 

HERE  at  the  Quartermaster  Barracks, 
we  have  a  steady  subscription  to  Photo- 
play, so  I  read  it  all  the  time.  However, 
I  missed  one  thing  in  your  latest  issue — 
a  picture  and  caption  about  Miss  Kath- 
ryn  Adams  (remember  that  name,  be- 
cause there  is  a  girl  you  will  be  seeing 
more  of  in  the  movies) .  She  played  with 
Ginger  Rogers  in  "Fifth  Avenue  Girl," 
and  with  Charles  Laughton  in  "The 
Hunchback  of  Notre  Dame." 

Lots  of  us  are  so  tired  of  the  same  old 
banalities  coming  year  after  year  from 
the  Dietrichs,  Shearers,  Crawfords, 
Davises  and  Garbos  that  we  yearn  for 
pictures  wherein  there  is  less  top  billing 
and  more  top  acting. 

And,  while  women  may  go  to  a  movie 
so  they  can  get  caught  up  in  an  emo- 
tional rip  tide,  some  of  us  boys  go  for 
entertainment.  And  we  also  admire  a 
new  personality  like  Kathryn  Adams 
who  gives  you  a  zippy  tingle  of  appre- 
ciation of  Woman  in  general. 

Of  course,  many  of  those  who  make 
movies  and  those  who  review  them 
probably  think  a  soldier's  appreciation 
of  a  girl  is  mostly  Sex,  capital  S.  But 
to  us,  who  eat  Army  "chow,"  live  often 
in  a  boars'  nest,  and  see  too  many  run- 
of-the-mill  male  faces,  Woman  means 
HOME  and  her  the  heart  of  it. 

Paul  T.  Roper, 
Fort  Logan,  Colo. 

PAROLE  APPLIED  FOR 

ISN'T  it  about  time  Warner  Brothers 
suspended  that  seemingly  endless  prison 
sentence  they  have  on  John  Garfield?  I 
have  just  seen  the  actor  in  "Castle  on 


M-G-M's  own  CCC 
(John)  Carroll,  (Joan] 
Crawford  and  (Bruce) 
Cabot — swing  gaily  along 
in  last  season's  Broadway 
fiit.     "Susan    and     God" 


the  Hudson"  and  there  is  no  doubt  that 
he  turned  in  a  swell  performance  as  the 
gangster.  But  I  also  have  seen  Garfield 
on  the  stage  when  he  played  the  roman- 
tic hero  in  "Having  Wonderful  Time," 
and  the  comical  taxi-driving  brother- 
in-law  in  "Golden  Boy" — two  roles 
totally  different  from  the  type  he's  been 
playing  in  the  movies.  And  he  was 
excellent  in  both  those  roles. 

Garfield  has  the  powerful  personality 
and  acting  ability  that  have  marked 
Paul  Muni's  rise  in  films.  So  .  .  .  why 
not  give  him  a  crack  at  some  of  the 
Muni  type  of  pictures,  or  even  at  some 
"young  hero"  parts?  But  please,  War- 
ner Brothers,  take  John  Garfield  out  of 
the  "penitentiary"  you've  put  him  in! 
George  Gilbert, 
New  Brunswick,  N.  J. 

PIE  IN  THE  HOLLYWOOD  SKY 

UOES  it  occur  to  you  that  the  only 
actors  today  of  the  good  old  slapstick 
comedy,  with  wigs  and  false  mustaches, 
are  the  Marx  Brothers? 

The  time  was  that  audiences  rolled  in 
the  aisles  with  laughter,  and  paid  good 
money  to  see  Charlie  Chaplin  and  the 
Mack  Sennett  cops.  Recently,  one  of  the 
studios  brought  a  few  of  these  scenes 
into  a  modern  film  and  the  younger 
generation  in  the  theater  which  I  was 
attending  howled  (with  glee) . 

Today  all  our  comedians  have  "gone 
Hollywood." 

There  is  a  gold  mine  for  some  studio 
with  a  good  brace  of  comedians  to  be- 
come wise  to  the  fact  that  people  will  , 
still  like  to  see  custard  pies  hurled  and 
cops  fall  all  over  the  street;  or  is  there 
a  law  against  it? 

Jon  H.  Pougher, 
Topeka,  Kans. 

UNRECONSTRUCTED  OPINION 

IHREE  years  ago,  I  read  a  book  that 
word-painted  the  most  moving,  intrigu- 
ing human  drama  it  has  ever  been  my 
pleasure  to  read.  The  author  pictured 
a  girl  who,  from  sixteen  to  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  was  a  shrewd,  calculating, 
fiery,  untamed,  hypocritical,  egotistical, 
ruthless,  courageous,  sensuous  woman 
who  did  not  understand  her  own  emo- 
tions and  could  not  be  bothered  with 
analyzing  them.  In  all,  the  most  dom- 
inating fictional  character  that  has  yet 
grown  out  of  the  heart-rending  conflict 
that  tore  a  soft-voiced,  high-spirited 
culture  to  shreds  and  dragged  it  in  the 
dust. 
I  recently  saw  an  interesting,  spectac- 
(Continued  on  page  87) 


PHOTOPLAY 


A  Quick  Dab  of  Mum  makes  your 
'After-Bath  Freshness"  last  all  day— all  evening  long! 


Mum  every  day— and  after  every  bath- 
prevents  underarm  odor! 


HOW  WONDERFUL  your  bath  can  be!  A  quick 
shower  in  the  morning  braces  you  for  a  long,  hard 
day.  A  warm  bath  when  you  are  tired  makes  you  feel 
refreshed.  And  any  bath,  at  any  time,  leaves  you  fra- 
grant and  sweet . . .  nice  to  be  near  for  a  while! 

But  no  bath— however  fresh  it  leaves  you— can  guar- 
antee you  lasting  charm!  For  a  bath  removes  only  past 
perspiration.  It  does  not . . .  cannot . . .  prevent  risk  of 
future  odor.  Unless  you  give  underarms  special  daily 
care,  you  can  offend  and  never  know  it. 
Wise  girls  face  this  fact... and  make  a 
habit  of  Mum! 

Mum  after  your  bath  and  before  every 
date  prevents  underarm  odor.  With  a  mini- 
mum of  trouble ...  it  makes  you  sure  of 
popularity  all  day  or  all  evening  long. 
More  women  use  Mum  than  any  other 


deodorant ...  for  Mum   is  so  dependable 
. . .  so  gentle  ...  so  sure  to  guard  charm! 
MUM  IS  QUICK!  Your  bath  may  take  15 
minutes... it  takes  only  half-a-minute  more  for  Mum! 
Just  a  pat  under  this  arm,  then  under  that  with  this 
pleasant  cream...  and  you're  through ...  sure  that  you're 
safe  from  odor  all  day  or  all  evening— welcome  anywhere. 
MUM  IS  SAFE!  You  need  never  have  a  worry  about 
even  your  finest  dress... if  you  always  use  Mum!  Mum 
bbbsw  has  the  American  Institute  of  Laundering 

*S-V\  Seal  as  being  harmless  to  fabrics— no  mat- 
ter how  delicate  they  are.  Even  after  you're 
dressed  gentle  Mum  is  safe  to  use!  Mum 
is  actually  so  extra-gentle  that  you  can  use 
it  even  after  underarm  shaving,  and  it 
won't  irritate  your  skin. 
MUM  IS  SURE!  Without  attempting  to 


At  the  end  of  a  wonderful  evening  he  hates  to  say 
"good  night"— for  Alum's  sure  care  always  keeps  you  fresh 
and  sweet!  Smart  girls— popular  girls— say  no  charm 
counts  more  than  perfect  daintiness.  And  for  daily 
underarm  care,  they  rely  on  Mum. 


stop  underarm  perspiration,  Mum  works  in  advance  to 
neutralize  the  odor.  With  Mum  you  can  be  sure  your 
after-bath  freshness  lasts  all  evening  long.  Women  every- 
where use  Mum . . .  more  of  them  use  this  pleasant 
cream  than  any  other  deodorant.  (And  men  like  to  use 
Mum,  too.)  Get  Mum  at  your  druggist's  today.  Why 
risk  offending— even  once?  Make  a  habit  of  Mum.  Then 
you're  sure  you  guard  your  charm! 


FOR  SANITARY  NAPKINS!  More  women  use  Mum  for 
sanitary  napkins  than  any  other  deodorant.  Mum  is  gentle . . . 
safe . . .  frees  you  from  worry  of  offending. 


MUM  TAKES  THE  ODOR  OUT  OF  PERSPIRATION 


JUNE,      I  940 


•w'/^iy /     Here  is  your  chance  to  win  One 
Thousand  Dollars — or  any  of  132  other  big  cash 
prizes!  It's  easy!  It's  fun!  The  glamorous,  fascinating 
beauty,  whose  life  and  loves  soon  will  be  seen  in 
the  spectacular  20th  Century-Fox  picture,  "Lillian 
Russell,"  inspired  this  Contest!  All  you  have  to 
do  is  check  as  True  or  False  the  statements  in 
the  column  at  the  right.  Then  write  a  letter  of 
not  more  than  50  words  on  the  subject: 

"WHY  LILLIAN  RUSSELL  IS 
FAMOUS  AS  AMERICA'S 
NO.   1    GLAMOR    GIRL." 

Be  sure  to  send  in  your  True  or  False 
List  with  your  letter  to  20  th  Century  - 
Fox — and  you  can  be  one  of  the  many 
winners!  Read  carefully  the  Contest 
Rules  below,  and  start  immediately! 


EASY  TO  WIN! 


2  "Diamond  Jim"  Brady  was  Lillian 
Russell's  ardent  admirer  and  show- 
ered her  with  costly  jewels. 

True  D     False  □ 

3  Lillian  Russell  was  given  a  kingdom 
by  the  Maharajah  of  Rahndigoor. 
True  □     False  □ 

4  Lillian   Russell's   exciting  life  and 
loves  will  be  seen  in  a  motion  pic- 
ture made  by  Darryl  F.  Zanuck. 

True  □     False  □ 

5  Lillian  Russell  was  discovered  by 
the  famous  showman,  Tony  Pastor, 
when  he  heard  her  sing. 

True  □     False  □ 

6  The  pavement  outside  Lillian 
Russell's   home    was   studded   with 
diamonds  and  rubies. 

True  □     False  □ 

7  Lillian  Russell  was  the  daughter  of 
a  President  of  the    United  States. 
True  □     False  D 

8  Celebrated  New  York  men-about 
town  returned  to  the  theatre  week 
after  week  to  see  and  applaud 
Lillian  Russell.         True  □     False  □ 

9  Alice  Faye  will  portray  Lillian 
Russell  in  a  motion  picture  soon  to 
be  released  by  20th  Century -Fox. 
True  □     False  □ 
10  Lillian  Russell  wore  a  wondrous 
evening  gown  woven  entirely  of  rare 
butterfly  wings.        True  □     False  □ 


FIRSi 
PRIZE 


0ZES.' 

♦1.00022 


2nd  PRIZE ...  $500.00 


3rd  PRIZE 


1250.00 


5  PRIZES  of  $100.00  e, 

25  PRIZESof  $10.00  eac 
100  PRIZES  of  $5.00  eac 


EASY  RULES! 


Check  the  True  or  False  statements  in  the  space  pro- 
vided.  Print  or  write  plainly  your  name  and  address 
the  coupon  and  attach  it  firmly  to  an  original  letter 
not  more  than  50  words  on  the  subject.  WHY  LILLIAN 
RUSSELL  IS  FAMOUS  AS  AMERICA'S  NO.  1  GLAMOR 
GIRL. 


ro- 

Z 

IN 


YOUR  NAME 
STREET 


CITY STATE 


ATTACH   THIS   TO    YOUR   LETTER    ON 
"WHY  LILLIAN   RUSSELL    IS   FAMOUS 
AS  AMERICA'S   NO.  1   GLAMOR  GIRL." 


Mail  your  True  or  False  List  and  your  letter  of  not  more 
than  50  words  to  the  Lillian  Russell  Contest  Editor, 
20th  Century-Fox  Film  Corporation,  444  West  56th 
St.,  New  York.  You  can  submit  as  many  letters  as  you 
want,  provided  each  is  accompanied  by  a  separate 
True  or  False  printed  form. 

Residents  of  the  United  States,  Hawaii  or  the  Dominion 
of  Canada  may  compete,  except  employees  of  20th 
Century-Fox,  their  advertising  agency  and  their  families. 
Contest  is  subject  to  Federal,  State  and  local  regula- 
tions. Contest  closes  June  15,  1940.  All  entries  become 
the  property  of  20th  Century-Fox  Film  Corporation. 


Entries  will  be  judged  by  the  highest  number  of  correct 
answers  to  the  True  or  False  List  and,  in  the  event  of  a 
tie,  by  the  merit  and  originality  of  the  letter  of  not 
than  50  words.  The  decision  of  the  judges  will  be  final. 
No  correspondence  will  be  entered  into  regarding 
Contest. 


lal. 
the 


Checks  will  be  mailed  to  the  winners  within  a  month 
of  the  close  of  the  Contest.  Anyone  wishing  a  complete 
list  of  winners  may  obtain  same  by  writing  20th  Century- 
Fox  and  enclosing  a  stamped,  self-addressed  envelope. 


PHOTOPLAY 


LONG 
SHOTS 


BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


DAVID  SELZNICK  got  the  Irving  Thalberg 
award  at  the  Academy  dinner  this  year 
for  being  the  producer  who  contributed 
the  most  to  the  motion-picture  industry  during 
1939  .  .  .  the  award  was  given  for  his  production 
of  "Gone  with  the  Wind"  which  is  proving  itself 
to  be  the  most  successful  movie  ever  made, 
having  already  taken  in  better  than  sixteen  and 
a  half  million  dollars  .  .  .  but  now  having  seen 
"Rebecca,"  I  think  David  Selznick  has  a  much 
greater  idea  to  sell  to  Hollywood  than  even  the 
spectacle  of  his  lavish  courage  in  producing  the 
epic  of  Scarlett  O'Hara  and  Rhett  Butler  .  .  . 
it's  simple  .  .  .  yet  he  seems  to  be  the  only  pro- 
ducer in  Hollywood  aware  of  it  ...  to  me  it's 
the  secret  of  the  success  of  this  man  who  had 
never  made  a  really  poor  picture  .  .  .  it's  merely 
this:  David  Selznick  believes  that  the  author  of 
a  successful  story  knew  how  to  write  that  story, 
and  that,  therefore,  when  the  story  is  trans- 
ferred to  celluloid  it  shouldn't  be  changed.  .  .  . 
When  it  came  to  filming  Margaret  Mitchell's 
masterpiece,  while  it  was  necessary  to  drop 
certain  characters  and  situations  due  purely  to 


Give  her  a  hand — for  Kay  Francis  beat  Hollywood  at  its 
own  game  when  she  played  to  the  hilt  her  role  in  "It's 
a   Date,"  opposite  Deanna   Durbin  and  Walter  Pidgeon 


length  .  .  .  every  part  of  the  story  that  could 
be  retained  was  transferred  to  the  screen  just  as 
Miss  Mitchell  wrote  it  .  .  .  and  the  result  is  six- 
teen and  a  half  million  dollars!  When  Mr.  Selz- 
nick produced  Louisa  May  Alcott's  "Little 
Women,"  he  produced  that  just  as  Miss  Alcott 
wrote  it  .  .  .  you  know  what  happened  to  that 
at  the  box  office.  .  .  . 

When  it  came  to  Daphne  du  Maurier's 
"Rebecca,"  however,  he  faced  a  doubly  difficult 
task  .  .  .  here  was  a  tremendously  successful 
mystery  novel  in  which  the  central  character 
never  appears  ...  I  know  that  if  I  had  been 
faced  with  the  task  of  transferring  such  a  story 
to  the  screen  I  would  have  thought  it  imperative 
to  show  the  woman  .  .  .  but  not  Mr.  Selznick  .  .  . 
he  had  brains  enough  to  realize  that,  since  the 
public  had  accepted  the  book  with  Rebecca 
absent,  the  movie  public  could  be  made  to  do 
the  same  .  .  .  the  film  result  is  an  eerie,  stirring, 
utterly  "different"  picture  .  .  .  and,  I  suspect, 
several  thousand  more  dollars  added  to  David 
Selznick's  personal  fortune.  .  .  . 

Yet  with  the  spectacle  of  the  Selznick  success 
due  to  this  policy  ever  before  them  ...  no  other 
producer  follows  it  .  .  .  we  get  a  supposed  life 
of  Stephen  Foster  distorted  into  a  silly  piece  of 
twaddle  called  "Swanee  River".  .  .  we  get  a 
"Lost  Horizon"  in  which  the  character  of  a 
spinster  schoolteacher  is  turned  by  the  scenario 
department  into  a  prostitute  ...  or  a  "Wee 
Willie  Winkie"  wherein  the  very  sex  of  the 
leading  character  is  changed  from  male  to 
female.  .  .  . 

I  HERE'S  no  sense  to  it  ...  I  could  give  you 
scores  of  examples,  but  those  three  are  enough 
.  .  .  none  of  them  made  the  money  they  were 
expected  to  make  .  .  .  perhaps  they  wouldn't 
have  made  fortunes  if  they  had  been  filmed 
exactly  .  .  .  but  I'll  wager  anything  that  they 
would  have  made,  in  their  original  form,  more 
than  they  did  in  these  versions.  .  .  . 

The  greatest  point  of  weakness  in  Hollywood 
today  lies  in  the  scenario  departments  .  .  .  and 
the  fault  lies  not  with  the  writers  hired  but  in 
the  system  under  which  they  have  to  work  .  .  . 
there's  one  studio  in  town  .  .  .  admittedly  a 
small  one  ...  in  which  writers  are  hired  to 
work  at  twenty-five  dollars  a  week  on  the  story 


for  a  star  who  gets  thousands  .  .  .  Hollywood's 
favorite  joke  is  that  writers  at  that  studio  are 
hired  on  a  two-way  basis:  Writer  and  janitor 
.  .  .  but  it  isn't  really  funny  ...  I  have  never 
yet  seen  a  good  picture  made  from  a  poor  script, 
regardless  of  the  stars  or  the  production  lav- 
ished upon  it  .  .  .  and  reversely  I  have  never 
seen  a  poor  picture  made  from  a  good  script  .  .  . 
and  that  goes  for  the  casting  and  production, 
too  .  .  .  Jimmy  Cagney  and  Eddie  Robinson 
were  unknown  actors  made  through  good  stories 
...  so,  for  a  while,  was  Tyrone  Power  (let  us 
forget  "Day-Time  Wife")  ...  It  was  criminal 
extravagance  to  waste  Clark  Gable  on  a 
"Strange  Cargo,"  though  the  studio  is  righting 
that  wrong  now  with  the  story  they  have  given 
him  in  "Boom  Town"  .  .  .  which  I  have  been 
privileged  to  read  and  which  I  think  is  just 
about  the  best  script,  for  sheer  entertainment, 
I  have  ever  read  .  .  .  and  a  deep  bow  should 
be  given  to  John  Lee  Mahin,  who  created  it. . . . 

I  MENTION  these  other  stars  and  other  studios 
because  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  infer  that 
David  Selznick  is  the  only  producer  out  here 
who  knows  a  good  story  when  he  sees  one  .  .  . 
he  isn't  .  .  .  but  I  do  think  that  he  is  unique 
in  his  believing  that  when  the  public  had  proven 
it  likes  a  story  .  .  .  then  the  public  is  right  .  .  . 
and  that  the  story,  in  filming,  should  not  be 
changed  .  .  .  and  I  repeat  if  he  can  sell  our  other 
producers  that  idea  .  .  .  we'll  all  be  seeing  a  lot 
better  pictures.  .  .  . 

Of  course,  good  pictures  aren't  entirely  up  to 
the  producer  and  the  writer  .  .  .  they  can  go 
only  just  so  far  and  then  in  come  the  stars  .  .  . 
right  now  a  lot  of  our  leading  stars  are  having 
"art"  attacks  ...  at  the  moment  it  is  our  glamour 
girls  and  if  they  don't  watch  out,  all  they  are 
going  to  do  is  wake  up  one  morning  and  discover 
they  have  made  the  screen  safe  for  Hedy  La- 
marr  .  .  .  here's  spring  upon  us,  spring  when 
a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts 
of  love,  and  a  young  girl's  fancy  goes  even 
further  and  what  are  our  laugh-producing  girls 
giving  us  .  .  .  gloom,  that's  what  .  .  .  gloom  and 
shiny    noses.    .    .    . 

Consider  Miss  Carole  Lombard  .   .   .  she  of 

the  glorious  humor  and  the  shining  hair,  the 

(Continued  on  page  94) 


JUNE,      I  940 


■',*>  pk  4; 

J      WHY  THE  WHOLE  WORLD 
^T       J*.  **  ENVIES   • 


Fashion  swings  to  the  swing  skirt.  Interpreted  here  in  a  brand  new  fabric.  Rich,  dull-surface  faille,  woven  of  acetate 
rayon  and  '"Lastex"  yarns.  Morning  glory  print  in  various  colors  on  blue  white  ground.  Slenderizing  treatment  in  fitted 
bodice  (thanks  to  that  famous  stretch)  and  adjustable  shoulder  straps.  At  leading  stores  everywhere,  in  company  with 
many  other  swim  suits  made  with  "Lastex"  yarn  for  fit,  comfort  and  control  .  . .  the  suits  that  rule  the  fashion  waves! 


.THE    MIRACLE   YARN    THAT    MAKES    THINGS    FIT 
An  elastic  yarn  manufactured  exclusively  by  United  States  Rubber  Company,  Rockefeller  Center,  New   York  City 


PHOTOPLAY 


THEE 


WED 


Photoplay  presents  its  fashion-wise 
impression  of  the  way  Vivien  Leigh 
may  look  when  she  becomes  the  bride 
of  Laurence   Olivier   late  this  summer 


<& 


\ 


R** 


ONE  Shakespearean  tour  brought  them  to- 
gether; it's  only  poetic  justice  that  another 
should  serve  as  prelude  for  their  wedding 
march!  For,  some  time  in  August  (when  their  re- 
spective divorce  decrees  become  final  in  England), 
Vivien  Leigh  will  set  aside  her  Juliet  cap  and  Lau- 
rence Olivier  will  step  off  the  stage  as  Romeo  to  be- 
come Mr.  and  Mrs.  in  real  life.  To  prove  that  a 
second-marriage  ensemble — or  one  designed  for  any 
informal  wedding  late  this  season — can  be  every  bit 
as  entrancing  as  the  first,  Photoplay  envisions  this 
lovely  bride-to-be  in  a  dinner  costume  of  faille  taf- 
feta that  will  be  a  stunning  addition  to  any  trousseau 
after  the  ceremony.  Meanwhile,  for  the  bridal  tra- 
dition, there's  "something  old"  and  "something  bor- 
rowed" about  its  little  fitted  peplum  and  semi 
leg-of-mutton  sleeves  reminiscent  of  grandma's 
wedding  day.  There's  "something  blue"  in  its  navy 
coloring  (though  you  may  prefer  black  as  pictured 
here).  And  there's  "something  new"  in  the  blush 
pink  that  faces  the  gown  and  fashions  the  bow  on 
the  lingerie  blouse  of  white  chiffon  and  baby  lace 
that's  held  tightly  to  a  high,  snug  waistband  on  the 
full,  rustling  skirt.  Then  there's  a  wisp  of  a  pink 
horsehair  bonnet  piled  with  shaded  pink  lilacs,  and 
gloves  to  match  the  deepest  hue  of  the  latter.  We 
did  all  this  window-shopping  for  Vivien  Leigh  at 
Hattie  Carnegie,  New  York — then  rushed  to  one  of 
our  (and  your)  favorite  illustrators  so  he  could  show 
us  all  just  how  sweet  she'd  look! 


avidly  followed  than  that  of  Vivien 
Leigh  and  Laurence  Olivier,  which 
soon  achieves  a  happy  ending— in- 
hiring  Arthur  William  Brown,  the 
orld-famous  artist  (see  page^S), 
to  "dream  up"  this  portrait  of  the 
season's   most    oulse-stirrinq    bride 


1 


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The  Durkin  sisters — Grace,  who  is  married  to  Bill  Henry,  and  Gertrude,  the  wife  of  Jimmy  Ellison — made  plans  together  for  babies  born  two  weeks  apart 


HOLLYWOOD  BIRTH  RATE 


Chaotic  conditions  abroad  upset  the  plans 
of  Edward  Lindsay-Hogg  and  Geraldine 
Fitzgerald  for  the  birthplace  of  their  child 


The  world  could  use  some  of  the  faith  and  courage  Hollywood/s  young 
married  set  are  showing  in  starting  a  surprising  new  cycle — babies! 


BY  KAY  PROCTOR 


THE  weeping  Willies  and  moaning  Mamies 
of  the  country  are  in  for  a  shock  and  I  have 
an  idea  it  is  going  to  set  them  back  on  their 
heels  for  a  pleasantly  long  time.  It  has  to  do 
with  the  extraordinarily  large  number  of  babies 
due  to  arrive  in  the  homes  of  Hollywood's  great 
and  near-great  within  the  next  few  months. 

At  first  glance  it  began  to  look  like 
an  epidemic  was  in  full  swing  when, 
one  after  the  other,  the  news  leaked 


out  that  Doug  Fairbanks,  Jr.,  Ray  Milland,  Anne 
Shirley,  Janet  Gaynor,  Bill  Henry,  Jimmy  Elli- 
son, Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  John  Garfield,  Rus- 
sell Hayden,  Johnny  Weissmuller,  Madge  Evans, 
Pat  Ziegfeld  and  several  others  were  preparing 
to  welcome  little  newcomers  to  their  families. 
Laughingly  people  said  a  new  Hollywood  cycle, 
like  gangster  pictures,  Westerns,  and  screwball 
comedies,  was  running  its  course. 

Then  the  real  significance  of  it  hit,  and  people 
no  longer  laughed.  They  saw  the  faith  and 
courage  that  lay  behind  it,  a  faith  and  courage 
sadly  needed  in  the  world  today. 

For  many  years  now  the  self-appointed  cen- 
sors of  the  other  fellow's  morals  and  behavior 


Serenity  and  gratitude  en- 
velop Anne  Shirley  and  John 
Payne  in  all  their  plans  for 
the    baby    expected    in    July 


If    it's    a    girl    in    the 
Janet  Gaynor-Gilbert 
Adrian  menage,  she 
be    the    best-dressed 
baby   in    Hollywood 


The  John  Garfields 
have  no  fear  of  world 
conditions,  as  they 
await  the  arrival  of 
their    second    child 


have  made  Hollywood  the  handy  scapegoat  for 
all  the  real  or  imaginary  ills  of  the  world.  From 
short  bathing  suits  to  long  fingernails,  the  battle 
cry  of  the  critics  was  the  same: 

"Blame  Hollywood  for  that!" 

In  a  sense,  I  suppose,  there  was  some  justice 
to  it.  Hollywood  has  set  the  style  for  many 
phases  of  modern  modes  and  manners.  But  now 
comes  the  joker.  If  the  birth  rate  among  young 
married  couples  suddenly  hits  a  new  high  in  the 
next  year  it  quite  probably  will  be  because 
Hollywood  again  is  setting  a  new  style,  the  style 
of  having  babies.  For  once  the  sourpusses  will 
have  to  put  away  their  harpoons  and  admit: 

"Credit  Hollywood  for  that!" 

I  HE  baby  question  always  has  been  a  touchy 
subject  in  Movie  Town.  For  years  it  was  be- 
lieved a  screen  hero  or  glamour  queen  would 
lose  all  box-office  appeal  if  they  dared  marry 
and  raise  a  family  like  the  couple  down  the 
street.  For  years  it  seemed  to  be  true,  which 
was  why  favorites  like  Barbara  La  Marr  and 
Jack  Holt  tried  desperately  to  keep  the  exist- 
ence of  their  children  from  the  public.  Not  un- 
til Norma  Shearer  and  Harold  Lloyd  not  only 
admitted  the  existence  of  their  respective  sons 
and  daughters  but  took  public  pride  in  them 
did  the  box-office  slant  on  the  subject  change. 
And  although  it  was  proved  time  and  again  that 
having  babies  frequently  meant  the  loss  of  con- 
siderable fortunes  through  time  away  from  the 
screen  and  changed  physical  appearance,  child- 
less marriages  of  stars  inevitably  were  censured 
severely  as  "deplorably  selfish." 

If  ever  young  stars  had  a  legitimate  "out"  for 
not  bearing  children  and  would  be  free  of  that 
censure  of  selfishness,  it  is  now  in  1940  when  all 
around  them  they  hear  their  elders,  thinking 
men  and  women,  speak  hopeless  words  about  the 
future  of  civilization  itself.  Why  wouldn't  they 
have  a  justifiable  reluctance  to  create  new  lives 
when  on  every  side  they  hear  embittered  adults 
talk  of  "a  world  doomed  to  inextricable  tur- 
moil," and  promise  they  would  bear  no  more 
sons  for  an  egomaniac's  cannon  fodder  or  daugh- 
ters for  a  bomber's  target? 

Most  of  them  were  "war  babies"  themselves, 
born  at  the  beginning  of  the  bloody  world  con- 
flict which  was  to  end  all  wars  forever  hence. 
They  saw  the  hope  their  parents  had  and  the 
sacrifices  they  made.  They  see  now,  twenty- 
five  years  later,  how  vain  were  those  hopes  and 
sacrifices. 

Yet  in  the  face  of  international  chaos,  top- 
pling governments,  industrial  strife  and  threat- 
ened security,  the  youth  of  Hollywood  wants  no 
part  of  this  ready-made  "out."  They  want  chil- 
dren and  are  having  them. 

It  is,  I  think,  the  most  significant  answer  that 
Hollywood  could  make  to  the  charges  of  the 
Dies  Committee  and  the  accusation  of  radical 
and  subversive  attitude  toward  the  American 
form  of  government.  In  having  children  they 
are  proving  their  faith  in  the  future  of  this  na- 
tion and  democracy. 

It  is  an  inspiring  example  for  American  youth 
to  follow. 

There  is  nothing  heroic  about  the  way  these 
young  stars  are  having  their  babies,  however; 
they  are  experiencing  the  same  secret  thrill,  the 
same  great  excitement,  and  the  same  impatient 
longing  for  the  big  day  to  arrive  that  makes  it 
the  same  glorious  adventure  for  John  and  Mary 
Brown  of  Main  Street.  They  are  one  with  them 
in  plans  and  hopes,  little  worries  and  problems. 

First  of  the  new  babies  to  make  an  appearance 
in  Hollywood  was  the  six-pound  son  born  to 
Ray  and  Muriel  Milland  on  March  6.  So  anxious 
was  the  young  gentleman  to  join  his  parents,  he 
arrived  two  weeks  ahead  of  schedule  and  caught 
Papa  Ray  out  of  town  on  a  brief  holiday  at  Sun 
Valley.  Racing  the  stork  in  a  chartered  plane, 
Ray  arrived  at  the  hospital  in  time  to  meet  a 
smiling  nurse  with  a  tiny  bundle  in  her  arms 
saying,  "It's  a  boy!" 

(Continued  on  page  86) 


THERE'S  a  general  conception  that  Holly- 
wood stars  aren't  very  good  mothers.  I 
hear  some  American  women  think  of  the 
actress'  child  as  a  lonely  little  fellow,  guarded 
from  kidnapers  and  kept  from  bothering  mama 
by  an  army  of  impersonal  governesses  and  tu- 
tors. It's  a  favorite  fiction  that  any  baby  un- 
lucky enough  to  be  born  into  a  star's  home  turns 
into  a  precocious,  snobbish,  neurotic,  thoroughly 
miserable  youngster,  and  that  it's  all  his 
mother's  fault. 

Thank  Heaven,  this  is  fiction  and  not  truth. 
The  picture  of  a  mother  is  the  same  in  any  lan- 
guage and  in  any  community — and  I  guarantee 
Hollywood  is  no  exception.     Oh,  there  may  be 


Barbara,  with  her  son  Dion,  is  proof  that  a 
good  mother  is  the  same  in  any  community 


some  out  here  who  could  do  with  a  lesson  or 
two  on  the  subject;  a  few  congenitally  inefficient 
mothers  happen  to  every  town. 

Naturally,  the  Hollywood  woman  is  not  the 
homebody  type;  she's  a  career  girl. 

When  she  has  a  baby  it's  because  she  des- 
perately wants  one,  which  means  she  will  love 
it,  inevitably.  She  certainly  doesn't  have  it  for 
publicity  purposes — that's  going  a  long  way  for 
a  few  lines  in  papers  and  magazines.  Besides, 
the  expense  ...  it  costs  around  $100,000  for  a 
top  star  to  go  through  the  routine  of  childbirth. 
There  is  time  out,  and  salary  out;  huge  hospital 
and  medical  charges;  and  the  slump  in  career 
(Continued  on  page  78) 


17 


THE  MARRIAGE  PLANS 

GINGER  ROGERS  and  HOWARD  HUGHES 


OF 


It  was  once  an  undercover  romance — 
now  all  Hollywood  rejoices  in  the 
perfect  love  of  two  happy  headliners 

BY  RUTH  WATERBURY 


MISS  GINGER  ROGERS  is  wearing  an 
emerald  as  big  as  a  headlight  set 
around  with  baguette  diamonds  huge 
as  pears  on  the  heart-warning  finger  of  her  left 
hand  these  days.  • 

The  heart  of  Miate  Ginger  Rogers  right  now  is 
as  spirited  as  her  feathery  feet.  The  eyes  of 
the  little  dancing  girl,  who  proved  that  she  was 
a  dashing  comedienne  in  "Bachelor  Mother," 
and  then  a  sensitive,  dramatic  realistic  actress  in 
"The  Primrose  Path,"  those  provocative,  saucy 
eyes  of  hers  are  aglow  with  happiness,  with  that 
inner  fire,  with  that  throbbing  intensity  that 
comes  only  to  the  eyes  of  a  woman  in  love. 

For  that's  how  it  is  with  her.  Ginger  is  in 
love.  Ginger  is  to  be  married  the  very  moment 
it  is  legally  possible,  which  will  be  March  14, 
1941,  just  one  year  and  a  day  after  she  sought 
her  divorce  from  Lew  Ayres. 

Ginger  is  in  love  this  time  as  she  never  was 
in  love  with  Jack  Pepper,  the  vaudevillian  who 
was  her  first  husband,  nor  with  Lew,  her  sec- 
ond; and  it  isn't  such  a  wonder  at  that.  For  she 
has  given  her  today's  heart  to  Howard  Hughes, 
the  multimillionaire  flyer,  who  is  very  much 
a  man's  man,  and  by  that  I  mean  no  disrespect 
to  actors,  either,  but  there's  a  difference. 

There's  a  difference  if  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  a  man's  man  will  stumblingly,  but 
nonetheless  tell  a  woman  that  he  loves  her,  that 
she  is  beautiful,  that  she  is  the  most  wonderful 
creature  who  ever  trod  this  earth,  and  all  those 
much  too  extravagant  things  that  no  keen- 
brained  creature  like  Ginger  would  quite  be- 
lieve, but  which  are  sweet  to  hear  nonetheless. 
With  actors,  they  want  the  woman  to  say  those 
things  about  them,  and  when  it  comes  to  mak- 
ing a  girl  completely  happy,  that  isn't  nearly 
so  good. 

Moreover,  Howard  Hughes  has  adored  Ginger 
Rogers,  and  made  no  bones  about  it  either, 
since  1931,  which  is  a  flatteringly  long  time  for 
a  millionaire  bachelor  to  stay  devoted  anywhere 
and  at  least  two  blissful  lifetimes  long  in  Holly- 
wood. It's  true  that  he  has  dated  practically 
every  pretty  blonde  who  has  ever  hit  Hollywood 
in  that  interval,  except  when  he  dated  brunettes. 
It  is  true  that  a  season  or  so  ago  he  was  rumored 
emotion-smitten  by  Miss  Katharine  Hepburn, 
though  the  intimates  of  both  of  them  have  in- 
sisted that  they  honestly  were  that  stock  Holly- 
wood setup,  "just  good  friends." 


Now  it  seems  that  through  it  all  Ginger  and 
Howard  (she  the  wife  of  Lew  and  Howard  the 
one  who  flew  around  the  world  in  a  very  spec- 
tacular and  fast  manner  a  couple  of  years  ago, 
only  to  have  his  publicity  thunder  stolen  from 
him  by  Douglas  Corrigan  because  the  latter  ar- 
rived at  where  he  said  he  didn't  mean  to  be  and 
got  there  backwards)  have  remained  intrigued 
by  one  another. 

There  was  never  any  doubt  of  Ginger's  love 
for  Lew  Ayres  while  it  lasted.  Her  marriage  to 
Jack  Pepper  was  one  of  those  foolish,  child 
escapades,  but  Lew  to  Ginger  was  true  romance, 
the  breath  of  orange  blossoms,  the  voice  that 
breathed  o'er  Eden  and  all  that  sort  of  tender, 
youthful  emotionalism.  Yet  their  incompati- 
bility was  always  just  as  evident  as  her  adora- 
tion. Lew  is  all  plodding  and  brooding,  all  care- 
ful saving  and  looking  into  the  future,  where 
Ginger  is  all  swift  facility,  casualness  and  little- 
girl  joy.  She  has  worked,  of  course,  like  a 
glamorous  young  slave  but  still  she's  had  fun 
working.  She  climbed  her  glittering,  golden 
pathway  to  fame.  She  built  her  hilltop  mansion. 
And  she  evolved,  from  merely  a  cute  kid  into 
an  important  star.  In  other  words,  she  grew 
up.  And  growing  up,  she  wanted,  as  every 
woman  wants,  a  man  in  her  life.  Yet  he  had 
to  be  a  special  type  of  man,  one  of  position,  one 
of  name,  but  still  not  a  serious,  solemn  owl.  He 
had  to  be  gay  for  Ginger.  He  needed  to  be  all 
the  things  that  Howard  Hughes  is. 

The  absolute  Tightness  of  this  romance  for 
the  two  happy  people  concerned  seems  so  ob- 
vious now  that  I  don't  see  how  those  of  us 
around  Hollywood  who  think  we  are  so  all-fired 
wise  to  what's  going  on  could  have  missed  it 
all  this  while.  But  miss  it  we  did  and  by 
miles. 

Howard  and  Ginger  were  quiet  as  two  cro- 
cuses under  the  snow  about  the  fact  that  they 


were  seeing  each  other  in  1939  again,  after  their 
first  casual  dates  back  in  1931  and  1932.  Not  so 
much  as  an  inkling  of  their  serious  attachment 
inkled  out  until  Ginger  got  her  divorce  this 
spring,  and  even  then  Hollywood  couldn't  guess 
who  the  man  was,  though  naturally  we  knew 
that  there  must  be  a  man.  For  in  this  town, 
even  as  in  the  rest  of  the  world,  a  woman  who 
has  been  long  separated  from  her  husband 
doesn't  up  and  get  a  divorce  merely  for  freedom 
(even  though  she  always  insists  that  is  the  only 
reason).  Hollywood  began  saying  "cherchez 
V  homme"  the  minute  they  handed  Ginger  those 
interlocutory  papers.  The  only  trouble  was  that 
we  didn't  know  where  to  look  for  V  homme. 

WHERE  we  should  have  looked,  it  comes  out, 
was  into  a  simple  little  restaurant  down  in  Santa 
Monica,  the  prettiest  little  cottage  restaurant  you 
ever  did  see,  overlooking  the  blue  and  placid  Pa- 
cific and  set  back  in  the  midst  of  a  great  flower 
garden.  It's  all  done  up  in  chintzes  and  softly 
candle-lighted.  The  food  is  perfection.  The 
quiet  and  sweetly  sly  ones  of  the  film  colony 
know  this  restaurant.  It  is  here  that  Joel 
McCrea  and  Frances  Dee  used  to  steal  for  their 
courting  in  those  exciting  days  before  they  were 
wed.  It  is  here  that  many  a  hero  of  movies  hides 
out  with  his  particular  charmer  of  the  moment, 
when  he's  really  talking  sincerely  and  not  pro- 
moting a  publicity  romance.  But  for  all  that, 
the  cameraboys  and  the  reporters  haven't  gen- 
erally discovered  it  since  the  management  lets 
its  celebrities  politely  alone.  The  sum  of  these 
reasons  is  why  Ginger  and  Howard  Hughes  have 
dined  there  nightly  now  for  months. 

Still  and  for  all  that,  there  were  other  signs 

of  what  was  going  on  in  the  hearts  of  the  slim 

redheaded  girl  and   the   more   slim,  most  tall 

flyer  if  only  we'd  had  sense  enough  to  read  them. 

(Continued  on  page  76) 


V 


Back  in  the  early  thirties,  as  the  above  rare  candid 
of  Ginger  Rogers  and  Howard  Hughes  proves,  the 
slim  redhead  and  millionaire  oil-man  and  famous 
flyer  were  dating — but  it  wasn't  'til  Ginger 
applied  for  her  freedom  this  Spring,  that  blind 
Hollywood  knew  that  it  was  all  the  "Real  McCoy!" 


UerseW  arouiv 


GIRLS 


Famous  girl  columnist  catches  Hollywood  fragiles  on  a  calorie 
spree — with  incalculable  results  for  you  and  the  stars  alike 


BY  DOROTHY  KILGALLEN 


THERE  was  a  time  when  I  believed  the  myth 
that  every  girl  in  Hollywood  was  hungry. 
I  knew,  from  what  I  read  in  the  movie 
columns  and  magazines,  that  Joan  Crawford 
lived  on  three  small  lettuce  leaves  a  day,  that 
Priscilla  Lane  collapsed  regularly  on  the  set 
from  dieting,  and  that  the  poorest  Polish  peasant 
was  better  off  at  lunch  time  than  Hedy  Lamarr. 
As  a  girl  brought  up  with  the  highest  devo- 
tion to  what  our  set  called  breakfast,  luncheon 
and  dinner,  these  malnutrition  items  gave  me 
visions  of  horror  about  the  cinema  town.  Poor 
Dorothy  Lamour,  shrinking  in  her  sarong,  be- 
ing led  into  Cedars  of  Lebanon  Hospital  faint 
from  lack  of  calories.  Bette  Davis  kissing  Errol 
Flynn  without  an  ounce  of  Vitamin  A.  Judy 
Garland  praying  for  an  ice-cream  cone  and 
getting  melba  toast.  An  empty  stomach,  I 
always  thought,  was  a  terrible  price  to  pay  for 
an  Academy  Award. 

Then     I     began     observing     motion-picture 


actresses  at  mealtime,  noting  what  they  order. 

And  all  I  know  is,  they  always  eat  steak  when 
I'm  looking.  In  fact,  after  spending  several 
seasons  watching  Hollywood  beauties  at  work 
with  the  knife  and  fork,  I  will  stack  them  up 
against  any  All- American  football  team  and  bet 
on  the  girls  to  make  the  griddle  cakes  disappear 
faster.  The  more  beautiful  the  star,  the  better 
the  appetite.  I  will  guarantee  that  Hedy 
Lamarr's  eating  ability  would  frighten  an  Ala- 
bama tackle. 

Anita  Louise,  who  looks  as  if  she  subsists  on 
bee's  tongues,  is  another  belle  with  the  appetite 
of  a  transcontinental  bus  driver.  And  Rose- 
mary Lane  eats  steaks,  chops,  potatoes,  roast 
beef,  and  ham  and  eggs  the  way  you  eat  pop- 
corn. 

I  asked  a  young-man-around-town,  who  had 
taken  Rosemary  out  frequently  on  her  trips  to 
New  York,  what  she  ate  when  she  was  with  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  beau  groaned  morosely. 


"All  I  remember  is  the  size  of  the  checks!" 
I  have  worked  out  two  possible  theories  to 
explain  why  the  celluloid  beauties,  on  their  re- 
cent visit  to  New  York,  have  been  abandoning 
those  legendary  pineapple  and  rose  leaf  diets 
to  tear  into  meals  that  would  embarrass  a 
starving  stevedore.  I  have  decided  this  is  due 
to  the  fact  that  (a)  cuties  are  coming  back — 
Lana  Turner  has  more  fans  at  Harvard  than 
Marlene  Dietrich,  for  instance,  so  the  girls  don't 
mind  looking  robust;  and  (b)  the  food  in  Holly- 
wood is  terrible,  so  in  Manhattan  they  "cram," 
like  kids  home  from  boarding  school  for  the 
week  end. 

A  casual  observer,  not  bothering  about  ex- 
planations, would  take  one  look  around  the 
gilded  bistros  patronized  by  the  glamour  girls 
and  conclude  that  a  diet  was  something  the 
stars  had  heard  of,  but  never  defined.  Let 
him  travel  from  the  Stork  Club,  where  Marie 
Wilson   is   munching   Welsh   rarebit,    to   Ruby 


20 


^ro/w, 


■^:y.-Ht 


^    9/r/ 


Runner-up  In  the  tablecloth  sweepstakes:  Joan  Crawford,  with  Charles  Martin 


Foo's,  where  Dorothy  Lamour  is  devouring 
Chinese  seafood,  to  the  Coq  Rouge,  where  Janet 
Gaynor  is  tearing  into  Risotto  Milanese,  and 
he  will  forget  that  he  ever  felt  sorry  for  a  gal 
who  made  $2,000  a  week  but  couldn't  eat  it. 

And  think  what  this  means!  Do  you  grasp 
the  full  significance?  If  the  stars,  whose  very 
souls  are  dedicated  to  glamour,  can  toss  their 
diets  out  the  window,  why  can't  we?  No  more 
anti-waistline  campaigns.  No  more  counting 
to  ten  before  attacking  those  chocolates. 

I  always  heard  Garbo  ate  spinach.  But  the 
first  time  I  ever  saw  Greta  with  a  knife  and  fork 
in  her  paws,  she  was  eating  a  giant  hamburger. 

Mary  Pickford  is  a  small  woman.  But  she 
can  wrap  herself  around  wild  duck  a  la  presse 
and   show  no   sign   of  wear  and  tear.     I  have 


observed  Norma  Shearer  consume  a  large  plate 
of  fried  chicken  with  the  dispatch  of  a  Southern 
mammy.  Betty  Grable  often  drops  into  Col- 
bert's and  orders  a  baby  turkey,  which  is  not  my 
idea  of  a  frugal  meal,  and  Jane  Bryan  sups  on 
beefsteak  with  mushroom  sauce 

I  HE  foreign  stars,  particularly  the  British 
variety,  have  absolutely  no  regard  for  calorie- 
counting.  They  are  strictly  eating  girls,  and  if 
they  have  any  waistline  left  by  the  time  they 
hit  the  camera's  eye,  it  is  wholly  a  gift  of  God 
and  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  fact  that  they 
ate  raw  carrots  for  lunch. 

Karen  Verne,  M-G-M's  English  import, 
declared  herself  gastronomically  the  minute 
she  got  off  the  boat.     She  stepped  on  the  pier, 


shook  hands  with  the  young  man  sent  to  meet 
her,  and  asked:  "Where  can  I  get  a  good  Amer- 
ican hamburger?" 

I  have  seen  Margot  Graham  demolish  beef- 
steak and  kidney  pot  pie,  hardly  a  slimming 
dish,  in  Bill's  Gay  Nineties  of  an  evening,  and 
have  noticed  Ilona  Massey,  the  Hungarian  lure, 
munching  the  same  thing.  Ilona  also  adores 
calves  liver  and  bacon  at  "21,"  and  has  been 
known  to  order  it  three  days  running. 

Hedy  Lamarr,  however,  remains  my  idea  of 
the  Eating  Champion  of  Hollywood.  She  comes 
into  a  restaurant  looking  pale  and  beautiful  and 
as  out-of-the-world  as  if  she  had  never  con-  ' 
sumed  anything  more  substantial  than  butter- 
fly's wings  saute,  and  she  proceeds  to  outeat 
(Continued  on  page  94) 


ILLUSTRATIONS       BY       BARBARA       SHERMUND 


Give  the  Hollywood  beauties  a  knife  and  fork; 
stack  them  up  against  any  Ail-American  foot- 
ball team — and  it's  a  cinch  the  gals  will  win 


A  kiss  without  an  ounce  of  Vitamin 
A?  Maybe  once  she  munched  only 
on  lettuce  leaves,  but  now  it's  chicken 


It's  just  a  myth — that  gal  who  makes  $2,000 
a  week  and  can't  eat.  Little  whipped  cream 
whimsies   give   her  that  underweight  look 


JEANETTE 


THE  Jeanette  MacDonald  you  know  on  the 
screen  and  through  the  usual  stories  writ- 
ten about  her  has  a  good  many  more  facets 
to  her  personality  than  you've  been  led  to  be- 
lieve. Since  I  like  to  do  anything  and  every- 
thing as  thoroughly  as  possible,  you  may  find 
some  categories  of  mine  are  not  in  agreement 
with  those  you'd  choose  yourself.  I'll  try  to  ex- 
plain them  as  I  go  along — but  if  I  forget,  you'll 
just  have  to  take  my  word  for  it. 

Jeanette,  if  she  were  food,  would  be  a  cold 
pheasant  wing  with  dry  Chablis,  rice  pudding 
and  toast  melba.  The  last  item  represents  a 
definite  sense  of  self-discipline;  the  rice  pud- 


When  is  a  rice  pudding  not  a  rice 
pudding?  It's  when  that  wily  Howard 
Sharpe  tricks  stars  into  describing 
each  other  in  terms  of  steam  engines 
and  steak,  Scotch  plaid  and  heather 


ding  is  that  simple,  hearty,  sometimes  unglam- 
orous  quality  she  has;  and  the  other  portions  of 
the  menu  speak  for  themselves. 

As  a  tree — well,  just  imagine  a  sunny  Cali- 
fornia hill  with  golden  poppies  growing  down 
the  slope,  and  then,  right  on  top,  perch  a  Christ- 
mas tree  all  garnished  with  baubles  and  quite 
incongruously  touched  with  real  snow.  Snow 
that  the  sun  cannot  melt,  no  matter  how  warm 
the  rays. 

It's  easier  to  describe  Jeanette  in  terms  of  a 


house.  That's  a  natural.  She's  an  early  Amer- 
ican place  with  a  Scottish  influence  in  the  dec- 
orations: The  MacDonald  is  very  conscious  of 
her  ancestry.  Pure  early  American  is  not  very 
comfortable,  but  this  house  would  be.  There'd 
be  divans  upholstered  in  plaid,  facing  a  great 
open  fireplace,  and  the  inevitable  spinning  wheel 
would  be  pushed  back  to  make  way  for  a  tea 
wagon.  That  symbolism  is  particularly  apt. 
The  house  would  be  spotless,  the  wooden  floors 
scrubbed  until  they  shone,  with  everything 
dusted  relentlessly.  A  family  bible  and  a  family 
album  would  have  a  conspicuous  place  on  a 
conspicuous  table.  The  mantle  and  small  what- 
nots would  be  covered  with  little  sentimental 
gadgets  and  keepsakes. 

The  whole  mood  of  the  place  would  be  one 
of  casual  formality,  with  rules  to  be  observed — 
but  not  to  the  exclusion  of  comfort. 

What   sort  of  game?      Certainly  not  a  very 

energetic  one;  I  should  say  a  parlor  game  in 

(Continued  on  page  91) 


22 


Metamorphose  Jeanette  Into  an 
animal,  a  flower,  a  sport!  A 
deer,  a  nosegay,  a  jumping  rope 
is  the  way  Nelson  does  it — but 
his  explanations  as  to  why  she 
is  these  things  tell  you  more 
about  the  personality  of  his 
glamorous  co-star  than  anything 
you    have    read    about    her    yet 


large  chorus;  a  few  bars  of  a  raucous  barracks 
ditty  heard  from  the  bathroom,  to  accompani- 
ment of  splashings. 

What  Animal? 

Nelson  would  certainly  be  an  animal  with  a 
constructive  purpose  in  life,  like  a  fine  watch- 
dog with  an  especially  appealing  bark. 


Drink? 

Hot  rum  punch  on  a  cold,  bleak  day. 
drunk  from  a  china  mug. 


Beer, 


Book,  or  Books? 

Of  course  there  would  have  to  be  a  tome 
on  music.  And  a  collection  of  essays  on  how 
to  live  intelligently,  with  control.  Anything  by 
Horatio  Alger,  the  writing  polished  by  Somer- 
set Maugham,  because  his  life  is  like  an  Alger 
story  except  that  he  has  lived  it  with  great  dis- 
tinction and  good  taste.  And  a  history  book, 
because  of  Nelson's  fabulous  memory  for  details. 

Street? 

Berkeley  Square  in  Los  Angeles,  where  the 
Quality  live.  There  are  gates  at  either  end  (it's 
only  two  blocks  long),  and  even  the  gutters  are 
exclusive.  He  would  be  the  street  the  Met  is  on, 
in  New  York,  the  main  drag  of  any  small  Amer- 
ican town — the  Sinclair  Lewis  Main  Street,  but 
with  good  taste  and  aplomb — and  he  would  be 
the  entrance  drive  to  a  studio  city. 

Game? 

Magic — perhaps  because  it's  one  of  the  things 
he  does  well,  at  every  party;  but  also  because 
he's  so  darned  surprising.  He's  a  guessing  game, 
of  course.    And  Musical  Chairs. 


NELSON 


What  Kind  of  Car  Would  He  Be? 

IF  Nelson  Eddy  were  an  automobile,  I'm  pretty 
sure  he  would  be  a  sedan,  probably  light  tan 
in  color,  with  white  sidewall  tires  which 
would  be  quite  spotless,  always.  The  car  would 
be  of  good  make,  a  trustworthy  make.  It  would 
have  a  governor  on  the  accelerator  to  keep  it 
from  going  faster  than  the  lawful  speed  limit. 
But  this  car  would  have  a  touch  of  fancy  about 
it;  the  exhaust  pipe  would  be  attached  to  an  ex- 
pensive set  of  musical  horns  and  they  would 
work  by  vacuum,  exuberantly  booming  forth 
"The  Road  to  Mandalay,"  to  the  confusion  of 
traffic  and  the  delight  of  people  on  sidewalks. 
Crowds  of  girls  would  follow  the  machine  down 
the  street. 

What  Kind  of  Clothes? 

A  conservative,  dark  blue  business  suit,  with 
matching  tie,  shirt,  socks  and  handkerchief  in 
various  shades.  The  suit  would  be  neatly 
pressed,  unobtrusively  expensive.  There  would 
be  a  boutonniere  on  the  lapel,  and  when  you 
smelled  it  a  stream  of  water  would  squirt  in 
your  eye.  Yes,  you  would  find — if  you  looked 
closely — a  mended  place  where  a  sleeve  had 
been  ripped  by  overly  enthusiastic  autograph- 
seekers. 

Food? 

Steak,  mashed  potatoes,  plenty  of  gravy,  and 
iced  pineapple. 

What  Kind  of  Mechanical  Device? 

Oh,  I  should  think  a  platinum-plated  steam 
shovel,  deliberately  and  earnestly  and  thor- 
oughly doing  the  work  demanded  of  it,  and  be- 
ing  extremely    entertaining   to   the   groups    of 


people  who  have  gathered  around  the  railing 
of  the  excavation  to  watch. 

What  Magazine,  or  Magazines? 

A  mixture  of  magazines,  certainly — mostly 
Country  Gentleman,  with  a  few  pages  of  Down 
Beat,  the  musicians  trade  book;  a  touch  of  Boy's 
Life;  a  glossy  covered  opera  program;  some  of 
Readers  Digest.  The  issue  would  have  a  cover 
in  subdued  tones,  with  the  picture  of  a  tree  and 
some  dogs  and  a  man  smoking  a  pipe. 

What  Song? 

A  marching  song.  "Home  Sweet  Home,"  sung 
by  Nelson  himself;  "That  Dear  Old  Mother  of 
Mine,"   rendered   with  moving   sincerity  by   a 


Tree? 

An  oak.  Sometimes  he's  a  very  young  oak, 
however,  easily  swayed  by  a  strong  breeze. 
Mostly  he  knows  what  he  wants  and  stands  very 
firm  against  the  breeze.  And  he's  intensely 
staunch  in  his  loyalties. 

House? 

White  Colonial.  Passionately  American, 
formal  with  a  play  cottage  removed  from  the 
main  building,  for  parties.  There  would  be  a 
pipe  organ  in  the  drawing  room. 

Sport? 

Baseball,  particularly  at  the  interval  when  the 
bands  play.   There  would  have  to  be  bands. 

(Continued  on  page  91) 


AWAIIAN 


In  a  game  you  may  play  your  shots 
straight,  but  in  love  it's  a  wise  wom- 
an who  takes   the   subtle  approach 


BY  HAGAR  WILDE 


OF  ALL  the  determinedly  cheery  little 
crowd  preparing  to  accompany  Angus 
MacBride  on  a  week-end  fishing  trip, 
there  were  only  three  who  looked  forward  to 
what  should  have  been  a  pleasant  prospect  with 
anything  resembling  pleasure.  The  unsuspect- 
ing Angus  had  asked  them  all  out  of  the  good- 
ness of  his  heart  and  had  no  idea  that  he  was 
virtually  packing  his  small  boat  with  nitro- 
glycerine. Laurel  Crane  was  glad  to  tag  along 
for  reasons  all  her  own.  And  Alastair  Decker 
was  in  a  state  of  gleeful  anticipation. 

You  certainly  couldn't  say  as  much  for  the 
four  others. 

Two  attractive  young  people  on  their  honey- 
moon in  fabled  islands  of  romance  would  be  of 
interest  anywhere.  Two  film  stars  of  the  first 
magnitude  on  their  honeymoon  in  Hollywood's 
recently  discovered  playground,  Hawaii,  are 
world  news.    Simple,  isn't  it? 

But  the  situation  newly-wed  David  Crawford 
and  Ann  Adams  found  themselves  in  was  far 
from  simple.  They  had  gladly  invited  their  best 
friends,  Randolph  Grimes  and  Caroline  Hatha- 
way, to  come  along.  They  quite  definitely  had 
not  invited  Laurel  Crane,  seductively  beautiful 
though  she  was. 

Laurel  was  David's  first  wife.  She  was  al- 
ready anticipating  being  his  third.  Just  like  that. 

Where  Alastair  Decker  joined  the  cast,  no  one 
was  quite  sure.  However,  since  trouble  was  ob- 
viously brewing  in  this  section  of  cinema  so- 
ciety and  Alastair's  business  was  the  spreading 
of  movie  scandals  across  newspaper  pages  all 
over  America,  they  accepted  the  inevitability  of 
his  presence  with  whatever  fortitude  they  could 
command. 

All  except  Ann.  Oh,  she  could  have  accepted 
Alastair's  presence  with  a  philosophy  born  of 
resignation.  She  could  even  have  accepted 
Laurel's  avowed  determination  to  win  David 
back,  knowing  what  that  divorce  had  originally 
cost  the  man  she  loved.  What  she  couldn't  ac- 
cept was  David's  reluctant  admission  that  Laurel 
still  obsessed  all  his  thoughts.  Being  the  bride 
in  the  case,  she  could  hardly  be  expected  to  wel- 
come the  addition  of  Laurel  to  the  proposed 
party.  That's  why  she  took  refuge  in  hysterics, 
the  moment  they  were  safe  from  prying  eyes. 

HER  hysteria  over,  Ann  spent  the  better  part  of 
an  hour  repairing  the  ravages.  Little  Keiko 
stood  beside  her  holding  a  bowl  of  ice  and  hand- 
ing her  clean  soft  towels.  Ann  bathed  her  eyes 
in  water  hot  as  she  could  bear  it  and  then 
wrapped  the  ice  in  a  towel,  pressing  it  over  them 
until  it  seemed  as  though  they'd  frozen  in  her 
head.  But  afterward  there  were  no  traces  of 
tears.  Keiko,  silent  and  quick,  helped  her  to 
dress.  When  she'd  finished,  Ann  put  her  arm 
around  the  slight  shoulders  and  kissed  Keiko's 


24 


J    Jjmu8*p*iotni\ 


smooth,  cool  little  cheek.     "Thank  you,  Keiko." 

"Please."  Keiko  bent  in  agonized,  inarticulate 
sympathy. 

"You're  sweet,"  Ann  said.  "Don't  ever  be 
hysterical,  Keiko,  it  doesn't  get  you  anywhere." 
Keiko  hadn't  any  idea  what  hysterical  meant. 
All  she  knew  was  that  the  pretty  lady  she  served 
had  not  spent  the  night  at  home  in  her  own  bed 
and  when  she  had  come  home  there'd  been  hor- 
rible sounds  of  crying  from  the  drawing  room. 

As  they  drove  to  Kewalo  basin  where  the 
boat  was  anchored  Ann  said  to  David,  "Please 
forgive  me  for  that  horrible  scene.  I  lost  my 
head.    I'm  sorry." 

David  said  miserably,  "Don't  apologize.  It 
makes  me  feel  awful.    Everything  is  my  fault." 

"No  it  isn't.  It's  nobody's  fault.  I've  been 
thinking  while  I  was  dressing,  David.  It  can 
all  be  done  very  quietly.  When  we  go  back  I'll 
have  to  start  the  new  picture  immediately.  I 
can't  get  the  divorce  until  after  it's  finished  but 
the  moment  I'm  free  I'll  go  to  Hot  Springs  or 
Florida  ...  it  will  be  easy.  I'll  charge  you  with 
mental  cruelty.    You  won't  mind  that,  will  you?" 

"I  mind  discussing  it.  I  wish  it  could  just  be 
over  and  we  didn't  have  to  talk  about  it." 

"It's  really  only  a  discussion  of  technicalities. 
So  far  as  I'm  concerned  we're  divorced  right 
now.    We  have  been  ever  since  last  night." 

"It's  hard  to  imagine  life  without  you,  Ann." 

"It's  harder  to  live  life  without  her,"  Ann  said. 
"It's  quite  impossible  for  anybody  to  love  two 
people,  David." 

"I'm  not  sure  it  is,"  said  David.  "We  all  want 
the  whole  thing,  you  know?  Excitement  and 
danger  and  peace  and  security  and  laughter  and 
seriousness  all  mixed  up  in  one  person.  And  if 
we  don't  find  it  in  one  person  we  want  two  or 
three  or  even  four  people  to  round  out  our 
lives." 

"The  Turks  seemed  to  manage  pretty  well  that 
way,"  Ann  said,  "but  I  understand  it's  against 
the  law  in  this  country." 

She  thought:  I  didn't  want  anybody  else  to 
round  out  my  life.  I  was  happy  just  to  be  his 
wife.  But  I'm  not  a  man.  Maybe  women  are 
satisfied  with  less. 

I  HE  Humuhumunukunuku,  a  motor  cruiser, 
was  moored  alongside  the  dock  at  Kewalo  and 
Angus  MacBride,  clad  in  a  pilaka  shirt  of 
strange  and  wonderful  hues,  sat  on  a  packing 
case  checking  lists.  As  they  approached,  he  was 
saying,  "Beer.  Chuck  it  in,  Willi."  Willi,  a 
hapahaoli  boy  with  soft  brown  eyes  and  a  smile 
which  substituted  for  intelligence,  chucked  in 
three  cases  of  beer  and  followed  them  through 
the  window  of  the  Humuhumunukunuku  to 
stow  them  in  the  icebox.  Angus  said  to  Ann  and 
David,  "Hello,  there.  You're  the  first  to  ar- 
rive." He  gestured  toward  Willi.  "The  bronze 
idol  whose  posterior  you  see  wriggling  through 
the  window  hasn't  a  brain  or  a  moral  in  his 
whole  silly  head  but  he  can  swim  like  a  fish  and 
fish  like  a  magician.  He  knows  these  waters  as 
though  he'd  dug  the  channels  himself." 

Laurel  and  Alastair  Decker  arrived  together. 
Laurel's  slacks  were  obviously  the  handiwork  of 


a  very  good  and  expensive  tailor.  They  were 
topped  by  a  soft  white  angora  sweater  which 
showed  the  breadth  of  her  shoulders  and  the 
slimness  of  her  waist  to  perfection.  Alastair 
was  wearing  a  horrible  multicolored  sweater 
which  was  his  idea  of  tropical  apparel  and  made 
Ann  think  of  an  advertisement  for  an  outdoor 
poster.  Alastair  said,  "Laurel  and  I  had  cock- 
tails at  the  Royal.  She's  kept  me  roaring  with 
laughter  for  two  hours."  Ann  wondered  what 
they'd  been  laughing  about.  About  her  and 
David?  About  David's  funny,  silly  marriage? 
Laurel  said  to  David  with  a  quick,  sidelong 
smile,  "I  was  telling  him  about  the  time  we 
fought  over  the  color  of  the  roadster  and  I  left 
for  Reno  and  you  took  the  plane  and  caught  me 
at  the  lawyer's  office,  remember?" 

"Yes,"  David  said.  "I  wanted  to  kill  you." 
Ann  swallowed  hard,  feeling  somewhat  like  a 
nonmember  visiting  a  very  exclusive  club.  She 
saw  Alastair  watching  her,  forced  a  smile  and 
hooked  her  arm  through  David's  trying  to  give 
an  imitation  of  the  happiest  and  most  under- 
standing wife  in  the  Western  Hemisphere. 

A  taxi  door  slammed  as  though  the   object 
were  to  tear  it  off  the  hinges  and  Caroline  ap- 


peared  in  their  midst  with  Randy  at  her  heels. 
Obviously  they  were  not  on  speaking  terms. 
"If  it  were  not,"  Caroline  said  to  Ann,  "for  my 
undying  devotion  to  you,  I  would  not  stir  a  step 
with  this  hateful  and  depressing  man." 

"In  case  you  don't  recognize  the  description," 
Randy  said,  "and  I  can  quite  see  why  you 
wouldn't,  she  means  me." 

Alastair  said  happily,  "Quarrel?" 

"Joke,"  Caroline  said  tartly.  "You  have  no 
sense  of  humor,  Alastair." 

"I  have,"  said  Laurel,  "and  it  didn't  sound 
very  funny  to  me." 

"We  move  in  different  circles,"  Caroline  said 
frigidly.    "In  my  circle,  now,  that's  considered  a 


joke.  But  don't  laugh  just  to  get  in,  you  know?" 
It  didn't  take  a  soothsayer  to  see  that  one  boat 
wasn't  big  enough  for  all  of  them.  Only  Angus 
MacBride  remained  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the 
major  conflict  in  progress.  He  checked  happily 
and  Willi,  with  an  imperturbable  smile,  chucked 
happily  and  presently  when  everything  was 
checked  and  chucked  the  Humuhumunukunuku 
chugged  out  into  the  darkness  toward  Diamond 
Head. 

I  HERE  were  three  cabins  forward  with  bunks 
on  either  side,  a  long  main  cabin  which  served 
as  a  combination  living  and  dining  room,  and 
three  steps  below  it  was  the  galley  which  was 


big  enough  to  get  into  but  not  entirely  suited 
to  swinging  a  cat.  A  small  afterdeck  was 
equipped  with  two  swivel  chairs  designed  for 
fishing  and,  directly  in  front  of  them,  a  fish  box 
in  which  fishermen  shot  with  luck  were  ex- 
pected to  deposit  their  prey  after  knocking  it  in 
the  head  with  a  mallet.  The  fish  box  being  big 
and  Ann  being  small,  together  with  the  fact  that 
the  fish  box  had  never  been  used  for  fish  since 
Angus  had  only  just  had  the  boat  built,  it  served 
admirably  as  a  place  to  tuck  into  and  be  miser- 
able. 

Ann  tucked  into  it,  hugged  her  knees  and  re- 
garded the  receding  lights  of  the  Honolulu  water- 
(Continued  on  page  82') 


\o 


»v  VC*°' 


.e? 


^  asVe 


\oev  > 


^ 


,^c 


HtHfa&flti 


After  you  finish  this  disarming  in- 
terview, all  you  know  about  Elaine 
Barrie  Barrymore/s  madcap  marriage 
is  what  you  donft  read  in  the  papers 

BY  IDA  ZEITLIN 


WHAT  sort  of  person  is  the  real  Elaine 
Barrymore?  Is  her  story  to  be  known 
as  the  headlines  tell  it?  Or  is  there 
a  story  behind  the  headlines?  Here  for  the  first 
time,  in  an  exclusive  interview,  she  speaks  for 
herself  about  the  things  that  she  alone  can  know. 
Here  for  the  first  time  you're  admitted  within 
the  Barrymore  menage.  Here  you  can  see  two 
much-publicized  people — not  hazily,  through  a 
barrage  of  headlines,  but  intimately,  as  they 
see  each  other. 

Elaine,  in  a  blue  peaked  hat,  sat  across  the 
table  from  me.  She  and  John  don't  see  eye  to 
eye,  as  a  rule,  on  hats. 

"He  approves  of  this  one,  though."  Her  red  lips 
curved,  and  glee  glinted  in  her  eye.    "He  thinks 


I'm  a  little  like  Pinocchio  in  it,"  she  grinned. 

I  chalked  one  up  for  Mrs.  Barrymore.  The 
woman  is  rare  who  thinks  it's  funny  to  be  told 
that  she  looks  like  Pinocchio. 

I  had  gone  to  meet  her  with  a  set  of  vague, 
preconceived  notions  planted  by  these  same 
newspapers.  I  left  her  with  a  feeling  far  from 
vague  which,  if  I  had  to  put  a  name  to  it,  I  should 
call  pro -Elaine.  I'm  not  out  to  justify  that  feel- 
ing or  to  tilt  a  lance  at  her  critics.  They  don't 
bother  her,  and  they're  certainly  none  of  my 
business.  Neither  am  I  out  primarily  to  present 
the  other  side  of  a  story  which  has  been  blared, 
with  small  regard  for  fairness,  from  the  house- 
tops. My  chief  purpose  is  to  let  Elaine  tell  you 
about  her  life  with  John.  The  conclusions  are 
your  own  to  draw. 

She  sat  there  in  her  Pinocchio  hat  and  talked. 
She  had  nothing  to  gain  from  an  interview.  Pub- 
licity was  the  last  thing  she  needed.  Her  ex- 
perience with  the  press  hadn't  led  her  to  expect 
anything  extravagant  in  the  way  of  considera- 
tion. If  she  was  prompted  by  any  motive  but 
courtesy,  it  remained  hidden  from  me. 

She  looks  younger  and  less  sophisticated  than 
her  published  photographs.  Her  face  is  too 
strong  to  be  called  pretty,  but  when  she  talks, 
it  becomes  vivid  and  arresting  by  virtue  of  the 
spirited  intelligence  behind  it.  Her  voice  is  one 
of  those  warm  contraltos  that's  easy  on  the  ears. 
She's  gay  and  stimulating,  and  an  hour  spent 


in  her  company  will  explain  why  John  likes  to 
have  her  around. 

She  is  neither  coy  nor  self-assertive.  Her 
manner  is  casual,  friendly  and  direct.  She  an- 
swers questions  straightforwardly  and,  when  she 
doesn't  want  to  answer,  says  so  straightfor- 
wardly. She  makes  no  bid,  either  open  or  covert, 
for  your  partisanship.  Your  impression  of  her  is^ 
your  own  affair.  Five  years  have  developed  a 
native  gift  for  distinguishing  between  what  mat- 
ters and  what  doesn't. 

"Five  years  ago,"  she  says,  "I  was  nineteen 
and  naive.  I  thought,  if  you  told  people  the 
truth,  they'd  believe  it.  I'd  give  reporters  a 
story  and,  when  it  appeared,  my  hair  stood  on 
end.  I'd  call  up  and  wail,  'But  it  isn't  true. 
That's  not  what  I  told  you.'  Sometimes  they'd 
print  a  retraction.  The  retraction  wasn't  quite 
accurate  either,  and  besides  it  was  buried  away 
where  no  one  could  see  it.  I  began  to  realize 
that  my  story  wasn't  sensational  enough,  so  they 
had  to  go  out  and  make  up  their  own.  There 
were  times  when  I  thought  I  was  going  mad. 
After  a  while  I  got  a  perspective  on  it.  Now  I 
just  shrug. 

"It's  not  my  object  in  life  to  outrage  conven- 
tion. It's  just  that  some  things  are  more  im- 
portant than  convention.  When  I  was  twelve, 
I  read  a  book —  I  don't  remember  the  title  though 
I  ought  to,  if  only  out  of  gratitude.  It  was  a  sen- 
(Continued  on  page  84) 


26 


PHOTOPLAY  PRESENTS  AS  ITS  NEW  MOVIE  NOVEL 


,U  Lift  »»  «,B  " 

kS  k  |«U\I«  M"1 
nHUOl  BtOTORB 
iased  ««  '" 


Alice  Faye  brings  to  the  screen 
a  fascinating  interpretation  of 
this  beautiful  woman  of  destiny 


^    .'**$fe 


i 


he  Fabulous  Story  of  a  Girl  Who  Was 


il'll  ■llJHtfl ML 


but  Who  Lived  for  Love 


V 


*J<?7 


*»*3 


' 


I 


This  stranger,  Alexander  Moore,  made  Helen  newly  aware  of  herself  as  a  woman 


Copyright   1940   by  Twentieth   Century-Fox   Corporation 


When  Cynthia's  political  aspirations  ended 
in  ridicule,  her  husband  and  her  daugh- 
ters offered  in  silence  the  sympathy 
they    dared     not    express    in    words 


PART  1 

THERE  was  an  air  of  fashionable  repose  in  the 
New  York  of  the  Elegant  Eighties.  Men  went 
late  to  their  offices,  wearing  high,  starched 
collars  and  hard-crowned  hats.  Women,  re- 
spectfully referred  to  as  ladies,  were  seldom 
seen  or  expected  outside  their  homes  until  noon. 
When  the  hours  spent  on  their  appearances  showed 
in  carefully  arranged  spit-curls  and  braids  and 
laced-to-kill  figures. 

It  was  common  knowledge  that  it  took  a  good 
forty-five  minutes  for  a  stylish  lady  to  get  into  her 
corsets — lacing  a  little  from  the  bottom,  then  a  little 
from  the  top,  a  little  more  from  the  bottom,  grad- 
ually tightening  toward  the  waist,  drawing  the  tapes, 
until  she  could  moor  them  securely  about  her  mid- 
dle, until  there  was  absolute  security  against  the 
devastating  expanse  of  a  good  breath  or  a  square 
meal. 

Even  in  the  heart  of  the  city — Fourteenth  Street — 
hurry  was  avoided  to  a  great  extent.  And  on  sunny 
afternoons,  when  carriages  and  buggies  crowded  the 
thoroughfare,  there  was  much  sauntering  on  the 
walks.  Much  ogling  of  the  handsome  ladies,  driv- 
ing past  in  great  hats  and  bouffant  costumes,  or 
tripping  and  rustling  gracefully  along  in  twos  and 
threes,  chattering  as  though  they  were  unaware  of 
the  attentive  stares  of  the  sauntering  males. 

The  dull  brick  buildings,  lining  the  walks,  pro- 
vided a  properly  somber  and  unaggressive  back- 
ground for  the  people,  who  always  welcomed  a 
marching  parade — the  brass  band  seemed  to  voice 
their  suppressed  emotions.  A  fight  outside  a  bar, 
or  an  argument  in  front  of  Tony  Pastor's  Theater, 
always  brought  men  crowding  around,  yelling.  Their 
fashionable  repose,  copied  from  the  aristocrats,  for- 
gotten in  hysteria. 

But  there  was  one  excitement  in  which  everyone 
took  part.  The  ladies  often  fainted — when  it  was  all 
over,  of  course.  And  it  was  during  one  of  the  tran- 
quil afternoons  in  town  that  the  most  pulse-stirring 
of  all  occurrences  took  place. 

IN  the  first  second  of  that  fearful  moment,  Helen 
Leonard  saw,  even  more  than  she  felt,  the  quick  dan- 
ger of  death,  and  above  and  through  it  she  heard 
her  grandmother  praying.  The  horses  of  their  car- 
riage were  running  away! 

It  all  took  place  so  swiftly,  yet  Helen's  mind 
cleared  through  every  detail:  She  and  grandma  had 
stepped  into  a  public  carriage  as  a  parade,  flaunt- 
ing a  "Votes  For  Women"  banner,  marched  into  the 
street.  The  coachman  swung  his  whip  at  the  instant 


Men  adored  her;  women  envied  her; 
but  even  of  great  beauty  Life  de- 
manded a  payment  of  sorrow  and  tears 


This  is  a  Actionized  version  of  the  motion  pic- 
ture which  at  times  departs  from  the  factual, 
chronological     true    life     of    Lillian    Russell 


the  band  sounded  off  with  a  loud  blast!  The  horses 
jumped,  then  charged  up  Fourteenth  Street. 

Helen  screamed.  Her  hat  whirled  off.  She 
bumped  painfully  into  grandma.  Tight  corsets 
choked  her  breath.  She  could  not  cry  out  again, 
although  she  knew  the  horses  were  out  of  the  driv- 
er's control.  She  grabbed  grandma  with  both  arms. 
If  they  were  flung  out  on  the  street,  dear  God,  let 
her  hit  first.    She  was  so  much  stronger  and  bigger. 

The  coachman  yelled  at  the  wild  horses  and 
yanked  his  lines.  Then,  Helen  saw  it  happen — the 
rein  broke! 

Grabbing  at  the  air  for  support  the  driver  plunged 
down  over  the  wheel  into  the  street. 

Helen  could  hear  grandma's  whispered  prayer. 
"Spare  her  life,  dear  Father.  Don't  let  this  be  the 
end.    She  hasn't  had  her  chance  at  life  yet." 

"Oh,  Grandma!     Don't  look!" 

Helen  covered  the  old  woman's  eyes  with  her 
hand,  feeling  these  were  the  last  seconds  left  of 
their  lives.  There  could  be  but  a  few  more  seconds 
left — unless  the  girl  would  leap  from  the  reeling 
coach.  And  numb,  gaping  bystanders  lining  Four- 
teenth Street  knew  the  girl  would  not  leave  the  old 
woman. 

Anything  might  happen  in  this  very  second!  The 
peril  was  mirrored  in  the  faces  along  the  street. 

Now  the  carriage  twisted,  almost  turned  over 
against  the  curb.  A  man  lunged  forward — then  his 
arm  shot  out  and  he  clutched  the  mane  of  the 
horse.  With  a  leap,  he  landed  on  the  animal's  back 
and  clung.  The  charge  faltered  and  slowed  and 
after  a  block,  with  the  rider  whipping  the  reins, 
carriage  and  horses,  came  to  a  standstill. 

Helen  lost  consciousness  then.  The  next  thing 
she  knew  was  that  the  street  around  the  carriage 
was  filled  with  sounds  of  strange,  excited  voices. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Grandma?" 

"No,   but  I'm  good  and  mad.    That  suffragettes' 


band  would  scare  the  daylights  out  of  anything!" 

It  was  good  to  hear  the  old  cracked  voice.  It 
steadied  Helen,  who  watched  grandma  get  up  and 
shake  the  fullness  of  her  skirt  out  about  her. 

Helen  was  trembling,  half  laughing  and  half  cry- 
ing, trying  to  hold  her  blowing  hair. 

"Oh,  my  hat!  My  new  horsehair  hat!  It's  gone!" 
The  hat  was  easier  to  talk  about  now  than  the  run- 
away and  of  the  nearness  of  bright  danger  just 
escaped.  Her  heart  pounded  madly  against  its  prison 
of  whalebone. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  someone  asked  Helen. 

She  turned  to  find  a  man  leaning  into  the  car- 
riage. He  was  hatless,  too,  and  his  hair  blew  across 
his  anxious  dark  eyes. 

"I — I  think  I'm  all  right,"  Helen  answered. 

"Won't  you  let  me  help  you  out?  See  if  you  are 
all  right?" 

Without  waiting  for  her  answer,  his  hand  slipped 
beneath  her  arm  and  with  one  strong  movement 
propelled  her  to  the  ground.  Her  knees  doubled 
without  warning.  She  would  have  fallen,  but  the 
stranger's  arms  suddenly  and  deftly  circled  her. 

"Oh — I'm  sorry!"  she  cried,  resting  her  full  weight 
against  him. 

"You  can't  fall — I've  got  you." 

Helen  looked  up  into  the  man's  eyes,  conscious 
of  his  height  and  strength.  She  felt  small  and  help- 
less beside  him. 

Her  loose  hair  fanned  out  across  his  face,  hiding 
it  from  her,  and  blushing,  she  reached  up  and  un- 
covered him. 

They  both  laughed,  and  Helen  realized  suddenly 
who  he  was  and  the  full  value  of  what  he  had 
done  swept  through  her. 

"You  saved  us!"  she  cried.  "It  was  you!"  Her 
eyes  and  voice  reached  up  to  him.  Gratitude  flowed 
through  her  like  warm  wine,  shooting  quick  tears 
into  her  eyes  and  laughter  into  her  voice. 

His  arms  were  still  around  her,  holding  her  firmly 
against  him.    She  felt  his  breath,  warm  and  moist. 

Helen  pushed  away,  leaned  against  the  carriage 
wheel,  holding  her  hair  back  with  her  hands.  Still 
unable  to  look  away  from  his  eyes. 

In  this  curious  moment  of  fright  and  relief,  uncer- 
tainty and  excitement,  Helen  Leonard  had  become 
aware  of  an  emotion  unrelated  to  anything  she  had 
experienced  before.  She  had  felt  a  man's  arms  and 
had  liked  the  feeling  of  being  pressed  against  a 
lean,  masculine  body.  This  stranger,  who  had  risked 
his  life  to  save  her,  made  her  newly  aware  of  her- 
self as  a  woman  and  the  sensation  refused  to  stay 
hidden  warmly  within  her  body.     It  was  over  her 


28 


more  than  the  fright  of  the  runaway.  Standing 
there,  she  was  laughing  and  crying,  too. 

He  looked  so  young  and  so  nice.  There  was  a  dig- 
nity about  him,  a  simplicity  which  went  to  her 
heart.  She  flushed  and  tried  to  tear  her  telltale 
eyes  from  his.    She  shook  her  head  and  bit  her  lip. 

"You  saved  us!"  she  said  again,  as  though  to  her- 
self. 

"It  was  easy,"  he  said.  "When  the  carriage  twisted 
near  me — " 

"No,"  Helen  said,  "you  were  very  brave." 

"And  you — you're  very  beautiful." 

She  caught  her  breath.  It  was  as  though  they 
were  alone.  Her  eyes  closed  and  she  turned  her 
head.  They  were  far  from  being  alone.  People 
crowded  around  them,  asking  questions,  listening! 

Helen,  confused,  wondered  what  she  looked  like, 
without  a  hat,  flushing  like  a  silly  girl. 

Suddenly  grandma  climbed  into  the  carriage  and 
held  up  Helen's  hat. 

"Young  man,  if  it  weren't  for  you,  we  would 
have  been  killed." 

He  looked  up  and  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair, 
bowed  to  the  smiling  old  woman;  he  reached  for 
the  hat  and  handed  it  to  Helen. 

"I've  tried  to  thank  him  for  us,"  Helen  said,  ad- 
justing the  broad  brim  over  her  hair. 

The  man  looked  at  her,  watched  every  movement 
she  made  and  his  warm,  admiring  eyes  stirred 
currents  through  her  body.  With  her  arms  stretched 
up  to  her  wide  hat,  Helen  was  conscious  of  the  high 
curves  of  her  breasts.  The  sweep  from  her  bosom 
to  her  flaring  hips  had  the  true  indentation  of  an 
hourglass.  She  felt  as  beautiful,  as  he  had  said  she 
was.    He  had  brought  her  pleasantly  awake. 

Grandma  Leonard,  reacting  to  the  romance  writ- 
ten on  the  young  faces,  sighed  and  sat  back  in  the 
carriage.  She  motioned  to  the  coachman,  and 
nodded  toward  Helen. 

"All  right,  missie,"  said  the  old  man,  touching  his 
high-crowned,  dusty  hat.  "You  can  get  back  into 
the  carriage  now." 

"Behind  those  crazy  horses!"  exclaimed  Helen. 
"Do  I  look  like  a  dunce?" 

"No'm,"  humbly,  "it  was  only  them  wimmin  pa- 
raders  that  frightened  'em.   They're  all  right  now." 

Then,  seeing  grandma  seated  in  the  coach,  Helen 
said,  "You  mean  you'll  trust  them  again?" 

"I  have  fewer  years  to  live  than  you  do,"  grand- 
ma answered,  patting  her  skirt  neatly  into  place. 

"Don't  worry,  missie,"  persuaded  the  coachman. 
"After  that  exercise  these  hosses  won't  run  again 
for  years.  They  wouldn't  have  then  if  them  wimmin 
had  stayed  home  where  they  belong." 

"Where's  your  nerve?"  asked  grandma. 

The  crowd  watched  Helen.  And  suddenly  she  be- 
came conscious  that  the  audience  was  waiting,  cu- 
riously eager  for  her  decision.  Her  innate  show- 
manship came  to  the  surface.  She  turned  quizzical 
eyes  about  her  and  knew  she  couldn't  back  out 
now — not  after  grandma's  stand.  Helen  smiled 
broadly.  The  bystanders  admired  her  as  much  for 
that  as  they  had  for  staying  beside  the  old  woman 
during  the  runaway. 

Turning  back  to  the  dark-eyed  man — she  hadn't 
lost  consciousness  of  him  for  a  second — she  held  out 
her  hand.    He  clasped  it  and  her  heart  pounded. 

"I'll  have  to — I  guess,"  she  smiled.  She  really 
meant  "have  to  leave  you."  "Thank  you  again— 
and  good-by." 

In  a  faraway  voice,  he  answered,  "Good-by." 

The  carriage  pulled  away,  up  Fourteenth  Street, 
and  the  hoofs  of  the  conquered,  even-motioned 
horses  beat  out  and  threw  back  the  word  "Good-by." 

The  back  of  the  coach  was  too  high  to  look  over, 
unless  she  stood  up.  Helen,  somehow,  couldn't  quite 
bring  herself  to  do  that.  With  all  the  people  still 
watching.  She  could  see  him,  though,  in  her  mind's 
eye,  standing  there  watching  the  coach  roll  away. 

And  she  saw  herself  as  a  leading  lady  in  a  play— 
a  play  whose  stage  was  Fourteenth  Street,  right  in 
the  busiest  part  of  New  York.  It  was  an  exciting 
love  story — and  he  was  the  hero. 

HOW  strangely  it  all  fitted  in  with  what  had  hap- 
pened earlier  that  afternoon.  The  runaway  was 
really  like  the  second  act  of  this  love  story — but 
Helen  Leonard  checked  herself  there.  She  knew, 
deep  in  her  heart,  that  she  had  not  come  to  New 
York  to  fall  in  love.  She  wanted  to  sing,  to  go  on 
the  stage— in  grand  opera. 

But,  still,  the  runaway  was  really  like  the  second 
act.  The  first  act,  a  few  minutes  earlier,  had  been 
in  the  tall-ceilinged,  red-carpeted  studio  of  Profes- 
sor Leopold  Damrosch.  How  she  had  dreamed  of 
standing  before  the  great  music  master,  singing, 
with  her  head  back  .  .  .  but  then,  when  she  was 
before  him,  nothing  went  as  she  had  planned. 

"Come  over  here,  young  lady,"  he  had  said  in  his 


gruff  voice.  So,  she  had  stood  beside  the  grand 
piano,  where  he  stooped  over  the  keyboard. 

"Sing  for  me." 

"The  Last  Rose  of  Summer"  sounded  and  lifted 
to  the  ceiling.  Helen  tried  to  catch  it,  took  a  deep 
breath,  looked  down  at  the  little  man  who  nodded 
for  her  to  join  in. 

How  she  had  prayed  for  that  minute — yet  she 
could  not  catch  and  fasten  the  tone  in  her  throat! 

She  took  a  deeper  breath  and  could  not  let  it  out. 
The  inside  of  her  mouth  was  dry,  her  lips  stuck 
against  her  teeth.  Horses,  clop-clopping  on  the 
street  below,  seemed  to  be  marching  into  her  tight, 
tense  throat. 

"Pretend  you  are  back  home  in  Clinton,"  said 
grandma  from  her  seat  on  the  horsehair  couch. 
"Sing  the  way  you  sing  for  your  Daddy — that's  all." 

She  turned  to  grandma  then,  saw  her  eager,  proud 
face — all  the  love  in  her  heart  shining  in  the  beads 
of  perspiration  around  her  wrinkled  lips. 

Then,  Helen  knew  she  could  sing.  She  could  sing 
to  that  loving  face — and  turning  from  the  musician 
she  lifted  her  head  and  opened  her  throat. 


AST 


tnwa/d  Solomon    . 

.    .  Don  Amecru 

Diamond  Jim  Brady 
Jesse  Lewisohn.    . 
Tony  Pastor 
Grandma  Leonard  . 

.  Edward  Arnold 
.  Warren  William 
.  .  Leo  Cairillo 
.    Helen  Westley 

Cynthia  Leonard    .    . 
Charles  K.  Leonard     . 
William  Gilbert     .    . 
Edna  McCauley     .    . 
Arthur  Sullivan     .    . 

.  Dorothy  Peterson 
.  .  Ernest  Truex 
.  .  Nigel  Bruce 
.  .  Lynn  Bar 
.    Claude  Allister 

Leopold  Damrosch .    . 
Dorothy     .     .     .     . 
Lillian  Russell's  Sisters 

.  Joseph  Cawthorn 
.  .  Diane  Fisher 
.     .    Elvse  Knox 

Screen  play  by  \ 

Directed  by  Irving  Cummings 
A  Darryl  F.  Zanuck  Production 
Released  by  20th  Century- Fox 


The  song  finished,  Helen  turned  back  to  the  pro- 
fessor and  smiled.  He  looked  up  through  his  shaggy 
grey  brows.   He  did  not  speak. 

Helen  waited — and  grandma  waited.  A  canary 
bird,  sunning  in  the  open  window,  trilled.  Dam- 
rosch turned  on  the  revolving  piano  stool  then  and 
looked  at  the  bird,  in  the  same  odd  way  he  had 
looked  at  Helen. 

He  got  up  from  the  stool  and  walked  over  to  his 
table  desk  near  the  window.  His  back  was  turned 
as  he  looked  at  the  street  through  the  heavy  lace 
curtains  by  his  desk.  The  bird  trilled  again  and 
the  old  man  looked  up  at  it  and  shook  his  head. 

"A  very  good  voice,  Hans  .  .  .  good,  but  you  will 
not  sing  for  grand  opera,  either." 

The  bird  chirped  and  trilled  again,  as  if  to  prove 
it  could  sing  anything  it  liked.  The  old  man 
chuckled,  turned  from  his  desk,  and  faced  the  girl. 

Tears  ran  down  Helen's  face.  She  didn't  remem- 
ber to  try  to  stop  them.  It  was  grandma  who  came 
over  and  pressed  a  handkerchief  into  her  hand. 

Suddenly  Damrosch  beat  his  desk. 

"Stop  that!    What  is  the  matter?" 

"G-grand  opera  was  my  dream,  Mr.  Damrosch. 
We  moved  all  the  way  from  Clinton,  Iowa,  to  New 
York,  just  so  we.  .  .  ." 

"What  do  you  mean  'we'?    Is  she  a  singer,  too?" 

Grandma's  head  went  up  at  that. 

"I  can  remember  having  a  rather  nice  voice  when 


I  was  young."  "Ja-ja.  Everybody  remembers  hav- 
ing a  good  voice  when  they  were  young." 

To  keep  from  showing  her  tears,  Helen  walked 
over  to  the  bird  cage  and  pretended  to  watch  it. 
She  couldn't  see  anything  for  her  tears. 

"I  told  him  he  couldn't  sing  grand  opera,"  Dam- 
rosch said  watching  her,  "but  he  doesn't  cry  and 
carry  on — like  you're  doing.  He  keeps  right  on 
singing."  The  bird  trilled  and  Helen  smiled  wetly. 
Then  shaking  his  finger  at  the  bird  Damrosch  said 

"Hans,  you're  off  key  right  now.  You're  flat,  you 
dummkopf,  you!" 

Helen  felt  as  though  this  were  his  criticism  of 
her  singing.  Perhaps  she  had  been  off  key,  flat — 
she  didn't  know.  She  had  dreamed  about  that  time 
so  long — and  when  it  came  she  had  been  afraid. 

"Come — sit  down,"  the  old  man  said  abruptly. 

HELEN  took  the  straight-backed  chair  beside  his 
desk  and  dried  her  cheeks.  It  all  had  come  to  seem 
so  hopeless.  Why  had  she  ever  believed  she  could 
sing?  Because  at  a  students'  concert  back  home 
she  had  sung  "Let  Me  Dream  Again,"  and  another 
time  when  she  had  sung  "Hast  Thou  E'er  Seen  the 
Land,"  from  "Mignon,"  Sister  Superior  told  her 
mother,  "Helen  has  real  talent."  They  had  asked  her 
to  sing  in  the  choir  after  that.  But  had  that  been 
enough?  Oh,  it  might  have  been  in  Clinton.  But 
this  was  New  York.  And  it  wasn't  enough  .  .  .  that 
was  what  she  read  in  the  old  man's  eyes.  Why 
she  cried. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?  Do  you  like  to 
cry?" 

"You  don't  have  to  treat  the  child  that  brutally!" 
said  grandma  from  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

"Child?"  he  repeated.  "She's  eighteen.  She  told 
me  so  herself.   Won't  you  please  sit  down!" 

"Grandma  is  nervous,  Mr.  Damrosch,"  said  Helen. 
"She's — she's  disappointed.  We're  both  dreadfully 
disappointed  in  me." 

"Ja — I  know,"  he  said,  in  a  kindlier  tone.  "So — 
she  is  your  grandmamma,  ja?  Your  mamma  is  dead?" 

"No,  my  mother  is  living." 

"Then,  why  is  she  not  here  with  you?" 

"Well — she  happens  to  be  very  busy  right  now. 
You  see — mother  is  in  politics." 

"A  suffragette — ja?"  he  scoffed.  Then  to  the  older 
woman,  "I  suppose  you  taught  her  such  nonsense?" 

"On  the  contrary.  I  believe  the  woman's  place  is 
in  the  home!" 

"Ja — you  are  right."  Then  to  Helen,  "Is  your 
father  alive?" 

"He  is — but  he  isn't,"  said  grandma.  "He's  my 
son — a  poor  man  with  five  daughters  and  a  suffra- 
gette wife.  I  don't  know  whether  you'd  call  him 
alive  or  not." 

Damrosch  relaxed  in  his  chair.  He  was  thought- 
ful— but  grandma  was  impatient.  Why  keep  them 
here,  questioning  them  about  everything  without 
more  reasons  why  Helen  was  not  trainable  for 
opera. 

"Helen  is  my  favorite  grandchild,"  grandma  held 
forth.  "I  know  she  has  great  talent — a  great  talent! 
Much  to  give  to  the  song  of  this  world.  You  know, 
you  could  be  wrong  in  your  decision — just  as  you 
were  about  your  canary  here.  I  mean,  when  you 
said  the  little  fellow  was  off  key,  he  really  wasn't. 
I  have  a  good  ear  for  music — and  he  wasn't  flat." 

How  could  grandma  say  a  thing  like  that  to  Pro- 
fessor Damrosch!  Helen  jumped  up  and  ran  over 
to  where  the  wiry,  little  woman  stood. 

"Oh,  grandma — how  could  you?" 

"How  couldn't  I!"  snapped  grandma. 

Then  they  turned  to  see  the  professor,  staring 
coldly  and  angrily  at  grandma.  His  small  dark  eyes 
were  bright  points  through  his  shaggy  brows.  Not 
straightening  from  his  shouldery  piano-players'  pos- 
ture, he  stood  up. 

"This  interview  is  ended,  ladies.  Good  after- 
noon." 

"Very  well,"  said  grandma,  unruffled.  "Come, 
Helen.  Stop  sniffling.  We'll  find  you  another 
teacher.    New  York's  full  of  them." 

B  UT  New  York  wasn't — and  this  was  the  only  Dam- 
rosch. Helen  wished  grandma  were  not  so  head- 
strong— marching  out  of  the  studio  in  a  huff. 

"And  it  has  too  many  grandmammas!-'  the  old 
man  flung  at  grandma's  back. 

Helen  turned  to  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Damrosch — " 

He  touched  her  arm  and  looked  up  into  her  tear- 
stained  face. 

"You  will  come  back  then  tomorrow  at  three?" 

"At  three  .  .  .  me?    Come  back?"  Helen  echoed. 

"Ja — ja — because  I  like  you  very  much— and — I 
am  sorry  for  you." 

She  looked  at  his  small  wrinkled  face,  almost  hid- 
den by  his  beard. 


29 


'Tm  sorry  for  you  because  you  are  beautiful." 

Her  face  stretched  with  a  smile  of  relief. 

"But,  Mr.  Damrosch,  if  that  were  really  true,  why 
should  it  make  you  sorry  for  me?"  she  said,  her 
words  brightening. 

His  crusty,  bent  fingers  enfolded  her  hand.  He 
held  her  eyes  with  his  steady,  kindly  look.  And, 
Helen  Leonard  listened  to  the  strangest  words  she 
had  ever  before  heard — words  which  she  was  to  re- 
member throughout  her  life. 

"Because — even  though  you  have  great  success — 
and,  my  dear,  you  may  have  success  even  though 
you  do  not  sing  in  the  opera,  you  know — even  with 
great  success  you  will  most  likely  be  unhappy. 
Beautiful  women  generally  are." 

Helen  drew  her  hand  from  his.  She  felt  a  quiver 
run  through  her  body.  She  did  not  know  how  to 
take  this  odd,  wise  little  man. 

She  was  frightened,  standing  there. 

"But  why — Mr.  Damrosch?" 

"Because  so  many  men  will  fall  in  love  with  your 
beauty — you  may  never  know  which  one  really 
loves  you." 

He  turned  away  from  her  then,  walked  unbe- 
lievably fast  until  he  reached  the  door.  Facing 
around,  he  said,  "Until  three  tomorrow." 

Helen  bowed,  and  walked  swiftly  past  him. 

Now,  driving  beside  grandma  in  the  carriage,  she 
no  longer  was  afraid  of  the  professor.  She  felt  a 
kindliness  for  him  as  she  would  for  an  old  friend. 

"I'm  still  mad  at  that  old  fool  piano  player!" 
grandma  snapped.  "Takes  more  than  a  couple  of 
wild  horses  to  make  me  forget  about  him!"  Patting 
Helen's  hand,  "I'm  glad  he's  not  going  to  teach  you. 
He  can't  teach  a  canary — much  less  you!" 

"I — I  forgot  to  tell  you,  I'm  going  back  tomorrow 
for  my  first  lesson.    He  told  me  to  come  back." 

Grandma's  wise  eyes  crinkled,  "After  I  left  he 
changed  his  mind!  Oh,  Helen!  Just  to  think — 
you're  to  be  a  pupil  of  the  great  Damrosch!  And  he 
is  great,  my  dear!  Why,  he  was  famous  in  Europe 
long  before  he  came  to  America." 

Not  even  the  runaway  had  brought  tears  to  her 
eyes,  but  now  they  trickled  out  on  her  rice-pow- 
dered cheeks  and  shone  in  the  afternoon  sun. 

"The  old  buzzard!"  she  said. 

T  HE  hatless,  serious  young  man  stood  watching  the 
carriage  until  it  was  lost  in  the  bustle  of  hansoms 
and  Victorias  and  bicycles. 

"Good-by  .  .  ."  he  had  said  and  let  her  go  like 
that.  Still,  he  could  see  her  blue  eyes  and  golden 
hair  as  clearly  as  if  he  were  still  holding  her  in  his 
arms.  Thinking  of  her  made  him  a  little  dizzy.  She 
was  so  beautiful  and  young  and  smelled  so  sweet. 
Good-by!  Could  he  mean  that?  When  her  image 
was  etched  on  his  heart.  Could  being  a  stranger  in 
New  York,  could  being  without  a  job  and  not  even 
enough  money  to  hail  a  hansom  and  follow  her 
really  mean  he  would  never  see  her  again? 

It  couldn't  be.  Because  now  he  knew  why  he  had 
come  to  New  York.  He  could  have  kept  on  at  his 
job  as  reporter  in  Pittsburgh,  but  something  had 
sent  him  to  New  York  .  .  .  something.  Now  he 
knew  what  it  was.  He  had  come  to  find  a  beautiful 
girl,  who  laughed  and  cried  at  the  same  time. 

"You  are  a  very  brave  fellow,"  a  man  standing 
beside  him  said.  The  man  held  out  a  battered  brown 
derby,  which  he  took  with  thanks.  But  he  resented 
anyone  breaking  in  on  his  revery. 

"I  saw  you  from  my  office  window  across  the 
street,"  said  the  stranger,  who  now  he  saw  was 
small,  grey-haired,  with  the  squat  squarish  figure 
of  an  Italian.  "And  I  see  now  that  you  like  the 
beautiful  girl.    I  see  that,  all  right." 

"She  was  beautiful — but  I  didn't  even  find  out 
her  name,  but  I  know  when  she  laughs  she  has 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  .  .  ."  Resenting  his  lack  of 
fact-finding  more  than  the  queries  of  the  man,  he 
turned  suddenly.    "Do  you  know  her  name?" 

"No.  But  I  did  not  save  her  life.  I  should  hate 
to  save  such  a  beautiful  creature — and  never  know 
who  she  was." 

Angry  at  himself  for  not  saying,  "You're  very 
beautiful  and  I  would  like  to  know  your  name"  all 
in  the  same  breath,  he  muttered  determinedly,  "I'll 
find  out  who  she  is — someday!" 

How  could  he?  That  was  the  way  things  hap- 
pened in  the  books  he  read — not  in  real  life,  even 
in  New  York.    So  he  added,  "perhaps." 

"No  'perhaps!' "  the  grinning  old  man  exclaimed. 
"And  when  you  do — come  tell  me.  I  want  you  to 
bring  the  young  lady  to  my  theater — come  as  my 
guests." 

Puzzled  by  the  enthusiastic  little  man,  he  eyed 
him  with  new  interest 


"Permit  me  to  introduce  myself— I'm  Tony  Pas- 
tor," holding  out  his  hand.  "That's  my  theater  over 
there.    Now,  what  is  your  name?" 

"Alexander  Moore." 

IT  was  well  known  along  Ninth  Street,  where  the 
Leonards  lived,  that  Mrs.  Leonard— Cynthia— paid 
little  attention  to  the  bringing  up  of  her  family  of 
girls.  Nor  did  she  appear  any  more  concerned  about 
her  husband,  Charles.  A  strange  family,  indeed. 
Mrs.  Leonard  was  hipped  on  the  subject  of  politics. 
Talked  nothing  else.  And  Mr.  Leonard,  during  the 
little  time  he  spent  home,  read  books  by  Robert 
Ingersoll,  the  agnostic. 

People  said  that  Charlie  Leonard  had  at  one  time 
been  owner  and  editor  of  a  newspaper,  and  had 
been  considered  a  good  smalltown  newspaperman. 
His  paper,  The  Clinton  Herald,  was  published  in 
Clinton,  Iowa;  it  was  a  conservative,  living-making 
sheet.  Charlie  probably  didn't  have  an  enemy  in 
town,  although,  of  course,  there  were  those  who 
questioned  why  any  God-fearing  man  would  dare 
to  publish  the  works  of  Ingersoll. 

In  Clinton,  however,  Charlie  Leonard  had  been  a 
happy  family  man — which  was  before  his  wife  got 
the  suffrage  bee  buzzing  in  her  bonnet. 

Cynthia  wanted  to  establish  the  right  for  women 
to  vote— and  furthermore,  to  be  elected  to  an  office. 
And  she  could  quote  at  length — and  did  frequently 
— the  exact  words  of  such  noteworthy  suffrage 
leaders  as  Susan  B.  Anthony  and  Belva  Lockwood. 

In  the  Leonard's  little  frame  house,  buried  among 
willow  trees  and  surrounded  by  a  picket  fence,  down 
there  near  the  Mississippi  river  bank,  Cynthia's  vot- 


Helen  had  dreamed  of  singing  for  the  great 
Leopold  Damrosch  .  .  .  but  when  she  was 
before  him,   nothing   went  as  she   had   planned 


ing  talk  seemed  almost  a  blasphemy.  It  had,  in- 
deed, fretted  her  editor-husband,  Charlie. 

Grandma  Leonard  tried  to  reason  with  her  son 
why  his  wife  was  so  strong  for  suffrage  the  night 
the  fifth  child  was  being  born. 

"If  Cynthia  has  her  way  you're  going  to  have 
even  a  fuller  house  of  girls — and  they'll  all  be  suf- 
fragettes some  day,"  Grandma  Leonard  told  her  son. 

"Equal  rights  for  women — that's  Cynthia's  slogan. 
And,  Charlie,  when  you  figure  out  what  she's  gone 
through,  bringing  girls  into  this  world,  maybe  you 
won't  blame  her  for  wanting  everything  she  can  get 
for  them." 

But  Charles  never  quite  figured  all  that  out.  He 
was  the  kind  of  quiet,  tender  fellow  who  usually 
could  see  both  sides  of  most  stories  and  seldom 
argued  about  either.  He  saw  Cynthia's  side  and  he 
saw  his  own — more  clearly.  At  times  her  side 
seemed  more  forceful,  because  Cynthia,  a  broad- 
hipped,  huge-bosomed  woman  with  serene  dark 
eyes  and  crisp,  greying  pompadour,  was  a  far  more 
forceful  and  persuasive  person. 

CHARLIE  LEONARD  reasoned  that  it  wasn't  just 
Cynthia's  notions  about  politics,  which  eventually 
influenced  him  to  give  up  his  paper  and  come  to 
New  York  with  his  family.  Cynthia  advanced  a 
strong  sales  talk  about  possibilities  for  him  as  a 
newspaperman  in  the  city.  And  she  pointed  out 
also  that  there,  their  girls  would  naturally  have  bet- 
ter opportunities  to  make  better  marriages  than  they 
ever  would  in  a  small  town. 

Helen,  the  youngest  daughter,  was  eighteen  be- 
fore the  Leonards  were  really  settled  in  New  York. 
But  the  years  had  not  dimmed  Cynthia's  ambitious 
interest  in  suffrage.    And  it  did  not  take  her  long 


to  get  right  into  the  swing  of  city  life  and  have  her 
name  and  pictures  and  opinions  on  suffrage  printed 
in  every  newspaper  in  town. 

The  Leonards  moved  into  a  large  house  in  Ninth 
street.  Cynthia  selected  a  large  one,  not  only  be- 
cause the  family  was  large,  but  she  doubted  her 
husband's  ability  to  earn  enough  to  keep  the  family 
going.  And  with  the  quantity  of  rooms  there  was 
always  the  chance  of  renting  them  out.  Renting 
rooms  soon  proved,  indeed,  a  necessary  aid  to  the 
Leonards'  finances. 

Cynthia  selected  the  location  because  it  would  be 
convenient  to  her  political  gatherings.  Also,  the 
front  parlor  of  the  house  offered  a  room  large 
enough  for  her  meetings  and  rallies  to  be  held  right 
in  her  own  home! 

The  location  soon  proved  advantageous  in  other 
respects — more  transients  saw  the  sign  in  the  win- 
dow and  therefore  came  in  for  lodging.  Then,  too, 
Rose's  Italian  Garden  restaurant  opened  right  next 
door.  There  the  Leonards  ate  many  plates  of  spa- 
ghetti in  place  of  the  meals  Cynthia  was  far  too 
busy  to  bother  about  planning  or  directing  at  home. 

Mrs.  Rose,  the  buxom  proprietress,  had  in  abun- 
dance every  motherly  quality  which  her  neighbor 
and  good  customer,  Mrs.  Leonard,  apparently  lacked. 
The  equally  strong  and  outstanding  traits  of  the 
two  were:  Mrs.  Rose  wanted  to  mother  the  world, 
which  Mrs.  Leonard  aspired  to  run! 

There  was  considerable  traffic  along  Ninth  Street 
the  afternoon  Helen  and  her  grandmother  drove  up 
to  their  address.  It  took  but  one  look  at  the  Leonard 
house  to  know  what  was  going  on.  Lamps  burning 
in  the  parlor  meant  Cynthia  was  having  another 
meeting.  The  piled-up  bicycles,  cluttering  the  front 
stoop,  testified  to  that,  too. 

Inside  the  hall  of  the  house  the  smell  of  burning 
corn  oozed  out  from  the  kitchen  over  everything. 
Against  its  sweet,  scorched  smell  came  the  sound 
of  high,  hysterical  voices.  Chatter!  Through  these 
at  frequent  intervals  the  strong  voice  of  Cynthia 
Leonard  drove  onward.  Now  she  spoke — then  she 
led  the  chorus  of  "Brighten  the  Corner  Where  You 
Are." 

After  the  song,  in  the  following  seconds  of  breath- 
less quiet,  Cynthia  said,  "And  if  I  am  nominated  as 
a  candidate  for  the  election  as  mayor  of  New  York 
City,  ladies — I'll  be  elected!" 

HELEN  and  grandma  listened  to  the  goings  on 
while  Helen  took  off  her  hat  and  finding  no  place 
to  hang  it  on  the  hatrack,  balanced  it  on  the  ban- 
ister post  of  the  stairs. 

"Corn!"  sniffed  grandma.  "Guess  Charlie  must  be 
home  and  the  girls  are  trying  to  cook  for  him." 

Corn  was  Charlie  Leonard's  favorite  dish  and 
Helen  inherited  his  taste  for  it.  She  turned  her 
tilted  nose  toward  the  kitchen  and  whiffed  the  odor 
pleasantly. 

"Oh,  I  hope  Dad's  home.    I  want  to  tell  him — " 

"Tell  him  all  about  Mr.  Damrosch,"  grandma  said, 
"Only  leave  out  that  part  where  the  horses  ran 
away  on  account  of  your  mother's  parade. 

"And  another  thing — maybe  you  better  not  say 
anything  about  how  you  felt  about  the  young  man, 
either.  Don't  want  him  to  think  you're  getting  boys 
on  your  mind  instead  of  singing  now.  You're  the 
one  he's  depending  on  to  be  sensible." 

"All  right,"  Helen  smiled.     "I'll  remember." 

Helen  tossed  her  heavy  braid  over  her  shoulder 
and  thought  that  grandma  never  missed  anything. 

The  old  woman  rustled  her  way  toward  the 
kitchen  then,  humming  "Brighten  the  Corner  Where 
You  Are."  She  opened  the  door  and  a  screech 
greeted  her.  It  came  from  the  green  parrot,  Noah, 
swinging  from  the  ceiling. 

"Votes-f  or-women-equal  -  rights  -  ha  -  ha  -  ha!"  the 
parrot  then  screamed  over  and  over. 

"Shut  your  beak!"  grandma  said,  laughing. 

Charlie  Leonard  was  having  a  quiet  drink,  sitting 
alone,  with  his  elbows  rested  on  his  knees,  the  way 
he  sat  when  he  had  been  walking  a  lot  and  his  back 
ached.  His  glass,  half-filled  with  bourbon,  sat  on  the 
window  sill  near  him.  And  beside  his  chair,  on  the 
floor,  was  his  battered  old  hat. 

"Meetings,  meetings,  meetings!"  he  muttered  as 
Helen  came  over  to  him.  "Bicycles  cluttering  up 
the  front  of  the  house — hats  all  over  the  hall. 
Couldn't  even  find  a  place  in  my  own  house  to  hang 
my  hat!" 

Helen,  seeing  his  flushed  unhappy  face,  filled  im- 
mediately with  sympathy  .  She  sat  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"Hey,  Dad — we're  going  to  have  com  for  dinner. 
Can't  you  smell  it  cooking?" 

"I  don't  care!"  he  said.    "Why  don't  those  women 


go  home  and  brighten  their  own  corners — cook  their 
own  suppers  for  their  own  husbands  and  let  Cynthia 
alone!" 

Just  then  a  loud  outburst  of  applause  sounded 
through  the  ceiling  from  the  downstairs  parlor. 

"I  wonder  what  that  means,"  Helen  said,  wishing 
for  some  way  to  divert  her  father  into  a  better 
humor. 

"Let's  listen." 

"I'm  not  interested." 

But  then,  as  though  someone  had  opened  the  par- 
lor door,  they  heard  Cynthia  Leonard's  voice: 

"And  now,  my  friends,  with  all  due  humility  I 
accept  the  invitation  of  our  party  to  run  for  mayor 
of  New  York  City  on  the  Equal  Franchise  ticket. 
And  if  I'm  elected — " 

"You  will  be — you  can't  lose.  You  said  so  your- 
self!" a  strong -voiced  woman  yelled. 

"I  shall  do  my  best  to  make  you  all  proud  of  your 
sex." 

Stamping  of  feet!    Cheers! 

1  HE  day  of  the  election  was  fast  approaching  and 
since  Cynthia  was  convinced  of  her  need  as  political 
leader  and,  at  last,  had  a  chance  of  answering  the 
call  of  suffrage,  she  left  no  hour  of  the  days  and 
few  of  the  nights  without  delivering  a  speech — 
somewhere. 

Helen  walked  down  Ninth  Street  one  afternoon, 
returning  from  her  singing  lesson,  to  find  a  newsboy 
selling  papers  in  front  of  Mrs.  Rose's  restaurant. 

"Read  all  about  the  suffering  cats — they're  sunk," 
die  news  hawker  cried.  "Buy  a  paper,  miss?"  he 
approached  Helen. 

She  began  reading  before  she  was  up  the  steps 
of  her  house.  There  it  was,  in  glaring  black  type, 
above  a  picture  of  her  mother: 

CYNTHIA  LEONARD   SUFFERS  HUMILIATING 

DEFEAT 

WOMAN  MAYORALTY  CANDIDATE  RECEIVES 

ONLY  84  VOTES 

"Poor  Mother!"  Helen  breathed  aloud  as  she  ran 
up  the  steps  and  let  herself  into  the  hall.  The  whole 
house,  so  strangely  quiet,  seemed  to  feel  the  same 
way.  Only  one  hat  hung  on  the  hatrack  today — 
Dad's  old  battered  derby.  And  no  bicycles  had 
cluttered  the  walk  outside.     "Poor  Mother!" 

Now  she  heard  voices  from  the  parlor  and  pushed 
open  the  door.  Her  father,  sitting  by  the  reading 
lamp,  looked  up.  How  odd  he  seemed  there,  because 
in  the  three  years  they  had  lived  in  that  house, 
Charlie  Leonard  had  never  before  sat  in  the  parlor. 

Grandma  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  reading  lamp, 
clicking  her  knitting  needles.  Three  of  the  other 
Leonard  girls  were  also  there — two  playing  checkers 
over  by  the  window.     One  sat  on  the  piano  stool. 

And  over  in  the  shadowy  corner  sat  Cynthia,  pre- 
tending to  be  absorbed  in  a  newspaper. 

Sitting  there  with  the  shades  drawn  and  the  lamps 
burning  before  sundown!  They  certainly  looked  like 
anything  except  a  happy  family,  Helen  thought,  her 
heart  tightening  with  sympathy. 

"Come  on,  sing  for  me,"  Lucy  Leonard  called  from 
the  piano. 

"All  right — "  But  she  stopped  beside  her  mother, 
hesitated  a  second.  As  Cynthia  did  not  look  up, 
she  went  over  to  the  piano. 

Lucy  began  to  play  the  music  which  stood  opened 
on  the  music  rack.  Thus,  in  all  innocence,  the  open- 
ing bars  of  "Brighten  the  Corner  Where  You  Are" 
crowded  unmercifully  into  the  room. 

"No!     No!     Not  that!" 

Helen  yanked  the  music  from  the  piano. 

BUT  it  was  too  late  then.  Cynthia — everyone  was 
looking  at  her — lowered  her  newspaper  and  let  her 
glazed  eyes  pass  over  the  group.  Without  a  word, 
she  stood,  then  walked  from  the  room. 

No  one  spoke.    No  one  could. 

They  heard  her  steps  down  the  hall,  then  suddenly 
the  silence  was  splintered  by  a  screech  from  the 
parrot:    "Votes-for-women-equal-rights-ha-ha-ha!" 

Then  they  heard  Cynthia  stumbling  and  hurrying 
up  the  stairs.  They  all  knew  she  was  rushing  miser- 
ably to  the  privacy  of  her  own  room. 

"Poor  Mother!"  burst  from  Helen. 

They  all  began  to  talk  at  once  and  no  one  seemed 
to  notice  when  Helen  went  out. 

She  tiptoed  up  the  carpeted  stairs  to  her  mother's 
room.  Gently,  she  turned  the  knob — and  the  door 
creaked  open. 

In  the  twilight  and  miserable  stillness,  Helen  saw 
the  figure  across  the  bed.  Cynthia,  hearing  the 
creaking  door,  had  raised  up  on  her  elbow  and  now 
Helen  saw  her  tear-wet  face. 


"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  Charlie — "  Cynthia  said 
with  a  terrific  attempt  to  control  her  sobs. 
Helen  went  over  and  knelt  down  beside  the  bed. 
Cynthia,  trying  to  retrieve  some  of  her  usual  self- 
sufficiency  and  dignity,  sat  up  against  the  feather 
pillow.  She  looked  down  at  the  kneeling  girl,  forced 
a  smile  over  her  streaked  face. 

"You've  been  terribly  hurt,  haven't  you,  mother?" 
"Not  really  hurt,  dear  .  .  ."  the  set  smile  faded 
then.    "Humiliated  a  little." 

"But  you  were  crying,  Mother." 
"I've  often  cried,  dear,  but  I  was  never  caught  at 
it  before."    Then  sweetly,  "And  I  don't  want  you  to 
tattle,  either." 

"I  won't  .  .  ."  Helen  laughed.  Then  in  a  school- 
teacher manner,  she  added,  "That  is,  if  you  promise 
me  you  won't  cry  any  more." 

"I  won't  .  .  ."  Cynthia  reached  over  the  side  of 
the  bed  and  put  her  hand  under  her  daughter's  chin. 
"That  is,  if  you  promise  me  you'll  forget  all  this  stage 
talk  I've  been  hearing  lately." 

"Oh,  but  Mother!  That  isn't  fair.  You  wanted  me 
to  study  music,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes — if  you  could  reach  the  top — grand  opera,  I 
meant." 

Helen  moved  her  chin  from  her  mother's  hand 
then.  And  a  little  defiantly,  she  sat  back  on  the 
floor  and  looked  up. 

"I — I  might  make  a  success  without  singing — 
opera." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  talked  to  Professor  Damrosch 
about  you  yesterday." 

"You  did,  Mother?"  Helen  leaned  over.  "When 
you  were  so  awfully  busy — you  thought  about  do- 
ing that  for  me?    Oh,  Mother!    Thank  you!" 

A  little  eeibarrassed,  Cynthia  said,  "He  feels  you 
have  a  great  career  of  a  kind.  Of  course,  he  thinks 
you're  beautiful." 

"He  told  me  that—"  Then,  "But  what  about  my 
singing?" 

"Did  he  tell  you  to  be  afraid  of  your — beauty?" 
asked  Cynthia,  calmly. 

"Yes,  he  did  .  .  .  but  I'm  not."  Smiling,  "Because 
I  don't  think  I'm  beautiful." 

Cynthia  looked  into  her  daughter's  eyes. 

"Helen,  you're  going  to  find  yourself  very  attrac- 
tive to  men." 

Helen  refused  the  spell  of  her  mother's  serious 
mood.  She  threw  her  head  back  and  laughed,  say- 
ing, "I  won't  mind  that,  Mother.  I  really  don't  dis- 
like men." 

"Neither  do  I,  dear — if  he's  the  right  one." 

"I've  never  seen  anyone  I  thought  I  could  love — " 
Helen  looked  up  through  her  lashes  at  her  mother, 
"except — " 

"Except  whom?" 

"I  don't  even  know  his  name,  and  I'll  probably 
never  see  him  again.  So  you  see,  Mother — you  don't 
have  to  worry  about  me."  Helen's  words  ran  to- 
gether. She  was  aware  that  the  truth — not  know- 
ing his  name  or  that  she  probably  would  never  see 
him  again — dug  into  her  heart  just  a  little. 

"But  I  do  worry  about  you,"  her  mother  was  say- 
ing, sweetly.  "That's  why  I  want  you  to  forget  the 
theater — for  a  while." 

"Mother,  don't  mean  that.    Because — I  can't." 

"Can't,  Helen?     Or,  won't?"  Cynthia  asked. 

"Both,  Mother." 

The  figure  on  the  floor  sat  ever  straighter  then 
than  the  one  on  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"Suppose  I  should  make  my  request  a  command, 
Helen?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  disobey  you,  Mother." 

Cynthia  took  a  quick  breath  and  eyed  Helen 
sternly.  Helen  stared  right  back,  bravely  and  with 
equal  determination. 

A  STRANGE,  strong  current  flowed  between  them. 
It  seemed  to  take  their  entire  vocabularies  with  it. 
Then,  something  happened.  Something  struck  the 
house.  There  was  a  crash — glass  splintered.  An 
object  hurled  into  the  room,  just  missing  the  head 
of  the  bed.    It  fell  on  the  floor  beside  Helen — a  rock! 

Helen  got  up  and  ran  over  to  the  long  window, 
whose  broken  pane  let  in  the  noise  full  force.  Just 
then  another  rock  whirled  through  the  broken  pane. 
She  jumped  back  and  collided  with  Cynthia. 

"What  is  it  all  about,  Mother?" 

But  Cynthia's  pasty  face  told  her.  She  didn't  wait 
for  further  answer.  She  knew — even  before  the 
shouts  from  below  became  clearer. 

"Where's  the  woman  mayor?"  they  cried. 

"We  want  to  see  the  mayor!" 

Helen  tried  to  put  her  arms  around  Cynthia. 

But  Cynthia  did  not  go  into  Helen's  outstretched 
arms.    She  held  her  head  up,  squared  her  shoulders. 


And  in  some  way,  which  Helen  could  not  under- 
stand, her  mother  refused  the  only  solace  she  knew 
how  to  offer. 

Puzzled,  Helen  turned  away  and  went  back  to 
the  window,  careful  to  stand  to  the  side  of  the  cur- 
tains, so  that  the  crowd  below  would  not  see  her. 

The  street  was  filled  with  the  half -drunk,  boister- 
ous election  crowd.  Hoodlums  gathered  to  tell  off 
the  suffragette,  who  had  dared  to  think  she  could 
have  been  elected  to  office.  Their  cruel  shouts  de- 
cried everything  Cynthia  Leonard  had  ever  said 
about  equal  rights  for  women.  Cat-calls!  Snorts! 
Loud  lusty  songs  about  "Suffering  Cats." 

Helen  could  not  watch  the  street  longer,  for  look- 
ing at  the  set  misery  on  her  mother's  face.  She  now 
stood  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  window,  where  she 
listened  to  her  name  and  thwarted  ambition  ridi- 
culed. By  the  hysterical  mob — which  she  had  hoped 
to  rule! 

A  crash  overhead!  Shattered  glass  rained  over 
them.  A  brick  sailed  through  the  top  pane  of  the 
long  window,  cracked  into  the  bureau  mirror. 

Helen  screamed,  threw  her  arm  over  her  eyes  pro- 
tectingly. 

Then  she  realized  that  Cynthia  had  gone.  "Mother 
—where  are  you?"  she  cried. 

"I'm  going  down  to  speak  to  them,"  came  the  calm 
voice  from  the  doorway. 

"No,  Mother!"  Helen  ran  to  her.  "You  musn't! 
They — they  might — "  She  started  to  say  "hurt  you" 
but  stopped.    They  had  already  hurt  her. 

Cynthia  was  leaving  the  room,  as  though  she  did 
not  notice  Helen  trying  to  stop  her. 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,  Mother!" 

The  determined  figure  moved  swiftly  ahead. 

In  the  hall  downstairs,  the  rest  of  the  family  con- 
gregated. Their  faces,  strained  and  excited,  turned 
in  amazement  at  Cynthia,  hurrying  down  the  steps. 

Grandma  came  up  to  her  first,  but  was  brushed 
aside.  Then,  Charlie— seeing  the  set  look  on  his 
wife's  face,  said,  "Cynthia,  you  can't  go  out  there." 

"I'm  not  afraid,  Charlie,"  she  pushed  past  him. 

"They're  drunk,  dear,"  catching  her  arm.  "I'll 
send  them  away." 

But  before  he  could  open  the  door,  Helen  rushed 
up  beside  him. 

"Dad,  please.  You're  the  one  person  who  shouldn't 
go.  I  mean— you're  a  man— and  they  might  hurt 
you — and.  .  .  ." 

"Let  me  go,  I  tell  you!"  Cynthia  caught  the  knob 
of  the  door.  She  pulled  the  door  open  and  the  sud- 
den rush  of  noise  was  like  the  overflow  of  a  river. 
Its  force  left  all  of  them  stunned.    Even  Cynthia. 

Helen,  edging  in  between  her  father  and  mother 
leaned  against  the  closed  door. 

"Let  me  go,  Dad.    I'm  sure  they  won't  harm  me." 

She  pulled  the  door  open  a  little. 

"Helen!"  cried  Cynthia. 

Charlie  said,  "Please,  Cynthia — I  promise  you 
they'll  stop  for  her." 

HELEN  turned  quickly  and  pushed  out  through  a 
narrow  opening  of  the  door. 

There  was  a  hush.  It  came  almost  instantly — and 
Helen  looking  out  across  the  faces  from  her  stand 
on  the  top  step,  was  conscious  of  a  strange  power. 
Her  presence  had  done  something  to  that  crowd. 
Something!  She  wanted  to  speak,  wanted  to  tell 
them — ask  them,  even  plead  that  they  be  kind  to  her 
mother.  Make  them  understand,  but  what  was  there 
to  make  them  understand?  What?  What  could  she 
say?  She  opened  her  lips — but  no  sound  would 
come  from  her  throat.  Strange,  wide  eyes  stared 
back  at  her.  She  turned  her  head  from  side  to  side, 
searching  the  mob  for — for  some  face  which  seemed 
kind  .  .  .  some  kind  face  to  whom  she  could  talk. 

Then,  she  saw  it — out  there,  across  the  walk. 
There  stood  a  tall  man,  whose  dark  eyes  reached 
out  across  the  heads  of  the  others  and  seemed  to 
say,  "Say  something.   Tell  us  about  it." 

"My  mother  is  very  tired,"  Helen  said  softly  and 
distinctly.    "Do  you  mind — going  home?" 

Then  she  smiled. 

The  response  was  a  murmur — admiration. 

A  drunk  called  out,  "Why  don't  you  run  for  some- 
thing, lady?     I'd  vote  ten  times  for  you." 

Then  the  crowd  laughed.  Laughed  with  Helen 
and  started  to  sing.  Several  policemen  appeared, 
circulated  in  the  group  and  began  to  scatter  it. 

Helen  kept  standing  there,  looking  out  across  the 
walk,  where  a  solitary  figure  stood.  It  seemed  that 
he  was  just  realizing  that  Helen's  eyes  fastened  on 
him.  He  lifted  his  derby — because  just  then  he  re- 
alized that  he  had  seen  that  beautiful  girl  before. 

Moonlight  touched  the  soft  curves  of  Helen's  face 
as  she  smiled.    He  came  over  to  the  bottom  step, 


31 


still  holding  his  hat. 
"Do  you  remember  me?"  he  asked. 
"I  should,  don't  you  think?"    Then,  more  seriously, 
"What  are  you  doing  here?" 
"Oh,  I — I  just  happened  along  with  the  crowd." 
"This  is  the  second  time  you  happened  along  when 
I  was  in  trouble.     What's  your  name?" 
He  walked  up  the  steps,  then, 
"Alexander  Moore,"  he  said,  bowing  a  little. 
"I'm  glad  to  know  you,  Mr.  Moore.    And  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  again — "    She  sat  on  the  top  step,  then, 
saying,  "Won't  you  sit  down?" 
"I'd  like  to,  if  you  don't  mind." 
Suddenly   conscious   that  the   door  behind  them 
was  ajar,  they  looked  back  into  grandma's  face. 

"How-do,  young  man,"  she  said,  nodding.  "Glad 
to  see  you  again."  He  stood  and  bowed  shyly.  She 
smiled  and  gently  closed  the  door. 

Grandma,  Helen  thought,  understood.  She  would 
keep  the  family  quiet,  maybe  long  enough  for  her 
to  get  acquainted  with  Alexander  Moore. 

"You  were  sort  of  brave,  facing  that  crowd  all 
alone,"  he  said,  sitting  beside  Helen. 

"Oh,  I  knew  they  were  only  celebrating,"  she 
said.  "It  won't  do  them  any  good — the  women  will 
win  some  day."  Then,  seeing  his  smile,  she  added, 
"Do  you  believe  in  equal  rights  for  women?" 

"Well,  yes — I  guess  I  do — sort  of — " 

"What  do  you  mean  'sort  of  about  women's 
rights?"  Helen  asked. 

"I  think  a  woman  has  the  right  to  everything  a 
man  can  give  her,"  he  dropped  his  voice  and  looked 
into  her  misty  blue  eyes. 

"Don't  you  think  she's  also  entitled  to  her  own 
success?" 

"It  all  depends  on  what  she  calls  success." 

"What  do  you  call  it?"  she  asked. 

"Happiness." 

"Happiness  is  a  state  of  mind — but  it's  not  always 
success." 

Crossing  his  long  legs,  he  smiled  down  at  her  and 
asked,  "What  is  your  ambition?" 

"Well,  first  of  all,  I  want  everybody  to  love 
me  .  .  ."  Hesitating  there,  she  held  his  eyes,  and 
added,  as  if  her  words  were  expressly  said  for  him, 
"and  yet,  I  want  to  love  one  person  so  madly  that 
nobody  else  matters." 

His  eyes  pulled  from  hers,  then.  He  uncrossed 
his  legs  and  looked  away,  ignoring  any  opportunity 
for  himself  in  her  remark. 

"That's  selfish,  isn't  it?" 

"You  don't  understand.  I  want  everybody  to  love 
my  work — my  work  on  the  stage,  I  mean." 

Turning  to  her  quickly,  "Are  you  an  actress?" 

"I  hope  to  be,  some  day."  Smiling,  she  asked, 
"What's  your  ambition?" 

"A  job." 

"What  kind?" 

"Any  kind  right  now.  I'm  aiming  to  get  on  a 
New  York  paper."  It  was  easy  to  tell  her  about 
leaving  his  job  in  Pittsburgh,  because  he  wanted 
to  try  New  York. 

"Oh,  maybe  my  father  could  help  you.  He  used 
to  own  a  paper  in  Clinton,  Iowa,  that  is,  until  we 
moved  away."  But  she  didn't  want  to  tell  him 
about  how  disappointed  Dad  had  been  in  New  York 
— he'd  broken  his  heart,  almost. 

"That's  what  I  hope  to  do  myself  some  day — own 
a  paper." 

"I'll  bet  you  will,  too." 

"Thank  you.  But  if  I  don't,  I  won't  mind.  I  can 
always  go  back  home — although  I  wouldn't  like  to — 
I  don't  want  to  get  hurt  too  much  trying  here.  And 
that's  what  I'm  hoping  for  you,  too." 

Helen  drew  back,  puzzled.  Sometimes  she  felt 
she  had  known  him  always — then,  he  seemed 
stranger  than  anyone  she  had  ever  known.  They 
had  told  each  other  so  much,  sitting  there,  unafraid 
of  expressing  the  things  nearest  their  hearts.  What 
did  he  mean  about  getting  hurt? 

1  HE  door  behind  them  opened  just  as  she  started 
to  ask.     Grandma's  grey  head  poked  out. 

"Helen,  it's  very  late,  dear." 

"I'm  coming,  Grandma."  But  she  didn't  get  up 
then.  She  turned  to  him  again,  looking  at  the 
soft  curve  of  his  lips,  conscious  of  his  nearness,  feel- 
ing again  the  rush  of  warmth  through  her  body. 

His  mouth  softened  and  his  dark  eyes  were  like 
large,  spreading  ink  spots  near  her  own.  He  focused 
on  her  carefully,  as  if  he  could  look  down  into  her 
thoughts  and  know — and  know  that  she  wished  that 
he  would  kiss  her. 

She  was  glad  he  could  not  see  her  flush  or  the 
swift  mist  of  tears  in  her  eyes.  He  couldn't  know 
that  since  she  had  seen  him  that  first  day  she  had 


thought  of  him  long  and  often — longed  for  this  mo- 
ment .  .  .  when  he  might  hold  her  again — kiss  her. 
"Don't  go  yet,"  he  said —  "I  mean,  until  you  tell 
me  your  name.    What  is  your  name — beautiful?" 

Helen  sighed,  "Helen  .  .  .  Helen  Leonard." 

They  rose,  then,  from  the  step,  almost  as  one. 
His  eyes  met  hers  without  self-consciousness. 

She  put  her  hand  in  his  and  he  held  it,  his  fingers 
wrapping  her  palm  were  strong  and  warm. 

"I  guess  we'll  have  to  say  good  night,"  Helen  said, 
almost  whispered.     "I — I  hope  you  find  your  job." 

His  fingers  pressed  closer. 

"When  I  do,  may  I  come  around  and  tell  you?" 

The  grip  of  his  clasp  made  her  quiver.  Her  eyes 
touched  his  forehead,  broad  and  white  in  the  moon- 
light, caressed  his  unruly,  black  hair. 

"Do,  please,  come  tell  me  .  .  .  and,"  brightening 
with  an  idea,  "let's  make  a  pact.  If  you  get  on  a 
newspaper  before  I  get  on  the  stage — you  take  me 
out  and  we'll  celebrate." 

"But  what  if  you  get  on  the  stage  before  I  get  on 
a  paper?" 

"I'll  take  you  out!    Isn't  that  fair?"  she  smiled. 

"Well,  not  exactly.  A  girl  can't  very  well  take 
a  fellow  out." 

"Why?    I  thought  you  believed  in  equal  rights." 

"Well,  I  do — but  that  doesn't  sound  right.  How- 
ever, it's  a  deal — but  I'm  going  to  do  my  best  to  beat 
you  to  a  job." 

Relinquishing  her  hand,  she  backed  against  the 
door — heady  from  his  touch,  "I  hope  you  do — but, 
if  you  don't — remember,  I'll  expect  you  to  keep  our 
pact  just  the  same." 

He  stepped  toward  her,  leaned  down,  held  her 
eyes.    The  current  shot  down  through  her  body. 

This  man  wanted  to  kiss  her.  She  knew  it,  felt  it. 
Somehow,  she  raised  her  hands  and  then  let  them 
float  down  to  her  sides  in  a  surrender,  which  per- 
haps frightened  him,  even  more  than  it  did  her. 

He  heard  her  sigh,  looked  deeply  into  her  eyes, 
bright  with  emotion. 

"Good  night  .  .  .  Helen." 

Then  she  saw  him  turn  from  her  and  walk  down 
the  steps,  heard  his  heels  echo  fastly  up  Ninth.  Lis- 
tening until  they  were  lost  in  the  sound  of  the 
orchestra  from  the  garden  next  door,  she  finally  let 
herself  into  the  house. 

Closing  the  door  behind  her  she  looked  right  into 
grandma's  eyes. 

Helen  met  her  knowing  look  and  could  not  control 
the  bright  flush. 

"Oh  .  .  ."  Grandma  nodded  wisely,  knowingly, 
and  shared  Helen's  smile. 

PART  II 

ELEN  chose  the  noon  sunshine  in  which  to 

^^^J  dry  her  heavy  golden  hair.    She  was  too 

blissful    to    be    indoors    and,    besides,    she 

could  practice  her  scales  out  in  the  bright 

'  air  of  the  backyard  while  the  wind  dried 

her  hair.     She  was  even  more  pleased  when  her 

father  came  out  and  became  her  audience. 

With  her  hair  blowing,  she  stood  near  the  fence, 
which  separated  the  Leonard's  plot  of  yard  from 
Mrs.  Rose's  garden  next  door.  With  her  heart  so 
full  of  memories  from  last  night,  she  could  reach 
the  very  highest  note  she  aimed  for.  Then  she 
even  sang  through  "The  Band  Plays  On,"  giving  it 
every  rich,  full  note  in  her  throat. 

Her  rich,  warm  voice  lifted  over  the  fence — to 
where  a  small,  squarish  man  wound  spaghetti  to  his 
mouth.  The  singing  made  him  lay  his  fork  aside. 
His  dark  Latin  eyes  sparkled. 

Looking  up  at  the  stout  Rose,  who  stood  waiting 
with  her  arms  akimbo,  Tony  Pastor  nodded.  The 
movement  of  his  grey  head  was  most  expressive — 
the  way  he  nodded  when  spaghetti  was  flavorful. 

"You  were  right,  Rosa — her  voice  is  as  magnifi- 
cent as  your  spaghetti.    Who  is  she?" 

"Helen  Leonard — daughter  of  the  suffragette,  you 
know.  But  the  daughter,  she  is  all  right.  Believe 
me,  Tony — she  is  beautiful." 

"If  she  is  half  as  beautiful  as  her  voice,  Rosa — " 

"Come,  I  show  you — here,  stand  on  the  chair." 

Grabbing  a  chair,  she  held  it  steadily  while  the 
little  man  stood  and  looked  over  the  fence. 

He  saw  Charlie  Leonard,  sitting  on  the  back  steps, 
applauding,  crying  "Bravo!  Bravo!"  While  a  tall 
girl,  with  golden  hair,  smiled  and  bowed. 

"That's  her  father,"  Mrs.  Rose  explained.  "They 
play  theater  like  that  lots  of  sunny  days.  Maybe 
we  could  go  over,  yes?" 

"Yes!"  Tony  climbed  down  from  the  chair. 

"There's  a  gate — this  way." 

Helen,  in  the  bright  shadows,  not  unconscious  of 


the  picture  she  made,  greeted  Mrs.  Rose  gayly. 

"Pardon,"  Tony  Pastor  bowed,  when  he  had  been 
introduced  to  the  Leonards.  "I  did  not  mean  to  in- 
trude, but  I  could  not  resist  the  sound  of  your  voice 
— nor  the  praise  of  your  neighbor  Mrs.  Rose,  in 
whose  garden  I  have  been  dining." 

"Are  you — you're  not  Tony  Pastor's  Theater  on 
Fourteenth  Street?"  Helen  asked. 

"I  am  not  the  theater — but  it  belongs  to  me,"  smil- 
ing at  her.  "And  that  is  where  I  should  like  to  see 
you — at  noon  tomorrow — if  you  are  interested  in 
going  on  the  stage." 

"Interested?"  Charlie  said.  "As  this  young  lady's 
one  and  only  audience,  I'm  in  a  position  to  tell  you, 
sir,  she  is  a  star!" 

"Dad — please,"  Helen  gasped. 

Smiling,  Tony  said,  "Tomorrow  at  noon,  yes?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I'll  be  there,"  Helen  answered.  "Mr. 
Pastor — "  she  called  as  he  turned  back  through  the 
gate,  "thank  you  so  much." 

AFTER  what  seemed  full  minutes,  at  best,  enough 
time  for  a  girl  to  wake  thoroughly  from  a  dream, 
Helen  turned  to  Charlie. 

"Dad,  do  you  think  that  really  was  Tony  Pastor? 
Because  he's  the  biggest  producer  in  New  York." 

"I  know  it  is.  I've  seen  his  picture  enough  to 
know — he's  the  one  Nat  Goodwin  works  for — and 
May  Irwin  and  Pete  Daily.  All  the  big  stars.  And 
when  you're  a  hit  at  Tony  Pastor's — you're  a  star 
from  then  on." 

Helen  came  over  to  the  steps  and  sat  down  beside 
her  father. 

"Then,  do  you  think  I  should  really  go  there  to- 
morrow?" 

"Don't  you  want  to  be  a  star?"  Charlie  smiled. 

"More  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  Dad — " 

"Well?" 

"Mother.    She  doesn't  want  me  to  go  on  the  stage." 

"I  know.  .  .  ." 

"It's  because  she's  afraid  I  won't  be  happy — or 
maybe  she's  afraid  I  won't  be  a  success." 

"Nonsense!  You'll  be  a  success  in  whatever  you 
do,  Helen,  because  you're  all  woman.  And  there's 
nothing  finer  than  that!" 

Helen  gave  his  cheek  a  grateful  pat. 

"That's  where  your  mother's  suffragettes  are  all 
wrong — they're  still  going  to  get  equal  rights  ulti- 
mately, and  the  chance  to  act  like  men — maybe — 
but  they're  going  to  lose  a  lot  of  femininity.  And 
when  they  do,  they're  going  to  lose  more  power  than 
they'll  get  back  by  voting."  Then,  with  a  sly  grin, 
"However,  you  needn't  tell  your  mother  I  said  that." 

YT  HEN  Helen  went  to  Tony  Pastor's  the  following 
noon,  she  wore  her  hair  in  a  single  braid,  tied  with 
a  huge  blue  bow.  Her  dress  was  a  paler  blue  taffeta, 
with  an  elegant  bustle  and  a  deep  flounce.  Her 
wide-brimmed  dark  hat,  with  the  added  bouquet  of 
bright  pink  roses,  was,  indeed  a  frame  for  her 
peaches-and-cream  face. 

Helen  was  eighteen  when  she  walked  out  on  the 
stage,  with  her  golden  hair  shining,  and  held  up  head 
to  sing.  The  theater  was  empty  except  for  the 
orchestra  and  its  leader,  Edward  Solomon  (they 
called  him  Teddy),  a  tall,  dark  man  with  a  thin, 
intense  face.  It  was  to  his  interested  face,  to  his 
kindly  eyes  that  Helen  sang  "Evening  Star." 

The  shirt-sleeved  musicians  down  in  the  orchestra 
pit,  the  stagehands  and  the  partly- dressed  perform- 
ers, hearing  her  voice,  came  from  their  dressing 
rooms  just  to  listen. 

An  audition  was  not  unusual  in  Tony  Pastor's 
where  auditions  happened  every  day — but  they 
didn't  happen  like  this  one! 

And  as  she  sang,  Tony  Pastor  himself,  standing  in 
the  aisle  of  the  semidark  auditorium,  smiled  as  he 
watched  the  reaction  of  the  stagehands  and  per- 
formers. He  also  watched  Edward  Solomon's  eyes 
follow  Helen. 

When  she  neared  the  end  of  her  song,  Tony  turned 
and  walked  up  the  aisle,  went  to  his  office.  He 
stood  there,  listening  to  the  wild  outburst  of  ap- 
plause and  shouts  of  praise. 

"Helen  Leonard,"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "That's 
no  name  for  an  actress.  I've  got  to  think  of  some- 
thing better." 

Going  into  his  office,  Mose,  a  colored  man  who  had 
served  Tony  for  many  years,  came  over  and  poured 
him  a  glass  of  claret. 

"Mose,  what  is  your  favorite  flower?" 

"My  flower — the  one  I  like  best  is  a  lily,  boss." 

"Lily? — Lillian  .  .  .  that  would  be  good  .  .  ."  Tony 
mused.  "I  never  saw  Edward  Solomon  listen  like 
that  before — Lillian  made  him  listen." 

A  knock  sounded  on  the  office  door.    That  would 


32 


be  Helen  Leonard.  He  had  left  word  for  her  to  come 
to  his  office  when  she  finished  that  number. 

"Come  in." 

Helen  walked  into  his  office.  Beside  her  was  Solo- 
mon— with  the  expression  of  one  who  has  prostrated 
himself  before  beauty.  She  stood  by  Pastor's  desk, 
waiting,  taking  in  the  ornate  walls  of  pictured 
celebrities  while  Solomon  drank  in  the  sight  of  her. 
His  ears  still  filled  with  her  sound.  She  fidgeted, 
wondering  why  Pastor  did  not  say  something  to  her. 
But  Tony  was  writing  on  a  piece  of  paper  and  did 
not  look  up  until,  apparently,  he  had  finished. 
Then  Solomon  quietly  left  them. 

"Helen  Leonard,"  Pastor  said.  Glancing  up,  "I 
don't  like  your  name."  Crumpling  the  paper  under 
his  hand,  he  threw  it  into  the  waste  basket. 

"You  will  open  at  my  theater  a  week  from  Mon- 
day— and  to  begin  with,  I  will  pay  you  twenty-five 
dollars  a  week.    All  right?" 

"Oh,  yes — Mr.  Pastor." 

"But  I  don't  like  your  name.  I  don't  like  Helen. 
I  detest  Leonard.    What  is  your  mother's  name?" 

"Cynthia." 

"Oh,"  he  said.    "We  can't  use  that,  either." 

"No — I  can't  use  her  name,  because  she  doesn't 
want  me  to  go  on  the  stage." 

"Doesn't  she  know  you  came  here  today?" 

"No— I  didn't  tell  her,"  Helen  took  a  step  nearer 
the  desk,  smiling  rather  childishly  because  a  naive 
thought  has  struck  her.  "And  if  you  change  my 
name  I  won't  even  have  to  tell  her  when  I  sing  in 
your  theater,  will  I?" 

Intrigued  by  the  secret  partnership,  Tony  said, 
"No,  not  unless  you  want  to."  Then,  to  himself, 
"What  shall  we  say  the  name  is?" 

Helen  sat  in  the  chair  beside  the  desk  and  the  old 
Negro  limped  in  again,  placing  a  glass  of  claret  by 
his  master. 

"Lily,  Mr.  Pastor.  I  sho'  likes  that  flow'r  the 
bestest,"  he  said,  shuffling  out. 

"Lily— Lillian  .  .  .  Yes,  I  like  that.  Lillian  what?" 
Tony  Pastor  mused  aloud.  Then  suddenly,  "I  have 
it!  I  can  see  it  as  plainly  as  if  some  mysterious 
hand  were  writing  it  for  me  .  .  ."  then,  as  he  writes, 
he  murmurs,  as  if  to  himself,  "Tony  Pastor  Pre- 
sents .  .  ."  Then,  aside  to  Helen,  "And  this  will 
fool  your  mother  completely."  Writing  more,  he 
read  from  the  paper,  "the  great  English  ballad 
singer  .  .  .  Lillian  Russell!"  Smiling,  he  said, 
"From  now  on,  my  dear — that  is  your  name!  And 
something  tells  me  it  will  be  an  important  name. 
Don't  you  like  Lillian  Russell,  my  dear?" 

"Yes — yes,  of  course,  I  do!  But  somehow  I  already 
feel  lonesome  for  Helen  Leonard."  Helen  couldn't 
keep  the  tears  from  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  She 
was  proud  and  happy  .  .  .  yet  she  had  to  cry  while 
she  laughed. 

THE  week  before  Helen  opened  at  Tony  Pastor's 
was  filled  with  music  lessons  and  costume  fittings. 
It  wasn't  hard  to  keep  her  secret  from  Cynthia  and 
her  sisters.  Of  course,  grandma  knew,  and  dad,  and 
how  proud  they  were,  too! 

"Lillian  Russell!  The  English  ballad  singer" 
spread  on  billboards  over  town.  Finally  Monday 
night  arrived.  Finally  Helen  — that  is,  Lillian- 
squeezed  into  whalebones  and  petticoats — four  to  be 
exact — and  then  into  the  flounced  and  laced  dress. 
It  was  cut  extremely  low  about  the  neck — to  reveal 
her  shoulders  and  the  tops  of  her  high,  firm  breasts. 
Even  the  six  ropes  of  imitation  pearls  did  not  hide 
the  deep  curves.  Her  heavy  braid,  tied  with  a  large 
blue  bow,  hung  over  one  bare  shoulder.  Her  white 
hat,  the  largest  she  had  ever  seen,  was  pompadoured 
with  white  and  blue  ostrich  plumes,  tilted  daringly 
back  on  her  head.  It  made  a  frame  for  the  mass  of 
yellow  curls  about  her  forehead.  An  elaborate  cos- 
tume, designed  to  bring  out  the  best  and  most 
feminine  qualities  of  a  most  feminine  figure. 

She  heard  the  music  as  it  reached  back  to  the 
dressing  room.  Grandma,  sitting  by  her  at  the  wide 
mirror,  met  her  eyes  in  the  mirror. 

"You're  going  to  be  all  right,  Honey,  and  remem- 
ber, if  you  get  excited  and  you  can't  sing  or  some- 
thing, just  look  around  until  you  find  a  kind  face 
and  sing  to  that." 

"Oh,  Grandma,  I  will!  I  always  do.  Even  from 
that  first  day  in  Professor  Damrosch's  studio — it  was 
your  face  I — " 

"I  knew  it!  And  the  night  you  talked  to  the  crowd 
on  the  steps  at  home.  Didn't  you  really  talk  when 
you  saw  him  standing  there,  kind  of  pulling  for 
you  to  say  something?" 

Helen  sighed.  "Grandma,  you're  so  right.  How 
I  love  you." 

The  music!    That  was  her  piece.    The  time  had  ar- 


rived. She  had  to  go  out  there  and  sing.  She  must. 
The  stage  was  bright — bright  as  the  noon  sunshine 
had  been  the  day  she  met  Tony  Pastor.  She  thought 
of  that  even  looking  out  over  the  sea  of  upturned 
faces.  She  closed  her  eyes,  opened  her  lips.  She 
must  sing,  but  she  couldn't.    She  was  afraid  until — 

"Lillian,  Lillian."  Looking  down,  she  saw  the 
kind  intense  eyes  of  Edward  Solomon.  His  arms 
were  lifted,  his  long-fingered  hands  turned  up  to 
her  from  the  orchestra  pit. 

THE  music  Teddy  Solomon  loved  was  playing, 
softly,  softly  for  Lillian,  and  during  that  strange 
second  something  happened  between  the  girl  on  the 
stage  and  the  leader  in  the  orchestra  pit.  It  was  close 
to  magic,  because  Lillian  Russell's  song  that  night 
made  her  "an  overnight  success." 

Applause!  Shouts!  More  applause!  Somehow, 
Lillian  made  her  way  back  to  the  dressing  room. 
Somehow.  She  never  quite  remembered  but  there 
she  was,  her  head  on  grandma's  shoulder  and  her 
heart  out  there  where  they  were  still  cheering  and 
shouting,  "Lillian  Russell,  Lillian  Russell!" 

A  knock  at  the  door.  Grandma  opened  it.  "For 
Miss  Russell.  For  Miss  Russell."  Flowers  in  great 
white  boxes,  tied  with  ribbons.  "For  Miss  Russell. 
For  Miss  Russell."  Lillian  started  untying  the  boxes 
until  the  room  was  so  crowded  she  gave  up.  "We'll 
just  take  the  cards,  Grandma.  And,  Grandma,  will 
you  help  me  find  the  card  with  his  name  on  it? 
You  know,  Alexander  Moore." 

Outside  the  dressing-room  door,  she  heard  the 
crowd  calling  her.  She  heard  someone  say,  "Only 
one  night  on  the  stage  and  she  is  already  a  star!" 


"LJIy— Lillian  .  .  .  Yes,  I  like  that.  Lillian 
what?"  Pastor  mused.  Then  suddenly  .  .  .  "The 
English  ballad  singer  .  .  .  Lillian   Russell" 


"Grandma,"  Helen  sat  unpinning  her  great  hat, 
"Grandma,  he  didn't  come,  I  guess,  and  he  didn't 
send  me  even  a  flower." 

The  room  filled  with  flowers,  now,  was  centered 
with  a  huge  basket  of  roses.  The  stage  doorman 
himself  had  brought  that  in.  "Oh,  Grandma,  aren't 
they  wonderful,  those  roses?  Only  I  thought  he  sent 
me  those.  Grandma,  I  hope  he  did  but  there's  no 
card  to  tell  us." 

The  girl  walked  over  and  examined  the  basket. 

"I  received  a  valuable  gift  once,  right  after  I  mar- 
ried your  grandfather,  and  if  I  had  known  who  it 
was  from,  out  of  respect  for  your  grandfather,  I 
would  have  sent  it  back." 

"Didn't  you  suspect  anyone?" 

"Yes,  but  your  grandfather  didn't  so  I  kept  it. 
Years  and  years  later,  at  our  golden  wedding,  I  told 
him  all  about  it.  The  joke  was  on  me  because  he 
had  sent  the  present  and  had  been  waiting  fifty 
years  for  me  to  thank  him  for  it." 

Suddenly,  Lillian  reached  into  the  flower  basket, 
and  brought  out  a  small,  square  box.  With  trem- 
bling fingers  she  opened  it.  "Grandma,  grandma, 
look!  Diamonds!  Diamonds  and  rubies.  Isn't  it 
beautiful?" 

Sitting  before  the  mirror,  Lillian  fastened  the 
necklace  about  her  throat.  "Oh,  now  I  hope  you 
don't  find  a  card — because  if  you  do  I'll  have  to 
send  this  back,  won't  I?" 

"Look,"  grandma  said,  "a  bracelet  to  match!" 

Lillian  took  the  bracelet  and  still  she  said,  "No 
card,  grandma?" 

"No  card.    Whoever  sent  them  must  be  a  million- 


"But  if  I  don't  know  who  sent  them,  I  can't  send 
them  back,"  Helen  said  thoughtfully. 

Lillian  studied  the  bright  stoned  bracelet.  "I  won- 
der who  he  is."  Turning  to  grandma,  "You  don't 
mean  a  fat,  old  millionaire?" 

"That  is  the  sad  part  of  millionaires,  dear.  They're 
generally  old  and  fat." 

"He — he  isn't  old.  He's  just  right,  but  he  forgot" 
Lillian  placed  her  hand  to  her  breast,  trying  to 
touch  the  ache.  Her  rich,  romantic  lips  parted  in  a 
sigh.  Why  did  she  have  to  betray  herself,  even  to 
herself? 

LILLIAN  went  about  taking  off  her  bouffant  gown, 
in  a  peculiar  state  of  misery — more  than  grief.  She 
was  striving  through  it  all  to  see  reason.  Wasn't 
her  love  for  this  man,  this  Alexander  Moore,  ill- 
judged?  Wasn't  it,  she  asked  her  tearful  reflec- 
tion in  the  mirror,  just  a  passing  fancy?  Surely 
real  love  wouldn't  make  you  feel  like  this — when 
you  should  be  your  happiest,  of  your  whole  life! 

Just  then  a  knock  on  her  door. 

"May  I  come  in?" 

"It's  Mr.  Pastor,"  grandma  said,  from  the  door,  as 
Lillian  hooked  up  her  dress. 

"Yes,  come  in,  Mr.  Pastor." 

Tony  Pastor  stood  in  the  doorway,  his  small  face 
stamped  with  appreciation.  "Well,  you  were  suc- 
cessful tonight,  my  dear.  How  does  it  feel  to  be  a 
success  or  are  you  afraid  of  it?" 

"I — I  love  it,  Mr.  Pastor."  Lillian  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  tall  and  elegant,  feeling  in  that 
second  more  adult  than  ever  before  in  her  life. 

A  little  later,  when  Tony  Pastor  sat  between 
Lillian  and  her  grandmother,  as  they  drove  to  Ninth 
Street,  Tony  said,  "A  funny  thing  happened  tonight, 
Lillian.  It  made  me  remember  when  I  first  saw 
you — the  day  the  horses  ran  away  with  you  and 
your  grandmother,  in  front  of  the  theater." 

"You  saw  us?"  Lillian  asked. 

"Yes,  but  I  remembered  best  that  young  man, 
Alexander  Moore,  who  stopped  the  horses.  I  saw 
him  tonight.  He  was  at  the  theater,  and  when  we 
came  out  the  stage  door  he  was  standing  there  again, 
watching  you.  He  probably  fancies  himself  in  love 
with  you,"  Pastor  laughed. 

Lillian's  hands  clenched  each  other  in  their  long, 
white  gloves.  It  was  all  she  could  do  to  keep  from 
saying,  "Probably — not!    He  didn't  keep  our  pact." 

Later,  in  Lillian's  room,  she  and  grandma  looked 
at  the  necklace  and  bracelet. 

"Whoever  sent  them  must  be  very  much  in  love 
with  you,"  grandma  said.  "Either  that  or  they  are 
a  very  expensive  insult." 

Lillian  pushed  the  jewelry  into  her  bureau 
drawer.  "You  see,  Grandma,  he  knew  I  got  a  job, 
yet  he  deliberately  broke  our  pact."  Fixing  her 
misty  eyes  on  the  mirror,  Lillian  said,  with  a  toss 
of  her  head,  "Very  well,  I'll  forget  him." 

"That  may  be  easier  said  than  done,  dear.  You 
fell  in  love  with  that  young  man,  but  maybe  it  wasn't 
real.  When  it's  real,  the  young  man  will  feel  about 
you  as  that  musician,  Edward  Solomon,  feels.  I 
watched  him  tonight  as  he  played  for  you—" 

"Do  you  think  Teddy  really  likes  me?  I  think  it's 
just  his  music,  Grandma.    He  loves  music." 

Teddy  Solomon  did  love  music  but  he  loved  it  best 
when  accompanying  Lillian's  high  sweet  voice. 
During  the  month  which  followed  Lillian  Russell's 
debut,  he  worshipped  her  from  his  orchestra  pit 
every  performance.  Lillian  no  longer  was  afraid. 
She  could  look  out  over  the  audience  and  sing  now, 
but  always  she  sang  knowing  that  the  dark,  intense 
eyes  of  Solomon  were  on  her. 

One  night  after  the  performance,  as  Lillian  started 
out  to  her  carriage,  Solomon  stepped  up  to  her.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  to  her  out  of 
the  theater. 

"Miss  Russell— Lillian — some  day  I  am  going  to 
compose  an  opera  for  you.  Your  voice  belongs  to 
my  opera.  Your  voice — and  my  music  belong  to- 
gether." Lillian  smiled:  "Thank  you,  Teddy."  She 
was  to  remember  his  words  many  times  later— 
throughout  her  life. 

In  the  dressing  room  one  night  grandma  sat  beside 
Lillian,  with  a  forefinger  raised  for  attention. 

"Now,  look  here,  young  lady,  you  are  a  big  star 
now.  It's  high  time  you  took  the  bull  by  the  horns 
and  told  your  mother  that  you  are  on  the  stage,  that 
you  are  Lillian  Russell." 

"She  still  thinks  I  take  my  music  lessons  every 
night.  I  told  her  Mr.  Damrosch  couldn't  give  me  a:>: 
other  time.  I'll  never  give  it  up,  Grandma,  neve* 
give  up  the  stage." 

"You  can't,  my  dear.  That's  probably  the  reason 
Cynthia  is  afraid  of  it    You  can't  give  it  up,  even 


33 


when  you  yourself  grow  tired  you'll  still  go  on." 

Tony  Pastor  came  in,  saying  in  his  gay  voice: 

"This  was  delivered  to  my  office  early  today."  He 
held  a  square,  white  box.  Handing  it  to  Lillian,  "I 
don't  suppose  it's  from  that  young  man  who  stopped 
your  horses  that  day."  Laughing  he  added,  "He  was 
here  tonight  again." 

"Did  he  ask  for  me?"  Lillian  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  left  before  the  show 
was  over.    Well,  good  night,  my  dear." 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Pastor." 

"And  another  thing,"  said  grandma,  "you  get  him 
right  out  of  your  mind,  that  Alexander  Moore,  and— 
Well,  aren't  you  going  to  open  that  package  that  Mr. 
Pastor  brought?" 

Sitting  at  her  dressing-table  chair  again,  Lillian 
opened  the  box  and  there  was  another  necklace,  this 
one  of  emeralds  and  diamonds.  "I  wish  I  knew  who 
sent  this.  Maybe  I'd  like  him,  Grandma,  even  if  he's 
old  and  fat."  Clasping  the  necklace  about  her  throat 
Lillian  leaned  close  to  the  mirror  to  stare  at  the 
jewelry.    "Even  if  he  is  old  and  fat." 

"No,  dear,  if  you  knew  you'd  have  to  send  them 
back,"  grandma  cautioned. 

Helen  sighed  in  agreement. 

At  home  that  night  Lillian  lay  on  her  bed  with  the 
moonlight  streaming  through  the  tall  windows,  her 
hair  spread  over  the  great  feather  pillow,  and  fasci- 
nated she  fondled  the  sparkling  necklace,  which  she 
still  wore  and  listened  to  the  orchestra  from  Mrs. 
Rose's,  playing  "Evening  Star." 

Suddenly,  as  from  a  draft,  the  lace  curtains  blew 
out  wildly  across  her  bed.  The  door  to  her  bedroom 
had  opened,  and  Cynthia  was  walking  across  the 
room.  Cynthia  had  a  robe  over  her  gown.  Her 
hair  hung  in  two  grey  braids  over  her  shoulders. 
How  much  older  her  mother  looked,  Lillian  thought. 
Perhaps  it  was  her  hair,  drawn  back  plainly  like 
that.    Perhaps  because  she  was  tired. 

Sitting  on  the  bed  beside  Lillian,  Cynthia  said, 
"You  need  not  pretend  you're  asleep.  I  know  you're 
not." 

"You  weren't  in  when  I  came  home,  Mother." 

"I  know.    Your  father  told  me  you  asked  for  me." 

Lillian  pulled  the  sheet  up  around  her  neck.  Per- 
haps Cynthia  hadn't  seen  the  necklace.  "You're 
tired,  aren't  you,  Mother?" 

"Rather,"  Cynthia  said. 

"Why  don't  you  give  it  all  up,  Mother,  your 
work,  I  mean?  It  really  doesn't  make  much  differ- 
ence whether  women  ever  vote  or  not,  does  it? 
There  are  other  ways  for  a  woman  to  get  what  she 
wants  out  of  life,  aren't  there?" 

"It  all  depends  on  what  she  wants.  There  isn't 
much  to  independence  when  you  have  to  depend 
on  someone  else  for  it."  Cynthia  sighed.  "Did  you 
take  your  lesson  tonight,  dear?" 

"Yes — yes,  I  did,  Mother.  And  Mr.  Damrosch 
thinks  I'm  improving,  I  think." 

"Has  he  said  so?" 

"Yes,  I  think  I'm  doing  rather  well  and  grandma 
thinks  so,  too." 

Cynthia  looked  strangely  at  her  daughter  who 
dropped  her  eyes.  "Helen,"  Cynthia  said,  and  then 
to  the  face  smiling  on  the  pillow,  "yes,  it's  true. 
You  do  look  like  Lillian  Russell." 

"Have  you  seen  her,  Mother?" 

"Almost  every  night  from  the  gallery,  and  you're 
wonderful,  dear.    Yes,  wonderful." 

"Oh,  Mother." 

"I  am  so  proud  of  you,  dear."  Lillian,  forgetting 
all  else,  crept  into  her  mother's  arms.  It  was  good  to 
be  back  with  Cynthia  again. 

Then  Cynthia,  holding  her  at  arm's  length  saw  the 
glittering  jewelry.  "Who  gave  you  that?"  Cynthia 
asked,  astonished,  touching  the  necklace  as  though 
she  half  believed  the  moonlight  had  tricked  her  eyes. 

Smiling  through  tear-filled  eyes,  Lillian  said 
simply,  "I  don't  know,  Mother.  I  got  it  at  the  theater 
—and  another  necklace,  too.  There  wasn't  a  note  or 
a  card  or  anything." 

lO  Cynthia's  still -questioning  stare,  Lillian  strug- 
gled to  explain  further.  "I  couldn't  send  them  back 
when  I  didn't  know  who  sent  them  or  where  they 
came  from.    Could  I?" 

Cynthia  did  not  answer  immediately.  Lillian,  un- 
easy and  confused  a  little  by  her  mother's  expres- 
sion of  astonishment,  cried,  "Well,  could  I,  Mother?" 

Cynthia  had  helped  crystallize  the  concern  she  had 
felt  about  the  expensive  gifts  from  the  very  first.  It 
was  too  hard  to  attempt  to  explain  how  she  really 
felt — that  in  her  own  confused  way  she  had  tried  to 
believe  that  since  she  could  not  have  the  spiritual 
prize  she  longed  for — she  had  tried  to  believe  that 


the  material  prizes  compensated.  If  she  could  not 
have  Alex  Moore's  praise — and,  oh,  she  would  have 
rather  had  it  than  all  the  jewelry  in  the  world! — she 
could  hide  the  ache  in  her  heart  behind  the  sparkle 
of  someone  else's  approval  and  admiration. 

But  now  Lillian  knew  that  it  was  wrong  for  a 
girl  to  accept  expensive  gifts.  And  down  deep  she 
had  worried  about  her  possessions. 

"I  suppose  I  was  wrong  to  keep  them,"  at  last  she 
told  Cynthia.  "What  do  you  think  I  should  do, 
Mother?" 

Cynthia's  stern  face  softened.  It  was  good  to  feel 
that  her  child  leaned  on  her  for  guidance,  sought 
her  judgment  now. 

"I  think  that  whoever  sent  them  to  you  did  so  be- 
cause he  wanted  you  to  have  them,  because  your 
wearing  them  would  give  him  pleasure — and,  too, 
because  it  seems  to  be  customary  to  offer  gifts  to 
famous  actresses." 

"Then,  you  think  I  should  not  worry  anymore — 
just  keep  them?"  She  asked,  fascinated  by  the 
touch  of  the  necklace. 

"Until  you  leam  who  the  giver  is  I  see  no  harm 
in  your  wearing  the  jewelry,  if  you  like  it.  Later, 
perhaps,  when  you  know  who  sent  it  you  may  con- 
sider it  wiser  to  return  it." 

Cynthia  hugged  the  grateful  laughing  Lillian  to 
her. 

"Mother?"  the  girl  asked.  "I  will  be  a  success. 
I'm  determined  to  be.  I  want  it — so  much!  You 
do  think  I  can  be  what  you  said — a  famous  actress? 
If  I  want  to  hard  enough?" 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  taking  the  girl's  hand.  "Good 
night,  darling."  Cynthia  leaned  over  and  kissed 
her  daughter's  forehead. 

"You're  not  angry  because  I've  gone  on  the  stage, 
are  you,  Mother?" 

"No,  dear.  We're  going  to  miss  you  though— 
Helen." 

"But,  Mother,  I'm  not  leaving  you." 

"Yes,  you  are,  dear,"  with  a  sad  smile.  "And 
you'll  probably  miss  us,  too — but  life  has  a  cruel 
habit  of  absorbing  those  it  gives  success  to,  and  I 
hate  to  give  you  up." 

"I'll  never  leave  you,  Mother,  never." 

"You've  already  left  yourself,  dear.  You're  Lil- 
lian Russell  now — and  some  day  you'll  forget  you 
ever  knew  Helen  Leonard." 

"No,  Mother.   I'd  rather  forget  Lillian  Russell." 

"You  can't  forget  her  now.  Her  name  is  in  lights, 
in  the  newspapers  and  on  thousands  of  lips." 

"But,  Mother — "  Lillian's  eyes  misted  and  her 
throat  closed  with  tears. 

"Millions  of  new  faces  will  soon  take  the  place  of 
the  few  old  ones  left  behind.  Men  will  offer  fortunes 
just  to  stand  in  the  shadow  of  her  glamorous  career. 
Women  will  envy  but  copy  her  and  even — even  kings 
may  applaud  Lillian  Russell." 

Cynthia  spoke  her  lines,  giving  each  word  ora- 
torical emphasis  but  that  was  one  time  Cynthia 
Leonard  failed  to  sway  her  listener,  as  perhaps  she 
had  planned.  Lillian  looked  from  the  intent,  wor- 
ried face  out  into  the  moonlight.  A  smile  spread 
over  her  features.  She  seemed  to  visualize  her 
mother's  words. 

"Oh,  Mother,  do  you  really  think  I'll  be  that  suc- 
cessful?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  will,  dear." 

As  Lillian  lay  there,  smiling,  Cynthia  gently  kissed 
her  and  added  sadly,  "Good  night." 

Lillian  knew  her  mother  had  not  expected  her  to 
react  so  pleasantly  to  the  career  she  had  described. 
She  knew  it  the  second  the  click  of  her  door  said 
Cynthia  had  gone  to  her  own  room.  She  started  to 
follow.  Then  "Evening  Star"  blew  in  from  next 
door.  "Millions  of  admiring  faces — men  will  follow 
her  and  women  will  copy  her."  That  would  be  bet- 
ter, far  better,  than  being  Mrs.  Alexander  Moore 
It  would.    "I  do  hope  I  like  you,  Lillian  Russell." 

CYNTHIA  LEONARD'S  prophecy  came  true.  Lil- 
lian's name  was  in  lights,  in  the  newspapers,  and  on 
thousands  of  lips.  She  was  a  star  and  billboards, 
spread  over  New  York,  announced  her  appearance 
in  "Olivette,"  and  the  "Pirates  of  Penzance."  Lil- 
lian Russell  became  the  idol  of  all  New  York,  and 
truly  men  did  worship  her — while  women  admired 
and  imitated  her  make-up  and  extravagant  cos- 
tumes, her  small  waistline,  laced  to  kill,  the  broad, 
flaring  hips,  low-cut  gowns,  many  beads,  necklaces 
and  bracelets,  ostrich  plumes,  wide  hats!  All  these 
fashions  stemmed  from  Lillian  Russell. 

She  spent  nearly  every  cent  she  made  on  her 
wardrobe  because,  as  she  soon  reasoned  with  Tony 
Pastor,  "My  wardrobe  must  be  replenished  every 
week.    I  can't  sing  in  the  same  clothes  all  the  time." 


Thus,  every  time  New  York's  greatest  star  wanted  a 
raise  she  received  it — twenty-five  dollars  each  time, 
a  scale  then  unheard  of  in  the  theater. 

Lillian's  beauty  and  popularity  attracted  wealthy 
men  from  all  walks  of  life.  And  although  Alex 
Moore  did  not  seek  her,  there  were  many  others 
who  did.  Among  these  was  the  fabulously  wealthy 
Jesse  Lewisohn.  Lewisohn  was  the  tall,  thin,  rather 
nice-looking  man  who  frequently  gave  champagne 
suppers  for  Lillian.  They  created  quite  a  picture 
together — Jesse  with  his  tall  silk  hat  and  long  cape, 
and  Lillian,  curvesome,  and  gold  and  jewel-decked. 

The  rumor  was  that  Lewisohn  wanted  to  marry 
Lillian,  although  everyone  knew  that  Lillian  gave 
almost  her  entire  life  to  the  theater. 

Men  were  eager  to  be  seen  with  the  beautiful 
actress  but  she  never  could  quite  forget  the  pact 
which  Alexander  Moore  had  ignored.  Lillian  was 
sentimental,  and  she  was  ambitious.  Romance  and 
ambition  became  rivals  m  her  heart.  She  liked  the 
bright  lights  and  the  gaiety,  she  loved  the  theater. 

Her  success  had  been  immediate  and  the  only 
cloud  was  that  Alexander  Moore  came  no  nearer 
to  her  than  the  last  row  of  the  theater.  She  could 
not  know  that  he  was  without  money,  without  work, 
and  was  far  too  proud  to  let  her  know.  He  was  far 
too  proud  to  admit  his  failure  in  the  face  of  her 
tremendous  success.  Alexander  Moore  could  not 
have  admitted  his  failure  more  poignantly  to  him- 
self than  by  returning  to  his  old  job  as  a  reporter 
in  Pittsburgh.  If  she  had  only  known  what  he  suf- 
fered, willing  himself  away  from  her — how  her  very 
name  was  sacred  to  him  and  sounded  constantly  in 
his  heart. 

JESSE  LEWISOHN  had  arranged  a  supper  party 
for  Lillian  one  night  during  the  run  of  "The  Grand 
Duchess."  Lillian  had  left  Tony  Pastor's  theater 
then  and  was  the  star  of  the  Casino  Theater.  And 
the  event  of  headlined  importance  that  night  was 
that  Lillian  was  going  to  sing,  in  the  intermission, 
over  long-distance  telephone  to  the  White  House. 
Her  voice  would  go  directly  to  President  Cleveland. 

When  Jesse  Lewisohn  walked  into  the  lobby  of 
the  Casino  that  night  he  saw  his  friend,  Jim  Brady, 
one  of  the  best-known  men-about-town. 

"Is  it  true  Lillian  Russell  is  to  sing  to  President 
Cleveland  tonight,  in  Washington?"  Brady  asked 

"They're  connecting  the  wires  backstage  right 
now  and  the  telephone  company  claims  they  can 
actually  do  it."  Seeing  the  animated  interest  in 
Brady's  large,  florid  face,  Jesse  added,  "Would  you 
like  to  come  backstage  and  listen?" 

"I'd  be  delighted,"  Brady  said.  Turning  to  the 
aubum-haired  woman  beside  him  he  said,  "Would 
you  like  to  listen  too,  Edna?" 

"I'd  love  to,"  Edna  McCauley  replied,  running  her 
arm  through  Brady's.  "I  hope  Miss  Russell  doesn't 
recognize  this  gown.  It's  a  copy  of  one  I  saw  her 
wear  at  Rector's." 

Backstage  there  was  much  excitement.  The  tele- 
phone, which  studded  the  wall,  held  everyone's  at- 
tention. The  stage  manager  stood  by,  nervous  and 
excited,  and  near  him  was  Teddy  Solomon,  standing 
by  the  grand  piano,  waiting  for  the  connection  to 
be  made  between  New  York  and  Washington. 

Chorus  girls  stood  on  the  stairway  and  on  the 
balcony,  some  in  corsets  and  underskirts,  others 
wore  dressing  gowns  or  kimonos.  It  was  between 
acts  and  this  marvelous  long-distance  call  had  inter- 
rupted the  usual  backstage  life. 

Everyone  was  quiet  and  waiting  expectantly. 

"Hello,  hello,"  the  manager  called  perspiringly 
through  the  phone.  "No,  I'm  not  impatient,  but 
President  Cleveland  expects  the  call  at  exactly  ten 
o'clock.  Besides,  it's  intermission  of  the  show — and 
we  can't  hold  the  curtain  forever."  Turning  to 
Solomon  he  added,  "I'd  feel  very  much  easier  if 
Miss  Russell  was  standing  by." 

"Miss  Russell  is  waiting  and  ready.  Would  you 
like  me  to  sing  for  the  President?" 

The  manager  looked  his  annoyance  at  Solomon 
whose  sarcasm  was  not  very  humorous  to  him.  "No, 
thank  you,  Mr.  Solomon,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind — I  love  to  sing." 

This  banter  amused  the  spectators  who  soon  forgot 
they  were  even  living  when  Lillian  Russell  entered 
the  scene.  She  was  beautiful,  radiant,  obviously 
excited. 

"Stand  right  here,  Miss  Russell.  I  really  believe 
we're  going  to  make  it,"  the  manager  told  her. 

"I  hope  we  don't,"  Lillian  said. 

"What?" 

Lillian  smiled  but  her  face  grew  serious.  "The 
idea  of  singing  for  the  President  of  the  United 
States  frightens   the   life   out   of   me."     Then   she 


34 


caught  the  intense,  worried  eyes  of  Teddy  Solomon. 

"Don't  worry,  dear.  Perhaps  he  won't  hear  you. 
I  have  an  idea  this  is  all  a  waste  of  time,"  he 
laughed. 

Solomon,  the  artist,  the  musician,  was  tense  and 
nervous,  far  more  so  than  Lillian. 

"Don't  believe  Teddy,  Lillian,"  said  an  off-stage 
voice,  "and  don't  let  anyone  frighten  you."  It  was 
Jesse  Lewisohn,  making  his  way  toward  her,  smiling 
broadly  and  confidently. 

"I  have  great  faith  in  the  telephone  and  I  have 
ever  greater  faith  in  you,  my  dear,"  Jesse  said, 
holding  her  hand  affectionately. 

Despite  her  nervousness,  Lillian  smiled.  She 
could  not  know  how  seeing  Lewisohn  holding  her 
hand  and  conveying  confidence  affected  Solomon. 
So  many  performances  she  had  found  the  confidence 
she  needed  in  his  eyes! 

"I  never  mind  an  audience  because  I  always  pick 
out  a  friendly  face  to  sing  to — but  how  can  you  sing 
to  someone  you  can't  even  see?"  Lillian  asked. 

"That's  simple,  Lillian,"  Jesse  assured  her.  "You've 
got  a  big  audience  here  and  I'll  pick  out  a  face  even 
friendlier  than  mine  to  sing  to." 

"How's  that?" 

Jesse  turned  and  called  across  the  scene. 

"Jim,  stand  over  here  so  Lillian  can  sing  to  you. 
This  is  Jim  Brady,  Lillian,  the  famous  Jim  Brady." 

There  for  the  first  time,  Lillian  Russell  looked  into 
the  Irish  eyes  of  Jim  Brady.  "I  am  so  happy  to 
meet  you,  Mr.  Brady,"  she  said. 

"I've  been  looking  forward  to  meeting  you,  Miss 
Russell.    And  may  I  present  Miss  Edna  McCauley?" 

The  women  nodded  and  Lillian's  eyes  returned  to 
Brady's  face. 

"Hello,  Washington.  We're  ready.  Is  the  Presi- 
dent ready.    Oh — it  is." 

Now  she  stood  facing  the  mouthpiece.  Every- 
thing was  quiet,  tense,  the  dramatic  moment  had 
arrived  and  Lillian  Russell's  high,  sweet  soprano 
voiced  "After  the  Ball." 

All  the  while  Lillian  sang,  Edward  Solomon's  long 
white  fingers  picked  the  melody  from  the  grand 
piano.  His  eyes  stayed  on  her  face,  scarcely  leaving 
it,  even  though  he  knew  at  that  moment  she  did 
not  need  him. 

When  Lillian  finished  the  song  there  was  applause. 
Nervously  she  took  the  receiver  in  her  hand  and 
murmured.  "Yes,  Mr.  President." 

She  heard  the  deep,  vibrant  voice  of  President 
Cleveland  saying,  "Miss  Russell,  this  has  been  a 
great  privilege  and  we  deeply  appreciate  the  honor 
of  being  the  first  to  hear  your  voice  over  the  long- 
distance telephone." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  President."  Lillian  barely 
whispered  the  words  because  her  voice  choked,  al- 
most broke.  Tears  came  into  her  eyes  and  Teddy 
Solomon,  quickly  by  her  side,  dried  her  cheeks  with 
his  handkerchief. 

"Thank  you,  dear,"  Lillian  said,  not  realizing  that 
in  her  emotional  moment  she  had  called  him  'dear.' 
Now  he  held  her  hand  closer — warmly,  telling  her 
in  a  new  way  how  dear  she  was  to  him. 

WHEN  she  went  to  supper  at  Rector's  that  night 
Jesse  Lewisohn  sat  on  her  right  and  Teddy  on  her 
left.  Diamond  Jim  Brady  and  Edna  McCauley  made 
up  the  rest  of  the  party.  There  was  an  abundance 
of  everything — lobster,  champagne,  more  cham- 
pagne! There  was  music  and  singing  and  toasts, 
and  suddenly  when  the  orchestra  was  playing  Jim 
Brady's  laugh  broke  merrily  across  the  table. 

"What  strikes  you  so  funny,  Jim?"  Jesse  asked. 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  President  Cleveland  at  the 
other  end  of  that  telephone  wire  tonight,  listening 
to  Lillian  Russell— when  all  the  time  she  was  really 
singing  to  me." 

Lillian  smiled  sweetly  at  Brady.  Edna  raised  her 
eyebrows,  amused  by  Brady's  ego,  but  Solomon 
seemed  rather  contemptuous. 

"I  want  to  thank  you  again  for  encouraging  me," 
Lillian  said,  warmly,  holding  Brady's  eyes. 

"I  don't  think  you  could  have  done  it  without 
him,"  Solomon  broke  in  with  naive  sarcasm. 

Ignoring  Solomon,  Brady  still  looked  at  Lillian. 
"It  was  a  great  treat,  Miss  Russell."  Turning  to 
Jesse,  Brady  added,  "Just  to  show  my  appreciation 
of  it,  Jesse,  I'm  going  to  let  you  dance  with  Edna." 
Then,  "Edna,  dear — dance  with  Mr.  Lewisohn." 

"I've  wanted  to  dance  with  Jesse  a  long  while, 
only  I  wish  he  had  thought  of  it  himself." 

"I  thought  of  it,"  Jesse  said,  offering  his  arm, 
"but  I  was  afraid  of  Jim." 

Brady  laughed.  "Imagine  anybody  being  afraid  of 
me." 

"If  I  were  a  lobster  I'd  be  afraid  of  you,"  Solomon 


said  with  the  same  polite  contempt  of  Brady,  but 
Brady  dug  into  a  fresh  lobster  and  laughed  again. 

"By  the  way,"  Brady  centered  his  Irish  eyes  on 
Solomon,  "you,  too,  were  excellent  tonight.  You 
played  the  piano  beautifully.  I've  been  an  admirer 
of  yours  for  some  time — in  fact,  I'm  quite  familiar 
with  a  number  of  your  compositions." 

"Why  thank  you,  Mr.  Brady,  it's  nice  of  you  to 
say  so."  Solomon  was  taken  aback  by  Brady's 
blarney  and  he  came  out  completely  from  behind 
his  cloud  of  jealousy. 

"I  especially  enjoyed  that  number  you  wrote  for 
Miss  Russell,  called — " 

"The  Silver  Line,"  Solomon  supplied  the  name. 

"That's  the  one.  It  was  beautiful.  You  should 
write  all  Miss  Russell's  songs." 

Leaning  across  the  table,  his  intense  face  strangely 
radiant,  Solomon  said,  "Some  day  I  hope  to  write  at 
least  one  that  is  worthy  of  her." 

Lillian  smiled  to  herself,  watching  the  worldly- 
wise,  supersalesman,  Brady,  ensnare  young  Solomon. 
She  saw  Teddy  then  through  her  sentimental  eyes. 
He  was  a  poor  composer,  taking  in  this  Irish  flattery, 
smiling  proudly.     She  almost  wished  to  clasp  his 


"We  seem  to  be  alone  at  last,"  said  Dia- 
mond Jim  Brady.  "I  rather  enjoyed  watch- 
ing    you     work     it     out,"     Lillian     laughed 


hand  and  say  something  that  would  give  him  bal- 
ance now,  but  then  Brady  leaned  farther  over  the 
table  toward  Solomon  and  said,  "Will  you  do  some- 
thing for  me?  Have  the  orchestra  play  "The  Silver 
Line"  and  you  play  it  with  them?" 

Solomon  rose,  excited  and  pleased.  "You  know 
the  weakness  of  a  musician,  Mr.  Brady.  He  can 
seldom  resist  the  opportunity  of  showing  off.  Ex- 
cuse me,  Lillian."  He  hurried  toward  the  orchestra. 

TURNING  to  Lillian,  Brady  said,  "We  seem  to  be 
alone  at  last,  or  aren't  you  surprised?" 

"I  rather  enjoyed  watching  you  work  it  out.  In 
a  way  I  enjoyed  it.  I  wondered  if  that  was  how 
you  planned  your  steel  railroad  cars  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.    You  see  I  have  heard  about  you." 

"What  do  you  know  about  railroad  cars?" 

"I  know  a  lot  about  Jim  Brady,"  smiling  sweetly. 
"Is  it  true  that  you  like  corn  on  the  cob  as  well 
as  people  say  you  do?" 

"How  much  do  they  say?" 

"I  heard  someone  say  he  had  seen  you  eat  three 
dozen  ears  at  once." 

"It's  a  lie,"  Brady  said.  "I  never  ate  less  than  six 
dozen  ears  at  one  time  in  my  life.  Do  you  enjoy 
corn?" 

"I  love  corn  on  the  cob.  It's  been  my  favorite  food 
since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"How  many  ears  can  you  eat?"  Brady  asked. 

"When  I'm  really  hungry — I've  eaten  two  or 
three." 

"I  can  spot  you  three  and  beat  you  by  ten." 

Smiling,  Lillian  said,  "Listen,  Teddy  is  singing  his 
piece  for  you."  After  a  pause,  "He's  really  a  fine 
composer.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  his  help  I  could 
never  have  become  a  star.  He's  a  really  great 
artist — " 

Lillian's  lips  were  soft  and  her  eyes  a  little  moist, 
talking  of  Teddy.  She  lowered  her  head  and  toyed 
with  her  bracelets  as  she  listened  to  the  romantic 
music  he  said  she  had  inspired  him  to  compose. 

Then,  suddenly,  softly  at  first,  Brady  started  to 
laugh. 


"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"At  myself.  I've  been  waiting  two  years  for  to- 
night— just  to  be  alone  with  you — and  all  I  could 
talk  about  was  corn  on  the  cob." 

Lillian,  watching  the  bulky  Irishman  throw  his 
head  back  and  laugh,  thought  he  seemed  sad,  even 
though  he  laughed. 

She  was  thinking  then  of  Solomon — how  he  was 
playing  to  them  with  his  soul  and  that  only  she 
listened.  She  felt  tender  and  filled  with  warmth  for 
the  dark-eyed  man— felt  gratitude.  She  loved  the 
creative  thing  in  him — his  imagination,  his  softness. 
Even  the  way  be  became  sarcastic  when  he  was 
not  noticed  sufficiently  and  when  someone  hurt  him 
— made  him  jealous.  And,  of  course,  he  was  jealous 
of  her — even  of  her  smile.  Yet,  she  saw  it  now,  he 
wanted  everyone  to  love  her  work — and  he  wanted 
her  to  love  him.    She  saw  all  this  now. 

Which  was,  no  doubt,  why  she  married  Teddy 
Solomon  a  few  nights  later. 

Still  wearing  the  blue  satin  gown  and  huge 
white-plumed  hat  in  which  she  had  just  sung  his 
ballad,  "The  Silver  Line,"  Lillian  and  Teddy  were 
married  in  her  dressing  room,  even  while  Jesse 
Lewisohn  and  Diamond  Jim  Brady  waited  at  the 
stage  door  to  take  her  out  to  supper.  (The  stage- 
hands   and   members   of    the    company   were   wit- 


PART  III 


WHEN  news  of  Lillian's  marriage  hit 
the  city  room  of  the  Pittsburgh  Tele- 
graph, Alexander  Moore  read  it  and 
experienced  the  kind  of  misery  which 
goes  with  the  death  of  a  dream. 

"Well,  boys — this  spoils  all  my  plans,"  said  the 
swaggering  reporter  at  the  desk  next  to  his. 

"Why,  did  you  figure  on  marrying  her,  Jack?" 
someone  else  entered  into  the  office  banter. 

"It's  been  a  toss  up  with  me  between  Lillian  and 
that  new  French  girl,  Anna  Held — but  Flo  Ziegfeld's 
got  her,  they  tell  me — so  I  decided  on  Lillian."  As 
the  others  in  the  office  continued  to  look  at  the  pic- 
ture of  the  new  bride  in  the  paper,  he  added,  "And 
now  she  ups  and  marries  a  poor  composer.  The 
chump!  She  could  have  had  her  pick  of  any  mil- 
lionaire in  New  York." 

"Maybe  she  loves  the  composer,"  Alex  spoke,  then. 

"Sure — and  maybe  he'll  write  all  her  shows  and 
will  enjoy  spending  her  dough  for  her — to  say  noth- 
ing of  getting  his  hands  on  all  that  jewelry  she  takes 
in  from  the  rich  guys  she  doesn't  marry." 

Alex  got  up  slowly  from  his  desk  and  looked  at 
his  colleague: 

"I  didn't  like  that  remark,  Jack.  I  happen  to  know 
Lillian  Russell."  As  Jack  showed  his  defiance,  Til 
thank  you  not  to  speak  of  her  like  that  again." 

"Well,  she  does  get  a  lot  of  gifts,  doesn't  she?" 

"Why,  she  gets  more  than  any  other  woman  on 
the  stage!"  put  in  one  of  the  bystanders. 

"I  can  understand  that,"  Alex  said,  flushing.  "Peo- 
ple love  her,  people  who  don't  even  know  her  but 
get  to  feel  like  they  do  from  just  watching  her.  If 
I  had  the  money  to  buy  her  things  worth-while  I'd 
be  sending  her  something  every  day." 

The  seriousness  of  Alex  Moore's  face,  more  than 
his  words,  removed  the  defiant  banter  from  the  re- 
porters.   Smiling,  Jack  said: 

"All  right,  Alex — if  that's  how  it  is  with  you.  I'm 
sorry — and  it  won't  happen  again." 

When  Alex  sat  down  at  his  desk,  the  office  boy 
came  to  tell  him  the  managing  editor  wanted  him 
to  report  to  his  office. 

"Alex,  I  overheard  what  you  said  about  Lillian 
Russell,"  the  boss  came  right  to  the  point.  "How 
well  do  you  know  her?" 

"She — she  wouldn't  even  remember  me  now — " 
he  said.  "I  met  her  a  couple  of  times — and  I've  seen 
every  show  she  has  ever  played  in  since  then." 

"Did  you  see  'The  Grand  Duchess'?" 

"That's  why  I  took  three  days  off  last  month  to 
go  to  New  York — " 

"You  went  all  the  way  to  New  York  to  see  a  per- 
formance of  her  show?" 

"Not  exactly — I  saw  three  performances.  It's  a 
wonderful  show." 

"She  must  be,"  the  editor  said  thoughtfully. 
"That's  why  I  want  a  story  of  her  life  for  our  paper 
.  .  .  and  you're  the  one  to  get  it." 

This  would  mean  all  angles — include  all  the  stages 
of  her  development,  perhaps  some  of  her  emotional 
adventures — Lillian,  as  the  daughter  of  a  suffragette, 
how  she  struggled  for  a  normal  home  life  in  a  room- 
ing house.  How  well  Alex  Moore  could  understand 
what  living  in  a  house,  which  wasn't  a  home,  meant. 


35 


That  had  been  the  way  he  had  lived  ever  since  he 
was  a  little  boy— when  he  sold  newspapers  after 
school  to  buy  books  to  read  .  .  .  how  later  he 
worked  as  copy  boy  in  a  newspaper  office  that  he 
could  go  to  night  school.  That's  why  he  understood 
Lillian  Russell's  life  so  well.  How  much  more  he 
knew  and  understood  about  her  than  the  public,  who 
loved  her  as  an  actress,  had  ever  dreamed! 

The  editor  was  saying,  "Show  how,  while  her 
mother  was  struggling  to  secure  equal  political 
rights  for  women,  this  girl,  by  her  charm  and  fem- 
ininity, was  bringing  the  men  to  her  feet." 

"That's  the  truth — she  was!    And  I — " 

"And  you,  too,"  the  editor  smiled.  "I  want  you 
to  scoop  those  smart  New  York  papers.  I  want  the 
Pittsburgh  Telegraph  to  tell  them  the  exclusive  story 
of  Lillian  Russell.   That  is  your  next  assignment." 

"Go  to  New  York?" 

"Certainly.  What's  the  matter?  Don't  you  want 
to  go?" 

"Of  course — but  I  wish  you  had  thought  of  all  this 
before  she  got  married." 

W  HELE  ALEX  was  trying  to  find  the  old  Leonard 
home  on  Ninth  Street,  Lillian  and  her  bridegroom 
were  sailing  for  London.  And  while  Alex  stood  in 
the  hall,  trying  to  explain  to  Cynthia  Leonard  what 
he  was  about,  grandma  listened  from  her  wheel- 
chair in  the  parlor. 

"I  can't  tell  you  anything  about  my  daughter,"  the 
bitter-eyed  Cynthia  said.  "I  haven't  seen  her  much 
lately,  Mr.  Moore."  Smiling  sadly,  "The  penalty  of 
success,  perhaps.  I'm  sorry — but  that  is  all  I  have 
to  say." 

Cynthia  turned  and  walked  up  the  stairs.  Alex 
watched  her  martyred  back,  took  in  the  expensive 
wallpaper  on  the  hall,  the  deep  Oriental  rugs  on  the 
floor — gilt-framed  pictures.  He  knew  that  Lillian 
had  spent  much  of  her  earnings  on  this  house. 

Maybe  he  thought  as  he  started  to  leave  he  would 
come  back  again  and  find  Mrs.  Leonard  in  a  more 
giving  mood. 

"I'm-sorry-young-man-ha-ha-ha!"  a  metallic 
voice  screeched  out  from  the  parlor. 

The  wild,  harsh  laughter  made  him  look  in — where 
grandma  sat  listening  and  squinting. 

"Were  you  looking  for  me,  young  man?" 

"No — not  exactly — but  I'm  glad  to  see  you  again." 

"Again?  Do  you  know  me?"  With  much  of  the 
old  spirit. 

"Well — we  never  were  properly  introduced,  but 
we  have  met  before." 

"It's  my  eyes,  young  man.  They're  something 
fierce — nearly  gone  out  and  left  me  blind.  Come 
closer — so  I  can  try  to  recall  you.  My  left  ear  is 
stone  deaf  and  if  I  didn't  feel  so  good,  I'd  think  it 
was  old  age  catching  on  to  me." 

The  parrot  mimicked  the  cracked  old  laugh. 

"Shut  your  beak,  Noah!" 

Grandma  stared  up  at  Alex's  face  through  her 
thick  glasses. 

"Why,  land  sakes!  You're  the  young  man  who 
saved  our  lives!  I  remember  it  very  well — but  why 
didn't  you  ever  come  back  to  see  Helen?" 

"I  did — at  the  theater,  but  somehow  I  didn't  have 
the  nerve  to  come  in  to  see  her." 

"A  hero — without  nerve.  Nonsense!  When  I  was 
young  and  a  man  saved  a  girl's  life  it  naturally 
meant  something." 

"It  did — "  Alex  said,  soberly. 

"Then  I  can  tell  you— Helen  fell  in  love  with  you." 

"You're  just  saying  that— to  be  kind." 

"No — nothing  was  more  cruel  to  Helen  than  to 
know  you  did  not  come  back  to  see  her — she  was 
hurt — deeply  hurt  ...  so  that  she  had  to  stop  even 
mentioning  your  name.  Oh,  how  could  you  ever  let 
a  girl  like  Helen  slip  out  of  your  hands?  You  must 
be  a  very  proud  and  stupid  young  man!" 

"I  was — then.  But,  tell  me,  where  is  she  now?" 
he  asked,  clasping  the  withered  hand  and  holding  it. 
"I'm  supposed  to  do  a  story  about  her  for  my  news- 
paper— and  I'd  like  to  find  her.  You  see,  Grandma 
— it  is  the  first  time  I  could  be  proud — do  you  under- 
stand what  it  means  for  a  fellow  to  love  a  girl  who 
has  a  job — and  he  hasn't?" 

"I  understand— but  fiddlesticks!"  Grandma  was 
impatient.  The  tires  of  her  wheelchair  rolled  back 
and  forth  as  she  talked.  "And — well,  I'd  like  to  help 
you— only  Cynthia,  that's  her  mother,  wouldn't  want 
us  even  to  talk  about  Helen.  You  see,  she  didn't 
like  it  because  she  married  young  Solomon  without 
asking  her  permission." 

"Please  tell  me — " 

"Oh,  Solomon's  all  right.  He's  fine — but  Cynthia 
is  lonely  for  Helen,  since  Charlie's  death.  No- 
Cynthia's  word  is  law  here."    Then,  in  a  lower  voice, 


"She's  in  London — we  got  a  cable  from  her  this 
morning.  She's  already  met  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
and  she's  going  to  appear  in  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan 
opera.    But  don't  you  say  I  said  so." 

Alex  Moore  dropped  on  one  knee  and  pressed  his 
lips  to  the  trembling,  withered  little  hand. 

"And  when  you  find  her,  young  man — give  her 
this  message  for  me." 

Grandma  leaned  over  and  kissed  his  firm  cheek. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  give  that  to  anyone — I'll  just 
keep  it  for  myself."  he  said. 

"Well,  good-by  then — and  don't  stay  away  so  long 
this  time — it  might  be  too  long." 

ALEX  MOORE'S  cable,  asking  Lillian  for  her 
story,  was  delivered  to  her  in  The  Savoy  Theater 
one  fog-thick  day.    It  read: 

MY  EDITOR  WANTS  THE  STORY  OF  YOUR 
CAREER  AND  HAS  ASSIGNED  ME  TO  GET  IT 
STOP  IE  I  COME  OVER  WILL  YOU  COOPERATE 
REGARDS 

It  was  signed  Alexander  Moore,  Pittsburgh  Tele- 
graph staff  writer. 

Lillian  walked  out  through  the  lobby,  the  yellow 
paper  clinched  in  her  gloved  hand.  She  wanted  to 
think — because  those  words,  after  so  long,  from 
Alexander  Moore  had  dug  into  a  corner  of  her  heart 
which  she  thought  had  been  sealed  forever. 

She  wanted  to  think  and  she  couldn't  gather  her 
thoughts  there  in  the  theater,  where  Arthur  Sullivan 
was  playing  the  piano  and  William  Gilbert  was 
arguing — forever  and  forever. 

In  the  lobby  was  a  great  banner  stretched  out 
with  the  announcement: 

Opening  November  Fifteenth 

GILBERT  &  SULLIVAN'S  NEW  OPERA 

"PRINCESS  IDA" 

with 

LILLIAN  RUSSELL 

It  had  meant  a  great  deal  to  Lillian  to  be  engaged 
by  the  famous  team  to  come  to  London.  It  meant 
a  lot  to  her  composer  husband,  too — but,  still,  it 
wasn't  exactly  his  dream-come-true.  Teddy  wanted 
to  write  his  own  show  for  her — but  meantime,  he 
tried  to  console  himself  by  working  in  shows  where 
Lillian  starred.  In  his  heart  he  always  believed  he 
would  write  her  greatest  triumph. 

Lillian  had  to  think  of  Teddy — dear,  emotional, 
sweet  Teddy  .  .  .  who  really  looked  a  little  like  the 
tall,  dark-eyed  boy  who  had  saved  her  life  in  the 
runaway  .  .  .  who  had  helped  her  speak  to  the  mob 


.  ...as  successful  in  getting  you  out  of  re- 
hearsal— "  Teddy  told  Lillian.  "Not  only  did  I  get 
you  out  of  rehearsal — but  out  of  the  show  too!" 


outside  her  home.  Strange,  she  had  never  thought 
of  that  before  .  .  .  not  strange,  when  she  came  to 
think  how  determined  she  had  been  to  seal  up  that 
part  of  her  heart — his  part. 

She  walked,  in  her  high,  tight,  button-shoes  over 
to  the  cable  office,  where  she  came  to  her  decision 
It  was  embodied  in  her  answer  to  Alex  Moore: 
CANNOT  GrVE  TIME  TO  YOU  NOW  THANKS 
And  she  signed  the  cable  Lillian  Russell  Solomon 

TEDDY  SOLOMON  thought  nothing  about  the  de- 
cision when  she  told  him  about  what  she  had  done. 
He  thought  far  more  about  her  walking  in  the 
November  air — the  thick,  moist  fog,  when  she  was 
exhausted  from  long  hours  of  rehearsal,  by  the  long, 
wearisome  session  they  both  were  compelled  to  sit 


through,  listening  to  the  endless  arguing  of  Mr.  Sul- 
livan and  Mr.  Gilbert. 

Teddy  was  so  proud  in  his  triumph — of  his  love 
for  Lillian,  of  their  marriage  that  he  swaggered  a 
little  in  his  new  confidence. 

He  knew  now  that  his  peculiar  gift  for  expressing 
his  emotions  and  impressions  in  melody  would  soon 
be  recognized  by  the  world  because  Lillian  recog- 
nized it.  And  with  her  as  his  constant  inspiration 
he  would  soon  b3  able  to  compose  the  real  thing; 
the  true  lights  in  his  heart  and  brain  would  be  in- 
terpreted in  his  music! 

A  little  impatient,  a  little  cocksure — one  night 
Teddy  came  into  the  Savoy  for  rehearsal,  when 
Gilbert  called  loudly  from  the  stage: 

"Where  is  Miss  Russell?    She's  an  hour  late." 

"Miss  Russell  isn't  coming  to  rehearsal  tonight," 
Teddy  answered.    "I  came  to  tell  you." 

Gilbert  stalked  from  the  stage,  crying,  "I  want  to 
talk  to  you,  Solomon.    Come  to  me!" 

Solomon  took  his  time  about  finding  Gilbert  and 
before  the  arguesome  man  could  begin  his  tirade 
against  performers  who  miss  rehearsals,  Teddy  ran 
his  long-fingered  hands  into  his  pockets  and  said, 

"I  want  to  tell  you  I  resent  your  summoning  my 
wife  to  night  rehearsals,  after  she  has  spent  the  en- 
tire day  working  with  your  company.  Lillian  Rus- 
sell may  not  mean  anything  yet  in  England— but  she 
is  a  great  star  and  I  insist  that  you  treat  her  accord- 
ingly! If  you  question  her  ability  to  play  the  role 
without  night  rehearsals — then  get  someone  else!" 

Solomon's  furious  blast  temporarily  took  the  wind 
out  of  Gilbert.  He  backed  against  the  wall  and 
rubbed  his  hand  over  his  face,  as  one  stunned. 

"You — you  dare  to  speak  to  me  in  that  tone!" 

"I  dare,"  Solomon  said,  controlled.  "My  wife  is 
anxious  for  a  London  success — but  if  she  doesn't  get 
it  from  you,  she'll  get  it  somewhere  else."  With  an 
ironic  smile,  "I  too  write  for  the  theater,  Mr.  Gil- 
bert." 

"So — so  that  is  it!  Why  you  barge  in  here  and 
provoke  a  quarrel  with  me!  It's  not  your  wife's  ca- 
reer you're  concerned  about — it's  your  own!"  with 
sudden  decision,  Gilbert  frowned,  "Very  well — you 
go  tell  Mrs.  Solomon  that  her  services  are  no  longer 
required!" 

Teddy  shrugged  his  London-tailored  shoulders 
elegantly:  "Thank  you,  sir — we'll  manage  to  get  on 
without  you,  I  imagine."  And  with  the  same  ease 
and  swagger  he  walked  out. 

But  when  he  was  faced  with  telling  Lillian  what 
had  happened  he  was  not  as  confident.  It  was  not 
as  easy  to  make  her  see  the  thing  as  it  had  really 
happened. 

He  found  her  waiting  in  their  suite. 

"I  thought  I'd  have  some  message  from  you — per- 
haps they'd  need  me  anyway,"  Lillian  greeted  him 
with  her  hat  on. 

He  came  over,  put  his  arms  around  her.  He  had 
never  been  able  to  hold  her  enough,  had  never  tired 
of  looking  at  her  beauty,  listening  to  her  throaty 
voice. 

"There  was  no  need  of  a  message,  darling,"  he  told 
her.    Then  kissing  her  lingeringly,  he  let  her  go. 

"What  happened — what  did  they  say?  Tell  me  all 
about  it,  Teddy." 

"Well,  darling — I  was  completely  successful  in 
getting  you  off.  I — you  see — I  knew  how  badly  you 
needed  rest  before  you  get  back  into  the  routine." 

"I  know,  I  know  all  that,  Teddy — but  what  did 
they  say?"  Her  voice  was  a  little  edgy  with  im- 
patience and  she  followed  him  across  the  room,  to 
where  he  sat  at  the  piano. 

"I  said,  I  was  successful  in  getting  you  out  of 
rehearsal — "  Then  he  stood  up  and  looked  at  her, 
holding  her  eyes.  "Not  only  did  I  get  you  out  of 
rehearsal — I  got  you  out  of  the  show." 

"Stop  joking,"  she  said,  stepping  back  from  him. 
He  seemed  strange  to  her  in  this  mood.  It  was  the 
old  mood  he  used  to  take  in  front  of  strangers,  when 
they  hurt  him — and  she  always  was  touched  far 
more  than  annoyed  by  it. 

"What  happened?"  she  pursued,  smiling  uneasily. 

"I  told  you.    You're  fired." 

She  bit  her  lip,  which  was  suddenly  dry  as  dust 

"Simply  because  of  the  rehearsal?" 

"Well,  yes.    That  started  it." 

"Started  what,  Teddy?  Tell  me,  dear."  Now  she 
could  see  he  was  hurt. 

"The  argument,"  he  said  in  the  flat  tone  of  one 
who  knows  when  he's  cornered. 

"Now,  Teddy — you  didn't  lose  your  temper 
again?" 

His  eyes  became  defiant  as  a  little  boy's. 

"Very  well — crawl  to  your  London  triumph,  if 
you  want  to!    Go  on  your  knees  to  Mr.  Gilbert  and 


36 


apologize!  Hell  forgive  you,  I'm  sure.  Tell  him 
from  now  on  you'll  be  a  good  girl — or  vice  versa 
...  I  don't  care  which." 

"If  you  don't  care — that's  what  I'll  do.  I'll  go  back 
to  Mr.  Gilbert  and  ask  him  to  take  me  back." 

HER  heart  beat  frighteningly,  warningly.  This  was 
the  first  serious  quarrel  she  had  ever  had  with 
Teddy  and  it  did  horrible  things  to  her  inside.  But 
somehow  she  knew  she  could  not  let  him  bully  her, 
even  in  temper.    She  was  silent. 

"You  won't  have  to  ask  twice,  I  assure  you,"  Teddy 
raised  his  voice.  "I  can  even  tell  you  what  he'll 
say — 'My  dear  Miss  Russell — of  course  I  want  you 
back,  but  I  don't  like  your  meddlesome  husband. 
He's  crazy,  selfish,  stupid — and  doesn't  want  any- 
body to  do  anything  for  you  but  himself.'  That's 
what  he'll  say  to  you." 

His  too-bright,  feverish  eyes  wavered  a  little,  but 
came  back  to  meet  her  gaze. 

"Unfortunately,  Lillian,  that's  the  truth — every 
word.  But  I  can't  help  myself,  Lillian — that's  how  I 
feel  about  you.  I  want  to  write  you  the  greatest 
operetta  of  your  career.  I  can  do  it,  if  you'll  have 
faith  in  me  ...  I'll  start  it  tonight — this  very 
minute — " 

Her  heart  melted  then. 

"Come,  Teddy — sit  beside  me."  She  turned  out 
the  lamp  and  they  sat  beside  the  fireplace,  with 
only  the  glow  from  the  dying  embers  lighting  their 
faces. 

"I've  been  unfair  to  you,  Teddy,"  she  began. 
"There's  something  I've  kept  from  you,  dear — some- 
thing I  should  have  told  you." 

Teddy  sprung  up,  his  hands  clenched. 

"If  it's  anything  that  may  come  between  us,  don't 
tell  me  now.  I'll — I'll  never  give  you  up — under- 
stand that!  Even  if  you  should  tell  me  you  loved 
someone  else  more — even  if  you  said  you  did  not 
love  me  any  more.  I  wouldn't  let  you  go!  I — couldn't 
live  without  you!" 

"Listen,  Teddy — there  is  someone  else — "  Before 
she  could  finish  his  head  was  in  her  lap,  his  hot 
tears  on  her  hands. 

"Teddy — a  baby.    I'm  going  to  have  a  baby." 

He  caught  her  hands  and  crushed  them  to  his 
lips. 

"So,  you  see,  dear — it's  just  as  well  that  I'm  out 
of  the  show." 

When  he  rose  and  walked  across  the  room,  she 
watched  him,  puzzled. 

"Aren't  you  happy  about  it?"  she  asked. 

His  dark  head  bent,  he  stalked  the  room,  his  face 
desperate  in  the  fire  light. 

"I  was  never  happier — but  never  more  convinced 
of  my  own  selfishness." 

"Why,  dear?" 

Perhaps  she  would  never  understand  this  man- 
child,  who  had  come  to  mean  so  much  to  her  life — 
even  had  the  power  to  change  its  path.  Persuade  her 
to  come  to  a  strange  country — and  then  dare  get  her 
fired  from  a  show  and  thus  throw  them  both  out 
of  work. 

"Why?"  he  repeated,  his  voice  husky  with  emo- 
tion. "I've  risked  your  entire  career — as  if  it  be- 
longed to  me.  And  it  doesn't.  Even  you  have  no 
right  to  jeopardize  it,  Lillian." 

He  came  over  and  sat  on  the  couch  beside  her. 

"I'll  be  proud  of  our  child — dear — but  if  anything 
should  happen  to  you — because  of  it — I'd  hate  my- 
self— forever." 

"What  could  happen,  Teddy?" 

"You — you  might  die.  Or,  it  might  change  you  in 
so  many  ways  that  you'd  never  really  be  Lillian 
Russell  again." 

Tilting  his  chin  up  so  that  he  looked  straight  into 
her  eyes, 

"Teddy  dear,  you're  horribly  morbid;  but  if  I 
should  die,  I'd  consider  it  a  glorious  ending  to  my 
career;  if  I  live  and  my  career  should  die — I'd  con- 
sider it  the  lovely  beginning  of  a  new  life."  Smiling 
into  his  wet  eyes,  "Now,  dear — take  me  in  your  arms. 
Hold  me  tight — and  don't  let  me  go — 'til  the  fire 
burns  out." 

He  gathered  her  to  him,  trying  to  put  into  his  kiss 
all  the  things  that  were  in  his  heart. 

Later,  she  tried  to  argue  that  she  soon  would  be 
"perfectly  all  right"  but  the  sensitive  artist  that  was 
Teddy  Solomon  argued  against  her  statements.  He 
underwent,  lived  through,  in  his  imaginative  mind 
every  pain,  every  anxiety  which  Lillian  was  to  ex- 
perience during  the  following  months. 

While  she  did  everything  she  knew  to  calm  him, 
Lillian  did  a  lot  of  thinking,  which  she  dared  not 
voice.  After  all,  and  at  best,  it  would  be  a  year  be- 
fore she  could  go  back  on  the  stage — she  knew  that. 


And  then  what  had  been  her  fame — on  the  other 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  might  have  faded  out,  been  for- 
gotten by  that  time.  But  still  there  was  more  of  it  to 
be  gained  in  London,  where  they  were. 

The  truth  was  they  had  accumulated  little  money 
during  the  bright  months.  They  had  put  so  little 
aside  for  happier  days — because,  why  should  they, 
when  they  were  living  their  happy  days!  That  had 
been  their  theory.  The  trouble  was  in  making  it 
work,  even  though  she  determinedly  insisted  that 
they  were  happy.   Because  they  had  each  other. 

"Lillian,  do  you  realize  that  it  is  expected  nowa- 
days that  a  man  be  in  love  with  his  own  wife?  Isn't 
that  fitting  for  me?"  Teddy  would  say.  "And  some 
day,  some  day  when  you  sing  my  operetta  the  world 
will  know  that  I  adore  you." 

How  he  worked  over  the  piano — all  night,  all  day 
— never  stopping.  Seldom  sleeping,  in  his  feverish 
haste — his  determined  anxiety. 

Lillian  saw  his  pale  hands  become  too  long,  too 
transparent.  And  his  face,  with  its  delicate  bone 
structure  almost  showing  through.  His  eyes  were 
burning  flames,  keeping  alive  on  his  love,  his  dream, 
his  hope  of  what  he  was  doing  for  her. 

"It  will  be  your  greatest  success,"  he  would  say, 
day  after  day. 

1  HE  baby — a  girl  they  named  Dorothy — was  three 
months  old  when  the  London  Theater  season  was 
getting  under  way.  She  was  a  darling  baby — with 
Lillian's  bright  gold  hair  and  pink  skin  and  her 
father's  large  brown  eyes.  She  was  a  good  baby, 
too,  who  responded  nicely  to  the  attentions  of  the 
French  nursemaid  Lillian  engaged. 

Lillian  had  pawned  every  piece  of  her  jewelry,  so 
they  could  keep  living  in  the  small  hotel  suite  and 
afford  the  nursemaid.  Time  was  pressing  in  on 
them  horribly — but  surely  she  could  not  find  fault 
with  Teddy's  effort  and  application. 

"Did  Mr.  Solomon  drink  his  eggnog,  Marie?"  Lil- 
lian asked  her  maid  at  frequent  intervals  each  day 
—asked  when  the  incessant  playing  on  the  piano  in 
the  next  room  seemed  weaker,  more  stumbling.  As 
if  to  indicate  the  composer  was  striving  against  every 
odd  to  find  the  melodies  and  to  set  them  down.  At 
times  it  seemed  that  he  was  racing  against  time 
itself — racing  with  his  own  health.  That  he  might 
finish  before  this  fever  became  too  consuming. 

"No'm — although  I  told  him  it  was  an  English 
custom  never  to  leave  an  empty  glass,"  the  maid  re- 
plied.   "He  doesn't  look  well.    He  works  too  hard." 

"He's  tired — he  needs  to  go  away  for  a  holiday." 

"He  says  it  is  to  be  the  greatest  role  of  your  career 
— the  one  he's  working  on  now.    It's  just  for  you." 

Listening  to  the  music  filtering  through  the  cheap 
thin  walls,  "I  hope  so — for  his  sake." 

LILLIAN  was  dressed  in  one  of  the  most  becoming 
house  dresses  she  owned.  A  Lillian  Russell  blue — 
satin,  with  a  train,  with  a  flowing,  becoming  flounce, 
draped  about  the  neck  and  falling  about  her  wide 
shoulders — which  accentuated  her  small,  tightly- 
laced  waist.  She  wore  her  hair  in  a  high  pompadour, 
with  a  cluster  of  curls  turned  over  her  left  shoulder. 

Looking  at  her  reflection  in  the  dressing  table 
mirror,  she  thought  of  a  certain  day  in  New  York, 
when  she  wore  a  blue  dress — and  a  wide  hat,  which 
blew  off  and  let  her  hair  go  wild.  His  arms  had 
been  around  her  when  she  reached  up  and  pulled 
her  hair  from  his  eyes — such  dark,  thoughtful  eyes 
they  were  .  .  .  and  he  had  said,  a  little  later,  "You're 
very  beautiful." 

"Marie,"  she  called,  "you'll  stay  to  let  the  visitor 
in  tonight.    He's  to  call  about  eight." 

"Visitor,  Ma'am?" 

"How  could  you  possibly  forget,  Marie?  The 
American  newspaperman.  His  name  is  Mr.  Moore," 
Lillian  managed  to  keep  her  voice  even.  "Show 
him  in  when  he  arrives." 

She  had  cabled  Alexander  Moore  that  she  would 
now  give  him  her  story  if  he  could  come  to  London. 

A  FEW  minutes  before  eight,  Lillian  went  into  the 
music  room  and  put  her  arm  about  Teddy's  bent 
shoulders. 

"You  look  tired,  dear,"  she  said. 

"I  am  tired,  darling — but  it's  fun  getting  tired  from 
work  you  love.  When  I'm  finished  and  you  tell  me 
I've  kept  my  promise  and  written  your  greatest  role, 
then  I'll  rest  as  long  as  you  wish." 

"But,  you  still  have  so  much  to  do,  Teddy — "  Then, 
with  sudden  determination,  "And  unless  you  prom- 
ise to  go  away,  I'll  never  tell  you  I  like  your  operetta 
— and  what's  more,  I  may  not  even  sing  it  when  you 
do  finish  it." 

That  made  him  laugh.    It  always  did. 


"All  right,  that  settles  it— we  go  away.  That  is, 
if  you  get  enough  money  for  your  life." 

"What  do  you  say  my  life  is  worth?" 

"More  than  all  the  papers  in  the  world  could  pay." 

"You're  sweet,"  she  told  him,  her  lips  against  his 
stubby  cheek. 

"So  are  you,"  he  said,  turning  back  again  to  the 
keyboard.  "Now  run  along  and  sell  yourself  to  the 
newspaperman — and,  Lillian,  please  don't  send 
Marie  in  here  with  any  more  eggnogs.  She  always 
comes  when  I'm  in  the  midst  of  a  great  idea — here 
she  is,  pushing  an  eggnog  down  my  throat." 

"All  right — no  more  tonight." 

Lillian  couldn't  know  what  seeing  her  walk  into 
that  room  did  to  Alex  Moore.  He  stood  as  she  came 
toward  him,  took  her  outstretched  hand,  bowed, 
properly  aloof.  Through  his  guard,  he  was  thinking 
how  unkind  the  years  had  been  to  leave  his  heart, 
so  young  in  its  feeling  for  her.  The  sight  of  her 
brought  back  the  ache,  which  was  old  as  forever. 

He  saw  her  now  as  the  woman,  yet  he  never  had 
lost  his  picture  of  her  as  the  girl.  Her  blue  eyes 
were  deeper— life  had  dug  into  her  heart.  Her  figure 
was  more  mature — but  there  was  something  about 
her  graceful,  richly-padded  body  which  would  never 
age.  Her  voice,  vibrated  through  him.  And  the 
sensation  of  being  in  her  presence  was  almost  un- 
bearable at  first — a  storm  inside  him  while  he  stood 
apart  and  watched — postponing  the  second  when  he 
must  appoint  his  mind  to  control  it. 

This  smiling,  gracious  woman  before  him  was  Lil- 
lian Russell,  a  famous  actress,  beloved  by  millions. 
His  paper  was  eager  to  pay  her  homage  through  its 
columns.  He  must  see  her  that  way.  She  was,  above 
everything  else  a  woman  who  loved  another  man. 
She  was  forever  beyond  his  own  reach. 

The  first  few  sentences  they  exchanged  were  not 
recorded  on  the  memory  of  either.  They  did  not 
fasten  the  thread  of  conversation  for  a  few  seconds, 
while  their  eyes  and  overtones  expressed  more 
than  the  formalities,  uttered  with  mechanical  po- 
liteness. 

*  IANO  music,  reached  between  and  about  them. 
While  it  came  from  behind  a  closed  door,  from 
another  room,  and  played  in  spurts,  starts  and  stops 
it  was  strangely  suited  to  their  moods. 

Alex  extracted  a  folded  letter  from  the  large 
envelope  he  balanced  on  his  lap. 

"This  is  in  letter  form,  and  merely  gives  oup 
paper  the  exclusive  right  to  publish  your  story. 
You'll  have  to  sign  where  it  says  'accepted.' " 

Lillian  didn't  even  look  at  the  proffered  letter. 
Her  eyes  still  held  to  his  face. 

"And  this — this  is  your  check." 

The  music  sounded  insistently  loud  then.  It 
brought  Lillian  from  her  contemplation  of  Alex. 
She  shook  her  head,  as  one  coming  out  from  a  day- 
dream, smiled.  She  took  the  check  and  letter  with- 
out looking  at  either. 

"You'll  sign — sign  the  letter — "  Alex  said,  lean- 
ing toward  her. 

"Why  did  you  break  our  pact,  Mr.  Moore?" 

He  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  was  too  sur- 
prised. Looking  at  her,  he  said,  his  voice  well  under 
control. 

"I  didn't  think  you  even  remembered  me,  Miss 
Russell." 

"That  doesn't  answer  my  question,  Mr.  Moore." 

"I  don't  think  I  can  answer  it  without  quibbling 
a  little.  You  see,  I  made  my  pact  with  a  girl  named 
Helen  Leonard,  and  when  I  found  she  was  Lillian 
Russell,  I — well — I  got  scared,  I  guess."  Taking  a 
quick  breath,  "Does  it  seem  very  long  ago — I  mean, 
it  does  seem  a  long  time  ago,  doesn't  it? 

"I  can  see  it  all  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  We  had 
just  left  Professor  Damrosch's  and  I  was  so  happy 
because  he  was  going  to  teach  me — and  grandma 
was  all  a-flutter  because  she  didn't  like  the  Pro- 
fessor at  first.  Then  it  happened  .  .  .  And  you 
seemed  to  leap  from  nowhere  and  I — I  thought  you 
were  going  to  be  killed." 

"I  was  afraid  you  were." 

"And  here  we  are — years  later — signing  a  contract 
for  my  life  story."  Her  lips  parted  in  a  smile.  "It 
would  have  been  a  very  short  one,  if  you  hadn't 
been  so  brave." 

Alex  saw  the  mist  in  her  eyes  as  she  smiled  again. 
He  saw,  too,  that  the  acclaim  of  the  world  had  not 
erased  the  simple  memories  from  her  heart. 

"Maybe  it  wasn't  bravery,"  Alex  spoke,  forcing 
lightness  into  his  voice.  "Maybe  it  was  just  a  news- 
paperman saving  a  good  story.  You — you  look  very 
well,  Miss  Russell." 

"Thank  you.  You  haven't  changed  much  .  .  .  and 
I  haven't  seen  you  since  the  night  Mother  was  de- 


37 


feated  in  the  election.  Poor  Mother  .  .  ."  Then 
suddenly  speaking  faster,  "She's  the  one  your  paper 
should  really  be  interested  in.  Why  don't  you  write 
the  story  of  her  life?  It  would  be  a  much  greater 
story  than  mine." 

"I  don't  think  my  paper  exactly  agrees  with  you — " 
It  was  so  much  easier  to  talk  with  her  about — about 
anything  other  than  themselves.  "You  see,  my 
paper  considers  you  one  of  the  finest  women  who 
ever  lived — not  only  because  of  your  success,  but  on 
account  of  the  way  you've  carried  it.  Everybody  in 
America  loves  you." 

Lillian  saw  the  vein  pump  in  his  forehead  as  she 
repeated,  "Everybody?" 

"They  just  can't  help  themselves.  I — you've  got  a 
way  of  making  people  love  you — I  mean — that's  how 
my  paper  feels  about  you,  Miss  Russell." 

The  music  stopped — then  started.  Stopped  with  a 
bang — then  started  and  continued  evenly. 

Lillian  leaned  her  shoulders  against  the  high  back 
of  her  chair. 

"Well,  it's  very  sweet  of  you  to  tell  me,  Mr. 
Moore." 

Then  she  tossed  her  head,  her  eyes  twinkling,  and 
said,  "And  before  your  paper  discovers  how  com- 
pletely different  things  have  been  in  London  for 
me,  I'd  better  sign  this  letter." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  bother  with  it  tonight,  if  you'd 
rather  have  your  attorney  or  business  manager  or 
someone  look  it  over  first." 

She  unfolded  the  letter,  "I'm  my  own  business 
manager,  Mr.  Moore — and  I  don't  think  we'll  need 
an  attorney." 

Lillian  moved  over  to  the  writing  table,  where 
the  light  was. 

"I'd  like  you  to  read  it — if  you  will — before  sign- 
ing," he  said. 

"As  you  say,  then — I'll  not  be  long  about  it." 

ALEX  walked  the  length  of  the  room,  now 
strangely  quiet  since  the  piano  had  stopped.  Appar- 
ently she  had  been  serious  when  she  intimated 
London  had  not  meant  success  for  her.  This  room, 
with  its  cracked  wallpaper,  with  the  worn  rug  and 
frayed  settee,  would  never  have  been  the  setting 
chosen  by  Lillian  Russell  in  days  of  prosperity. 

He  remembered  too  well  the  expensive  new 
paper  in  the  hall  of  the  Leonard  house  on  Ninth 
Street — the  deep-piled  Oriental  rugs  and  gilt- 
framed  pictures. 

He  walked  across  to  where  a  group  of  pictures 
were  arranged  on  the  mantel.  He  recognized  the 
likeness  of  Lillian's  mother — and  there  was  grand- 
ma in  a  black  bonnet  primly  tied  with  a  bow. 

"Do  you  remember  grandma?"  Lillian  had  turned 
in  her  chair  to  ask.  He  felt  she  had  been  watching 
all  the  while. 

"Oh,  yes.  In  fact,  I  saw  her  in  New  York  just 
before  she.  .  .  ." 

Lillian  broke  the  sudden  pause. 

"I  loved  her  very  much,  Mr.  Moore.  I'll — I'll  miss 
her  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

The  sadness  in  her  voice  did  not  linger.  As  if 
she  fought  against  it,  she  turned  back  to  the  letter. 

"Is  this  where  I  sign?"  she  asked. 

Stepping  over  beside  her,  he  indicated  the  place. 
"Right  here." 

A  tear  dropped  on  the  letter  as  she  wrote  her 
name  there. 

Lillian  calmly  blotted  the  signature  and  the  tear 
and  folded  the  letter  into  its  original  creases. 

"You  didn't  expect  me  to  seal  our  contract  with 
tears,  did  you?" 

"I  can  understand  how  you  feel  about  her — be- 
cause I  know  how  she  felt  about  you." 

He  drew  back  a  little  then.  And  when  he  spoke 
again  the  business  tone  had  returned  to  his  voice. 

"This  is  your  copy  of  the  agreement,"  handing 
her  a  carbon  of  the  letter. 

'Thank  you — but  tell  me,  did  you  talk  with 
grandma?" 

"Oh— yes,  indeed.  We  had  quite  a  long  chat."  He 
did  not  let  her  see  his  eyes  then,  as  though  to  hide 
the  thing  he  thought  and  cherished. 

"Did  she  know  you  were  going  to  write  about 
me?" 

"Oh — yes.  I  told  her  that  was  why  I  was  looking 
for  you." 

Lillian  sighed  and  smiled  mistily. 

"I  can  imagine  grandma  when  she  heard  that. 
What  did  she  say,  Mr.  Moore?" 

"Well— well,  she  gave  me  some  sort  of  message 
to  give  you." 

Leaning  nearer  she  asked,  "What  was  it?" 

Alex  looked  at  her.    Then,  after  a  pause,  he  spoke: 

'Tve  been  trying  to  think  of  it,  but  it's  so  long 


ago  now.    Shortly  after  that  I  read  where  she.  .  .  ." 
"Yes,  I  know — it  happened  just  before  Dorothy 
was  born." 
"Dorothy?" 

"Yes — our  baby.  Didn't  you  know?  She's  almost 
three  months  old  now.  I'll  introduce  you  to  her 
sometime." 

Alex  felt  strangely  awkward,  saying,  "I'd  love  to 
meet  her." 
"And  I'd  like  you  to  meet  my  husband,  too — " 
Just  then  a  discord  sounded  violently  from  the 
piano  and  its  vibrations  broke  through  Lillian's 
sentence.  Alex  was  startled  and  glanced  in- 
stinctively toward  the  closed  door. 

"That's  what  you  call  artistic  temperament," 
Lillian  quickly  recovered  with  a  laugh.  "When- 
ever Teddy  becomes  dissatisfied  with  his  work,  he 
slaps  the  poor  piano  as  if  it  were  all  its  fault." 
Then,  "Would  you  like  to  meet  my  husband?" 
"Well — of  course.  If  it  wouldn't  disturb  him." 
"We'll  soon  find  out.  If  he's  really  as  annoyed 
as  that  discord  sounded,  he'll  welcome  an  interrup- 
tion— but  if  he's   in  the  midst  of  an   inspiration, 


Alex  knew  he  must  not  interfere  with  what 
the  paper  had  sent  him  for — a  great  and 
important  task.  The  story  of  Lillian  Russell. 
Her    story.    Not    his,    not    theirs!    Hers 


it's  hopeless."     Then,  she  stood  and  called  clearly 
toward  the  closed  door. 
"Teddy!    Teddy!" 

THERE  was  no  answer  because  at  that  very  mo- 
ment Teddy  Solomon  clutched  his  throat  and 
gasped  for  breath.  He  wanted  to  answer,  to  call 
out,  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world.  But  he 
only  had  strength  enough  to  lift  himself  a  few 
inches  from  the  piano  and  reach  for  the  glass  of 
water  beside  the  music  rack.  His  trembling 
fingers  refused  to  clasp  the  glass. 

Slumping  back  in  his  seat,  the  weight  of  his  upper 
body  fell  on  the  keyboard,  making  another  discord. 

"Lillian — Lillian.  .  .  ." 

His  weak  cry  was  lost  in  the  vibrating  noise  of  the 
keys,  pinned  beneath  him. 

"Lillian — " 

But  no  sound  filtered  through  to  the  outer  room. 

Lillian  looked  at  Alex  and  shrugged  her  shoulders, 
smiled  a  little  apologetically. 

"Doesn't  look  as  though  he  wanted  to  be  dis- 
turbed, does  it?" 

Lillian  sat  in  the  chair  again  and  turned  to  Alex. 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me  something  about  your 
ambition.  You  know,  I  remember  when  you  told  me 
you  wanted  to  own  a  paper.  When  are  you  going  to 
own  your  newspaper?" 

"I  don't  know — yet — although  I  am  working 
toward  it.  I  didn't  get  on  well  in  New  York  and — 
well,  I  went  back  home  to  Pittsburgh — I've  been 
there  on  the  same  paper  ever  since." 

"Married,  I  suppose?"  she  asked  quickly — left 
the  sentence  uneasily  in  the  air  between  them. 

"No—" 

"Well!  Well— why  not?  Isn't  there  a  girl?"  she 
laughed  coaxingly. 

"There's  a  girl  back  home  I've  known  all  my 
life—" 

"What's  her  name?    Tell  me  about  her." 

"Lucille—" 

"Why  haven't  you  married  Lucille?" 


"I — I  just  never  thought  seriously  enough  about 
it,  I  guess."  He  smiled  to  cover  his  embarrassment 
"Maybe  she  wouldn't  have  me  if  I  did." 

He  didn't  want  to  talk  about  why  he  had  not  mar- 
ried ...  He  couldn't — to  her. 

Seeing  that  he  obviously  preferred  to  change  the 
subject,  Lillian  shook  her  head  and  a  smile  played 
in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  all  right,  if  you  don't  want  to 
tell  me  about — Lucille." 

"You're — you're  very  happy,  aren't  you?"  Alex 
asked,  changing  the  subject  of  marriage  over  to  her, 
to  her  life  with  Solomon  by  nodding  slightly  toward 
the  closed  door. 

"Oh,  yes — very,"  but  a  thoughtful  frown  puckered 
her  brows.  She  cleared  the  air  with  a  wave  of  her 
hand,  saying,  "But  we  haven't  had  such  an  easy 
time  of  it  lately,  and  your  check  is  more  than  wel- 
come. Yes,  we,  Teddy  and  I,  have  been  very  happy. 
You  see,  he  is  writing  an  opera  for  me.  Really 
beautiful  music — of  course,  you've  heard  his  com- 
positions?" 

"Yes — yes,  I  have." 

Alex  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  the  subject  of 
her  now  that  once  they  had  opened  it. 

"Then,  you've  really  achieved  your  ambition, 
haven't  you?"  he  pursued.  "A  successful  career — 
and  a  happy  romance." 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  have — although  my  career  has  been 
sort  of  lost  in  a  London  fog  lately." 

"The  baby  more  than  makes  up  for  that,  I 
imagine." 

She  assured  him  he  was  right  with  a  quick  nod 
and  smile. 

"Won't  you  have  some  tea,  Mr.  Moore?" 

"No,  thank  you — I'm  ...  I'd  like  to  begin  our 
work  tomorrow  if  you  can  give  me  a  little  time," 
he  took  up  his  hat  from  the  settee,  prepared  to  leave. 

But  he  could  see  that  she  did  not  want  him  to  go. 
She  shifted  in  her  chair  and  turned  the  palms  of  her 
hands  upward. 

"We  can  begin  tonight  if  you  wish,  Mr.  Moore." 

HE  couldn't  begin  tonight.  He  knew  that,  although 
he  did  not  know  why.  Perhaps  it  was  because  just 
behind  the  closed  door  at  a  piano  sat  a  man,  who  had 
not  figured  in  the  beginning  of  the  story  he  was  to 
write.  Perhaps — because  tonight  the  beginning  of 
the  story  was  too  real  and  too  close.  No,  he  was  too 
close  to  the  forest  of  his  thoughts  to  single  out  and 
focus  on  a  single  tree.  He  did  not  know  why  he 
could  not  begin  tonight — that  he  did  not  even  wish 
to  stay  there  and  talk  with  her  longer. 

Looking  down  at  her,  Alex  knew  he  must  not  in- 
terfere with  what  the  paper  had  sent  him  for — a 
great  and  important  task.  The  story  of  Lillian  Rus- 
sell.  Her  story.   Not  his,  not  theirs.   Hers! 

"No — "  he  spoke,  not  realizing  he  had  been  lost 
in  thought.  "No — I've  taken  up  enough  of  your  time 
tonight.  But  could  we  devote  the  afternoon  to  it 
tomorrow?  Say  from  about  one  o'clock  on?  I  can 
only  be  in  Europe  two  weeks,  and  I  have  to  visit 
Paris,  Vienna  and  Budapest  before  sailing  back." 

He  breathed  easier  when  he  had  told  her,  so  that 
she  might  not  know  what  he  was  trying  to  hide  .  . 
because  he  did  not  want  her  to  know  that  he  was 
struggling  against  accepting  something  he  had 
known  a  long  while,  had  not  really  acknowledged 
as  truth.    Lillian  Russell  was  completely  lost  to  him. 

"Are  you  going  to  Paris  and  the  other  places  you 
mentioned  on  business?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes — of  course.    Yes,  I  am." 

"And  I  was  flattering  myself  that  you  had  come 
all  the  way  to  London  just  to  interview  me."  She 
shrugged  and  smiled. 

The  coaxing  tone  in  her  voice  filled  him  with  a 
painful  delight.  She  was  trying  little  tricks  to  pro- 
long his  stay.  It  was  mainly  because,  he  told  himself 
quickly,  she  must  be  lonely. 

"You're  the  most  important  assignment,  Miss  Rus- 
sell .  .  ."  Again  frightened  by  the  revelation  of  his 
tone,  he  added,  "This  is — rather,  that  is  the  way  my 
paper  feels  about  it."  He  had  reached  the  door, 
then.    "Good  night,  Miss  Russell." 

She  came  over  to  him,  then,  but  he  backed  into 
the  open  doorway.    "Good  night." 

"No — wait,"  she  touched  his  sleeve.  "I  mustn't  let 
you  go  without  meeting  Teddy.  Don't  you  think  you 
should  meet  him  before  you  leave  tonight?" 

"But — he'll  be  annoyed  by  an  intrusion — " 

"He  might  be  terribly  annoyed — if  I  let  you  go 
without  meeting  him.  Do  you  mind  if  I  take  you  to 
him  now?    It  will  take  only  a  minute." 

Alex  came  into  the  room  again. 

Approaching  the  closed  door,  Lillian  opened  it 
slowly.    Peering  through  the  opening,  she  called, 

"Teddy—"  softly. 


38 


Pushing  further  into  the  room,  she  called  again. 
Then,  she  came  out  quickly,  closing  the  door  care- 
fully behind  her.  "I'm  so  sorry,"  she  half-whis- 
pered. "Teddy  is  fast  asleep,  using  his  arms  for  a 
pillow  right  on  the  keyboard." 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  disturb  him — " 

"No,  I  wouldn't  do  that.  You  see,  he's  so  tired. 
But  tomorrow — you'll  meet  him  tomorrow.  We'll 
have  tea,  the  three  of  us  together." 

A  little  relieved,  somehow,  Alex  nodded  in  agree- 
ment and  walked  to  the  exit,  Lillian  beside  him. 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  said,  "Tomorrow  then 
— and  you  will  keep  this  pact?" 

"You  can  depend  on  it." 

"And  thank  you  again  for  everything.  You  don't 
realize  how  much  it  means  to  Teddy  and  me." 

Leaning  against  the  door,  which  she  had  closed 
behind  Alex,  Lillian  stood  looking  about  the  room 
for  a  second.  Alex  Moore,  tall  and  broad  and  ten- 
der— just  as  he  had  been  before — just  as  he  had  re- 
mained in  her  memory,  was  still  in  that  room.  His 
simple  dignity  and  sincerity  were  everywhere. 

"The  most  enchanting  memory  of  my  girlhood," 
she  thought.  "Yes — that's  what  it  is,  a  memory- 
nothing  more." 

A  MOMENT  later  the  vision  of  Teddy  crowded 
into  her  thoughts,  brought  her  back  to  the  reality 
of  the  present.    Poor,  tired  Teddy! 

She  walked  over  to  the  table  and  picked  up  the 
check.  What  a  blessing  it  was!  To  know  that  now 
Teddy  could  have  a  rest — they  could  go  to  the  coun- 
try for  two  weeks.  Maybe  longer.  She  was  happy 
with  the  bright  picture  pushing  into  her  mind — of 
Teddy,  resting  at  last,  resting  because  he  no  longer 
felt  the  cruel  pressure  of  the  necessities  of  their  life. 
The  dreary  cloud,  which  had  settled  over  her  heart 
throughout  those  months  as  she  watched  him  strain- 
ing far  beyond  fatigue  and  yet  had  known  there  was 
nothing  she  could  do,  had  lifted. 

Just  one  more  week!  It  was  too  good  to  keep  to 
herself  any  longer.  News  like  that  was  good  enough 
to  wake  Teddy  for.  She  sang  out  his  name  and 
when  that  brought  no  answer  she  threw  back  her 
head  and  sounded  it  again  in  a  running,  clear  scale. 

With  the  check  in  her  hand  she  went  humming 
to  Teddy's  door. 

She  found  him  still  at  the  piano,  his  head  on  his 
folded  arms.  The  light,  burning  on  the  piano,  fell 
on  his  head,  reminding  her  how  often  he  had  run 
his  fingers  through  that  dark  tousled  hair,  fretting 
because  some  melody  had  sounded  in  his  mind,  then 
eluded  him.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  because  it 
was  turned  from  her. 

"Teddy,"  she  called.  "Look— look,  Teddy.  Wake 
up,  dear!" 

She  put  out  her  hand  and  touched  his  shoulder, 
but  Teddy  Solomon  did  not  move. 

"Teddy  .  .  .  Teddy  .  .  ."  Leaning  over  him  she 
could  see  his  face  now — and  his  wide,  wide  eyes. 

Teddy  Solomon  was  dead. 

TOR  the  first  time  since  she  had  met  Teddy 
she  felt  lonely  and  unsure  of  herself— and  now  with- 
out him,  she  could  not  grasp  a  vision  of  the  future 
...  of  any  life  without  him.  She  felt  no  attach- 
ment between  her  and  anything  else — or  anybody 
She  was  numb  with  pain.  She  could  not  sleep,  could 
not  talk — no  thoughts  anchored  in  her  mind.  For 
the  most  part  she  sat  bolt  upright,  staring  ahead  .  . 
and  after  a  time  she  tried  to  pray,  forming  words 
on  her  lips  she  had  used  as  a  child. 

"Dear  Father  in  Heaven.  .  .  ." 

She  prayed  slowly  at  first.  As  she  spoke  warmth 
returned  to  her  heart.    Her  soul  returned. 

In  the  day  that  followed  Marie  protected  her  from 
prying  questions.  Ever  since  Marie  had  come  into 
the  room  and  found  her  bending  over  him,  her  face 
as  white  as  the  other  face  and  her  eyes  almost  as 
staring,  Marie  had  taken  everything  into  her  own 
capable  hands. 

She  had  not  had  to  explain,  even  about  the  check 
—only  to  tell  Marie  to  take  it  back  to  Alex  Moore 
at  the  Savoy  Hotel. 

"Miss  Russell  wanted  to  write  you  a  note,  Mr. 
Moore,  but  she  couldn't,"  the  wiry,  red-eyed 
woman  told  Alex.  It  was  the  afternoon  he  had 
planned  to  begin  his  interview.  "It's  been  a  terrible 
shock  to  her — and  .  .  .  she  felt  you'd  understand 
why  she  couldn't  possibly  go  on  with  her  story." 

"I  do  understand — and  I'm  sorry."  Then  he  asked 
ihe  Frenchwoman,  "When  did  it  happen?" 

"Before  you  left  last  night.  It  was  his  heart,  the 
doctor  says."  It  seemed  he  had  not  heard  all  she 
said,  "She  found  him  at  the  piano  .  .  .  she  had 
thought  he  was  sleeping  as  he  sometimes  did.    And 


she  was  alone  with  him  there  for  hours.  .  .  ." 
"How  is  she  now?  Is  there  anything  I  can  do?" 
"Nothing — she  is  in  a  daze.  I  can't  let  anyone  see 
her.  But  I  was  praying  she  would  see  you — figuring 
the  work  on  the  story  would  take  her  mind  off  things 
— but  she  can't  .  .  .  she  said  to  tell  you  she  didn't 
like  stories  with  sad  endings." 

He  watched  the  woman  move  away  across  the 
lobby  and  felt  a  cold  blast  blow  across  his  heart 
for  the  man  he  had  almost  met.    He  felt  strangely 
acquainted  with  him,  and  perhaps  throughout  his 
life  at  times  he  would  recall  the  sound  of  violent 
discords  from  a   piano  in   a  closed  room.     It  was 
the  feeling  of  association  which  he  had  put  into  the 
news  story  he  had  cabled  back  to  Pittsburgh  earlier 
The  story  which  began— 
"Lillian  Russell's  husband  is  dead." 
On  the  note,  which  he  sent  with  flowers  to  Lillian, 
he  could  only  say, 
"Dear  Miss  Russell:     I'm  so  sorry. 

Alexander  Moore." 

MARIE  brought  the  small  box  of  pink  roses  and 
fern  to  Lillian.  But  Lillian  did  not  look  or  make 
any  motion  to  take  it  from  her.  She  kept  sitting  by 
the  window,  looking  through  wide,  dry  eyes  into  the 
thick  fog  outside. 

"Look,  Ma'am,  aren't  they — these  little  pink  buds 
—gorgeous?" 

"Yes — yes,  Marie." 

"There's  a  card  with  them — don't  you  want  to  read 
what  it  says?" 

"You  read  it  for  me,  Marie." 

"  'I'm  so  sorry' — that's  all,  it's  from  that  Mr 
Moore." 

"That's  nice  —  sincere  and  simple  .  .  .  like  him 
That's  nice." 

"It  is,  Ma'am — and  won't  you  just  read  some  of 
these  cablegrams —  You've  so  many  nice  friends  in 
America  .  .  ."  Eager  to  keep  the  small  spark  of 
interest  alive.  "Oh,  Ma'am — Mr.  Moore  telephoned 
to  say  good-by.  He's  leaving  for  Paris  today  but  he 
said  if  you  wanted  to  reach  him  before  he  sailed  for 
America,  you — " 

Lillian  sighed. 


Lillian  caught  the  tiny  Dorothy  in  her  arms 
.  .  .  Here  was  her  real  reason  for  want- 
ing   to    make    Teddy's    dream    come    true 

America — it  seems  so  long  since  I've  seen 
America." 

It  seemed  as  though  she  were  seeing  Broadway 
again  .  .  .  Rector's  .  .  .  The  Casino  .  .  .  the  lights 
and  gaiety  .  .  .  seeing  them,  again,  through  the  fog. 

"Shall  I  read  the  wires  for  you,  then — the  ones 
from  America?"  Marie  coaxed. 

When  Lillian  did  not  answer,  Marie  began  to  slit 
envelopes  and  unfold  messages.  She  read,  in  an  odd 
phonetical  voice: 

"  'Dear  Lillian— My  deepest  sympathy.  Is  there 
anything  I  can  do  for  you?    Jim  Brady.'  " 

"Sweet  old  Jim,  always  ready  to  help  someone," 
Lillian  said. 

"  'Lillian  dear — Am  terribly  grieved  by  your 
sorrow.  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way?  Jesse 
Lewisohn.' " 

With  more  feeling,  "He's  so  real,  too.  They're  my 
dear  friends." 

Encouraged  by  her  mistress'  reaction,  Marie  hur- 
ried to  the  next.     "Dear  Miss  Russell — May  I  ex- 


tend you  my  d^epeat  sympathy  and  though  the 
time  be  inappropriate,  may  I  offer  you  the  leading 
role  in  my  new  operetta  which  is  to  begin  rehearsal 
shortly.     Respectfully— Arthur   Sullivan. " 

Lillian  reached  for  that  one  and  Marie  waited 
while  she  read  it  to  herself,  silently. 

Shaking  her  head,  Lillian  returned  it  to  Marie  and 
went  back  to  her  fog  gazing. 

"Is  that  from  Mr.  Sullivan  of  Gilbert  &  Sullivan, 
Ma'am?" 

Lillian  nodded. 
"Aren't  you  excited  about  it?" 

"I  don't  think  I  could  be  excited  about  anything 
right  now." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  accept  the  offer,  Ma'am?" 

"No,  Marie — I'm  going  back  to  America." 

"Without  a  London  success,  Ma'am?" 

Slowly  Lillian  turned  her  eyes  on  Marie.  She 
blinked  against  sudden  mist  .  .  .  She  had  been 
touched  .  .  .  like  Teddy's  white,  feverish  hand 
clutching  her  sore  heart. 

"He  would  want  you  to  do  it,  Ma'am,"  Marie 
met  her  bravely.  "I've  heard  him  say  it  time  and 
time  again.  'Lillian,'  I've  heard  him  say,  'you'll 
bring  London  to  your  feet  before  we're  through.' 
And  that's  why  he  worked  so  hard,  Ma'am.  He 
wanted  your  London  success." 

Lillian  pressed  her  fingers  into  the  throbbing  tense 
muscles  of  her  forehead.  Teddy  had  wanted  her 
to  realize  a  London  success — so  terribly  much  he 
had  used  up  the  flame  of  his  life  to  reach  it  for 
her.  There  was  something  to  be  done,  even  after 
death,  something  which  not  even  death  could  stop — 
and  that  was  what  she  must  do  for  Teddy's  dream, 
she  must  make  it  come  true — and  it  wasn't  like  doing 
it  without  him  .  .  .  "Dear  Father  in  Heaven,  thank 
you  for  sending  faith  back  into  my  heart,"  she 
prayed  in  the  still,  quiet  chamber  of  her  mind.  "I 
will  never  let  it  go  again." 

The  baby  sprawled  on  a  blanket  on  the  floor.  In 
the  large  dark  eyes  of  the  little  girl,  Lillian  felt  she 
looked  into  Teddy's  eyes.  Her  heart  was  warmed 
and  comforted  with  returned  hope. 

On  her  knees,  she  caught  tiny  Dorothy  to  her 
arms,  knowing  that  she  held  to  her  heart  her 
greatest  and  most  precious  role.  Here  was  her  real 
reason  for  wanting  to  make  Teddy's  dream  come 
true. 

Crying  and  smiling,  too,  Lillian  said, 

"Call  Mr.  Sullivan  for  me,  Marie — I  want  to  teD 
him  I  appreciate  his  offer — and  accept  it." 

PART  IV 

THE  dream  of  glory  Teddy  Solomon  cherished 
of  Lillian's  London  triumph  came  true — 
swiftly,  forcefully.  Her  name  was  on  every- 
one's lips,  her  pictures  emblazoned  billboards, 
newspapers  spread  her  fame  in  headlines. 
"LILLIAN  RUSSELL  THRILLS  BRITISH  AUDI- 
ENCE" and  "PRINCE  OF  WALES  AGAIN  AT- 
TENDS PERFORMANCE." 

She  gave  the  top  of  her  mind  and  heart  to  the 
stage.  Her  supply  of  energy  seemed  endless.  She 
spent  hours  every  day  in  study — taking  dramatic 
coaching,  voice  lessons,  music  lessons.  She  learned 
to  design  her  own  costumes. 

Where  Lillian  Russell  had  been  a  singer  and 
actress,  she  became  an  artist,  a  well-educated  human 
being,  a  poised,  developed  woman  of  the  world— 
a  mother.  She  made  a  home  and  no  matter  how 
busy  her  life  was  she  always  took  time  to  live  in  it 
and  give  a  part  of  each  day  to  her  growing  daugh- 
ter. Life  rushed  onward  —  and  her  fame  grew. 
When  there  seemed  nothing  lacking  to  complete 
Teddy  Solomon's  dream  of  success  for  her  in  Lon- 
don, with  Dorothy  and  the  faithful  Marie,  Lillian 
mailed  for  home — New  York. 

New  York  was  brighter  and  now  sparkled  with  an 
insistent  gaiety.  The  streets  were  alive  at  night 
under  the  glare  of  gas  lights  and  thick  with  new  and 
old  bicycles,  Victorias,  hansoms  and  carriages.  Many 
new  theaters  were  opened  on  Broadway. 

Everyone  seemed  so  gay — so  busy — yes,  so  happy. 
Lillian  watched  and  listened,  trying  to  open  her 
long-closed  heart  to  the  joy  of  living.  But  even  back 
home,  in  the  city  she  loved,  where  old  friends  cried 
with  delight  at  the  sight  of  her,  still  her  heart  was 
tight.  Still  no  joy  sounded  in  its  void  which  Teddy 
had  left.    Why  not?     Why  not? 

She  had  come  back,  hoping  against  hope  that  she 
might  feel  again  the  old  enthusiasm.  But  the  sin'ht 
and  sound  of  the  place  brought  back  anew  memories 
of  Teddy — his  eyes  were  before  her  everywhere  she 
turned.    His  fingers  touched  her  heart,  kept  it  still. 

Teddy  .  .  .  through     long,    sleepless    nights    she 


39 


thought  of  him,  tried  to  face  what  tortured  her  heart. 
She  had  done  her  best  to  make  him  enjoy  his  life 
with  her.  She  had  given  him  all  she  possibly  could. 
Loyalty,  inspiration,  devotion.  Marriage.  Even  a 
child.  But,  had  she  ever  given  him  love?  Had  she 
ever  been  able  to  give  him  something  she  had  never 
felt  for  him?  Was  it  her  fault  that  he  had  never 
sounded  that  certain  chord  in  her  heart?  If  only  she 
could  convince  herself  that  somehow  Teddy  had 
never  really  known,  had  never  really  felt  the  lack 
of  love  from  her. 

DIAMOND  JIM  BRADY  was  still  the  top  man- 
about-town,  his  great  bulk  sparkling  with  precious 
stones.  And  while  Jim  still  attended  all  first  nights 
and  was  seen  at  the  best-known  restaurants  with 
the  auburn-haired  Edna  McCauley,  as  he  had  been 
years  before,  he  and  Edna  were  still  unmarried. 
Everyone  still  considered  them  engaged. 

One  afternoon  over  a  plate  of  steaming  corn  on 
the  cob  Lillian  asked  Jim,  in  her  frank  way,  why  he 
and  Edna  had  not  wed.  But  the  scarlet,  which 
spread  over  Jim's  great  Irish  face  as  he  sat  there 
stammering,  made  her  know  his  answer  was  one  he 
could  not  word. 

Suddenly  Jim  threw  his  great  head  back  and 
laughed.  Listening,  she  recognized  that  note  of  sad- 
ness she  had  detected  years  before.  Her  ears  were 
more  knowing  now,  more  sensitive  to  the  things  of 
the  heart 

"Why  are  you  laughing,  Jim?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  just  thinking  that  after  waiting  to  tell  you 
something  for  over  five  years,  I  sit  here  and  eat  my 
fill  of  corn  and  can't  even  answer  when  you  ask  me 
why  I  haven't  married  Edna." 

"We're  friends,  Jim — anything  that's  near  your 
heart,  you  can  tell  me — if  you  want  to.  With  you — 
talking  over  our  taste  for  corn — I  came  to  know  how 
I  felt  about— about  Teddy—" 

At  last,  she  could  talk  about  him.  She  could  tell 
this  big-hearted  fellow  all  the  pain,  and  anguish 
and  longing  she  had  experienced. 

It  wasn't  easy  for  Jim  Brady  to  listen  while  the 
woman  he  had  loved  so  long  told  him  about  her 
heartbreak  over  another  man — for  him  to  see  that 
her  heart  had  not  really  mended,  that  through  her 
constant  drive  and  work  she  had  only  cemented  the 
pieces  together. 

"You're  my  best  friend,"  she  told  him. 

Jim  took  care  of  her  moods  and  what  he  could  not 
express  in  words  he  tried  to  say  through  gifts,  sup- 
plying her  with  bracelets,  necklaces,  rings — parties 
— and  even  a  pair  of  spanking  bays  and  a  carriage. 
The  harness  for  the  horses  was  gold-plated! 

As  if  he  were  content  to  take  the  role  of  comforter 
and  confidant  in  her  life,  Jim  shared  her  company 
often  with  his  friend,  Jesse. 

And  during  the  weeks  before  her  engagement  with 
Weber  &  Fields  opened,  each  day  found  Lillian 
pedaling  in  Central  Park  on  a  bicycle-built-for- 
three  between  Jesse  and  Jim. 

Lillian  knew  in  her  heart  she  loved  those  men, 
loved  them  both  —  that  she  needed  them.  She 
thought  at  times  she  could  not  have  lived  without 
their  friendship,  their  loyalty — their  attention. 

OHE  could  not  know  that  the  afternoon  before  she 
opened  at  Weber  &  Fields  Music  Hall,  Jesse  met  Jim 
as  he  left  Lillian  at  her  hotel.  The  few  words  ex- 
changed between  those  long  rivals  at  last  released 
the  door  to  Jim's  heart.  At  last  he  could  open  his 
heart  to  Lillian. 

"Every  time  I  have  a  date  with  LDlian,  I  find  you 
hanging  around,"  Jim  said  jokingly. 

Jim  laughed  and  Jesse  put  a  hand  on  his  arm, 

"I  don't  think  it's  so  funny — and  you  don't,  either. 
I  know  you,  Jim.  You  laugh  when  you're  hurt. 
You  still  love  Lillian — you  have  for  years." 

"Don't  you?"  Jim  asked  seriously. 

"It's  true,  Jim.  I'm  honest  with  you — I'm  in  love 
with  Edna." 

"Edna?"  Jim  stared.    "You  mean — my  Edna." 

"I  know  you  and  she  have  been  friends  for  a  good 
many  years,  that  you  introduced  me  to  her.  But  this 
is  the  real  thing,  Jim— we're  going  to  be  married  this 
afternoon.    Do  you  mind?" 

After  a  pause,  "Have  you  told  Lillian?" 

"I  haven't  had  a  chance — you're  with  her  all  the 
time.  Besides,  she  doesn't  love  me,  Jim — never  did. 
She's  the  best  friend  a  man  ever  had — but  she 
doesn't  love  me  and  she  doesn't  love  you,  either. 
And  that  sort  of  spoils  things  for  me." 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  know  how  lonely  you're  going  to  be 
without  Edna — since  you've  lost  Lillian  again." 


"You  wouldn't  want  to  bet  a  lot  of  money  on  my 

chances,  would  you?" 
"No — but  you  can't  buy  her,  Jim.    I  tried  that." 
"You  never  offered  to  lay  down  everything  you 

had  in  the  whole  world  at  her  feet,  did  you?" 
"Not  exactly." 

"Well,  I  will — and  it's  millions,  Jesse.     Millions." 
A    determined    faraway    look    settled    over    Jim 

Brady's  florid  face  as  he  walked  out  of  the  hotel. 

He  wanted  to  do  something  big,  striking  for  Lillian. 

Something  more  generous  than  any  of  the  things  he 

had  ever  done  before.    And  he  did  it. 

ACROSS  the  mirror  of  Lillian  Russell's  dressing 
table  that  night,  were  these  words,  in  thick  grease- 
paint letters:    LILLIAN,  I  LOVE  YOU. 

"Marie,  who  wrote  that?"  Lillian  asked. 

Before  Marie  could  rest  her  mistress'  blue  satin 
train  on  the  floor  and  come  around  to  look  at  the 
glass,  a  man's  voice  replied,  "I  did,  Lillian." 

Jim  Brady  came  out  from  his  place  of  hiding  be- 
hind the  screen  and  laughed,  laughed  to  hide  his 
embarrassment. 

"Jim  Brady!  What  are  you  doing  back  here  dur- 
ing the  performance?"  And  as  Jim  continued  to 
laugh,  "Why  aren't  you  out  front?" 

"I  couldn't  wait,  Lillian.  I  got  an  idea  and  the 
minute  I  got  it — I  just  had  to  do  it." 

"You  mean,  this?"  pointing  to  the  mirror. 

"I've  been  trying  to  say  it  for  a  long  time." 

She  looked  into  his  Irish  eyes,  saw  his  heart  shin- 
ing there,  and  going  over  to  him  she  pulled  his  fore- 
head down  to  her  lips. 

"Jim,  you're  sweet — but  I'm  going  to  scold  you 
tonight."  She  looked  at  him  with  serious  eyes. 
Then  took  in  the  flower-lined  room  with  a  sweep 
of  her  arms.  "I  want  you  to  look  at  all  the  things 
you've  sent  me  tonight." 

"But  I've   seen   them,  Lillian." 

"Look  at  them  again — and  try  to  repent  your  ex- 
travagance. Now — that  basket  of  roses — with  the 
bracelet  and  necklace  to  match  of  diamonds  and 
rubies — " 

"I  sent  you  one  like  that  the  first  night  I  saw  you 
at  Tony  Pastor's — remember?" 

"Oh,  Jim — you?"  She  looked  at  him,  seeing  sud- 
denly the  crowded  years  between  .  .  .  The  deep, 
darting  pain  of  that  first  night  so  long  ago  came 
back  .  .  .  when  she  had  hoped  that  Alex  Moore  had 
sent  the  present,  which  only  now  she  learned  Jim 
Brady  had  sent. 

Jim  saw  the  sentiment  creep  into  her  eyes  .  .  . 
she  smiled  and  cried  at  the  same  time. 

"Oh,  Jim — you!" 

"I — I  lost  my  heart  to  you — then,  Lillian,  but  I 
couldn't  tell  you  .  .  .  tonight  I've  many  other 
things  to  tell  you  .  .  .  Edna  and  Jesse  were  mar- 
ried this  afternoon  .  .  ." 

"You  were  fond  of  her — " 

He  saw  the  tears  flow  then  over  her  cheeks. 

"And  you — you  were  fond  of  Jesse?"  He  thought 
that  was  why  she  cried. 

"I'll  miss  him — and  you'll  miss  Edna,  too." 

"I  won't  miss  anything  or  anybody  in  the  whole 
world  if  I  can  have  you — and  I'll  give  you  everything 
I've  got  in  the  world  ...  if  you'll  just  say  'yes'." 
He  paused,  and  when  she  said  nothing  he  went  on 
again,  "And,  Lillian,  if  at  the  end  of  a  year,  you  tire 
of  me,  I'll  walk  out  of  your  life  and  leave  every- 
thing I've  spent  my  life  for." 

His  big  arms  went  around  her,  pulling  her  to  him. 

"I  love  you  .  .  .  Lillian." 

Lillian  let  him  hold  her  in  his  arms  and  let  her 
head  rest  on  his  shoulder  while  the  tears  drenched 
her  face.  After  what  seemed  endless  minutes  of 
sobbing,  which  she  could  not  control,  she  bowed  her 
head  and  gently  pushed  him  from  her. 

"Why  are  you  crying?"  he  asked  in  a  strained, 
awed  voice. 

Struggling  with  words,  she  told  him  as  best  she 
could,  tried  to  make  him  understand  that  she  did 
not  love  him. 

"I  wish  I  did,  Jim — and  please  don't  laugh,  because 
I  can't  bear  to  hear  how  this  hurts  you." 

Jim  did  not  laugh.  He  did  not  speak.  Perhaps 
he  could  not.  After  strange,  awful  seconds,  he 
touched  Lillian's  arm. 

"Lillian,  stop  crying — you've  got  to  go  on  with 
the  show,  dear.  Say,  can't  you  take  a  joke?  You 
know  I  don't  care  about  marriage — never  did.  And 
if  you  promise  not  to  scold  me  about  the  gifts  I  send 
you,  I'll  promise  never  to  get  serious  again." 

"All  right — Jim — sweet,"  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

"Now — how  about  supper  with  me  tonight  after 
the  show?" 


"Fine,"  brightening.     "I'll  be  waiting  for  you." 
The  door  closed  behind  him  and  Lillian  turned 

to  the  mirror  to  repair  her  make-up,  when  a  quick, 

familiar  knock  sounded  on  the  door. 
"See  who  it  is." 

MARIE  opened  the  door  to  Tony  Pastor!  And 
while  Lillian  went  into  his  wide  arms,  over  his 
squat,  broadcloth  shoulder  she  looked  into  the  eyes 
of  Alex  Moore. 

Alex  held  her  hand,  explaining:  "I  was  in  the 
theater  enjoying  your  show — and  I  did  not  want  to 
leave  without  saying  'hello.' "  If  only  he  could  tell 
her  that  he  had  never  wanted  to  leave  her.  Years 
had  not  ever  mattered. 

"Leaving?  Where  are  you  going  now?"  her  voice 
soared.  She  took  him  in — a  tall  man,  with  grey 
temples  and  serious  eyes,  whose  strong  fingers 
clasped  hers,  held  them  as  he  answered. 

"I  go  back  to  Pittsburgh  tonight — you  see,  I'm 
here  to  cover  your  show  for  my  paper  ...  I  have 
a  paper  of  my  own  now — "  How  proud  he  was  to 
tell  her  that!     Her  eyes  rewarded  him. 

"The  last  act,  Ma'am,"  Marie  interrupted. 
"You'll  have  to  change  and  there's  only  a  couple 
of  minutes  left." 

Alex  backed  toward  the  door — Tony,  who  had 
stood  in  the  background,  watched. 

"I  wish  you  didn't  have  to  go  back.  I  want  to 
hear  all  about  you — your  paper — I  have  to  change 
for  the  next  act  ...  I  wish — " 

"I'll  be  coming  up  again  soon — "  She  wanted 
him — he  saw  it  in  her  eyes. 

"Why  don't  you  wire  me  and  let's  have  dinner 
together?" 

"I've  had  dinner  with  you  lots  of  times." 

"You  have?     When?" 

"You  wouldn't  remember  —  you  weren't  there. 
But  now — " 

The  music  was  starting.  She  hadn't  changed  yet. 
She  did  not  want  to  let  him  go!  Why  did  everything 
happen  at  once?  Her  greatest  role,  her  return  to 
Broadway,  Jim's  proposal  .  .  .  now,  Alex  Moore! 

"Everytime  something  important  has  ever  hap- 
pened to  me  you  have  come  along — "  she  said.  "Do 
you  understand?    Is  it  a  coincidence?" 

"I  think  I  understand.  I  don't  believe  in  coinci- 
dences. I  believe  in  you  .  .  .  since  that  day  in 
Fourteenth  Street.    I  knew  again — in  London — " 

Had  he  said  too  much,  he  wondered.  Did  she 
really  hear  him?  He  thought  she  was  listening  with 
her  heart — so  his  heart  spoke  out.  Now  it  ham- 
mered, beating  out  in  bold  design  the  pattern  of 
love  held  there  secretively  so  long.    Too  long! 

But  he  could  not  tell  her  more.  The  stage  man- 
ager pushed  into  the  door. 

"Last  act,  Miss  Russell.     You'll  have  to  hurry!" 

The  door  closed  between  them. 

Inside  the  dressing  room  Marie  worked  with  fly- 
ing fingers,  fastening  hooks  and  tying  ribbons. 

"Marie!  He's  been  thinking  of  me  all  these  years. 
That's  what  he  meant.  Grandma  told  me  I  loved 
him.  I  do!  I  have  loved  him  all  my  life!  I'm  sure 
of  it  now!  Marie — don't  let  him  get  away — go  after 
him  .  .  .  I'll  get  myself  ready.    You  go  get  him!" 

The  show  had  to  go  on.  Lillian  had  to  go  with 
it.  It  was,  indeed,  the  greatest  triumph  of  her  career 
because  that  night  the  audience  saw  before  them 
not  only  a  great  artist,  but  a  woman,  inspired,  throb- 
bing, newly  alive  with  love.  A  woman,  who  had 
grown,  who  had  lived  through  great  emotional  ex- 
periences and  been  enriched  and  glorified  by  them. 
***** 

Later,  back  in  the  dressing  room  again,  a  certain 
hush  spread  over  Lillian  .  .  .  quieted  her  heart. 

She  sat  down  before  her  mirror. 

Marie  was  not  there.  She  had  gone  to  bring  him 
back  to  her — but  perhaps,  Marie  had  been  too  late 
.  .  .  because  she  had  been  too  late  herself  .  .  .  too 
late  in  knowing. 

The  full  pageant  of  her  life  flowed  past  during 
those  still  hushed  moments.  She  lived  again  as  a 
girl,  an  actress,  a  wife  and  a  mother.  But  now — 
now,  she  was  a  human  being,  a  woman  in  love. 

She  looked  up,  saw  her  face  in  the  mirror — and 
then,  she  read  the  letters  written  there — read  them 
again— because  this  time  LILLIAN,  I  LOVE  YOU 
bore  the  signature  .  .  .  "Alexander  Moore." 

Alex  emerged  from  his  hiding  place  behind  the 
screen  then  and  Lillian  rose  to  meet  him. 

"I — I  wanted  you  to  come  back,  so  we  could  make 
another  pact — "  she  told  him,  smiling  through  a  sud- 
den mist  in  her  eyes. 

"I've  never  really  broken  our  pact — Helen,"  taking 
her  into  his  arms. 


40 


ocation  equaled  vacation  for  these  stars  of  "The  Biscuit  Eater" 
"hile  "working"  down  in  Georgia.  The  fisherman  is  nine-year-old 
Billy  Lee,  who  was  born  to  be  a  Hoosier  schoolboy— if  he  hadn't 
ormed  the  studio  gates  before  he  was  of  school  age.  The  dog  is 
'as  imported  from  England  and  specially  trained  tfl 
Ktle  role — a   hunting  term   applied   to   worthless   hounds! 


ON     THIS    AND     THE 
BRINGS    YOU    H  0  L  L 


'n     PAGES    PHOTOPLAY 
AT    ITS    PICTORIAL    BEST 


& 


*-'- 


Take  one  best-selling  novel  as  exciting  as  Rachel  Field's  "All  This, 
and  Heaven,  Too"  ...  let  Anatole  Litvak  direct  it  for  the  screen  . . .  add 
Charles  Boyer  as  the  ultraromantic  "Due  de  Praslin"  .  .  .  and  you  have 
something  to  look  forward  to  in  the  way  of  cinematic  fare!    BUT  .  .  . 


^  •      "  ■"•» 


As  though  that  weren't  more  than  enough,  Warners  also  give  us  the 
incomparable  Miss  Davis  as  "Henriette  Deluzy-Desportes,"  deceptively 
quiet  governess  who — with  the  Duke — became  storm-center  of  a  real- 
life  murder  trial  that  rocked  Europe  in  the  days  of  Empress  Eugenie! 


f\ 


GuJ 


4  3 


Wanda    McKay,    of    "Those  Brocaded  white  satin  Lastex 

Were    the    Days,"    wears    a  with  royal  leaf  print  and  a 

B.   V.   D.   classic   of   cotton,  "butterfly"  bra  fashions  the 

worsted,  acetate  and  rubber  Catalina  model  worn  by  Anne 

with    circular   bra    for   uplift  Gwynneof  "LaConga Nights" 


FASHIOh 


**£» 


«*sS^ 


n*?:&n.^^  ?£*•«■ 


^Oe^a<V^ 


ate 


-.SS^®^ 


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rt  V»"0    sV>e«er  (to«*  Tie. 


.vra?s' 


\  Transvaal  Daisy  print  in  trop- 
cal  hues  features  a  two-way 
tretch  Calcraft  knitted 
uit,  as  modeled  by  Carole 
.andis    ("One    Million    B.   C") 


A  "Surplice"  for  uplift  and  a 
flared  skirt  for  fashion  in  a 
Jantzen  model  of  Velva-Lure — 
Irma  Wilsen  (now  in  "Lillian 
Russell")  chooses   it   in   rose 


Princess  lines  with  a  pantie, 
a  dull-and-shiny  rayon  satin 
Lastex  with  Bermuda  stripes — 
Gantner  suit  for  Lois  Ransom, 
now  in  "Grandpa  Goes  to  Town" 


Patricia  Ellis  shows  you  how 
West  Coast  Manchester  puts  a 
satin  suit  woven  with  Lastex  in 
red  and  white  candy  stripes 
over    panties   of   red    Matletex 


Make  "Play  and  Display"  this  summer's 
motto — be  a  sea  nymph  in  one  of  the  new 
streamlined  models  worn  by  these  stars, 
who  know  that  swimming  suits  everybody! 


Typical  of  this  season's  sun- 
suit  designs  adapted  to  water 
is  this,  in  which  Ann  Sheridan 
cheerfully  belies  the  title  of 
"Torrid  Zone."  Trimmings  of 
crisp  white  (rickrack  at  the 
hemline)  add  to  the  cool  effect 


William  Holden  didn't  know  how  hard  acting  could 
be  until  he  had  to  be  fifteen  years  old  in  early 
scenes  as  "George  Gibbs"!  Twenty-four-year-old 
Martha  Scott  (left),  screen-debuting  as  "Emily 
Webb,"  originated  the  stage  role,  had  no  trouble 
with  an  age  range  from  fourteen  to  twenty-seven 


\» 


** 


Like  a  series  of  vignettes  from 
America's  memory  album  are  these 
brilliant  pictorial  character 
studies  from  the  astonishing  film 
version  of  a  memorable  prize  play 


"V 


f  ^* 


"TSJtS' 


. 


Jt'* 


after  choir  practice  (and  the  trio 
actually  does  its  own  hymn-singing) 


Ten-year-old  thinker:  "Rebecca  Webb,"  portrayed  by  Ruth  Toby 


TWO  novelties  (aside  from  the  human  qualities 
which  won  it  the  1938  Pulitzer  Prize)  intrigued 
playgoers  who  first  saw  Thornton  Wilder's  "Our 
Town."  One  was  the  total  absence  of  scenery,  the 
other,  the  presence  of  a  "narrator"  in  the  person  of 
the  village  druggist,  played  by  Frank  Craven.  The 
Sol  Lesser  screen  production  retains  veteran  actor- 
writer- director  Craven  in  his  original  role,  but  pro- 
vides authentic  backgrounds  based — after  an  exten- 
sive New  England  tour — mainly  on  Jaffrey  and  Han- 
cock, New  Hampshire.  However,  chief  strength  of 
this  screen  portrait  of  a  typical  American  community 
in  the  early  1900's  will  still  come  from  the  perform- 
ances of  an  exceptional  cast — drawn  from  both  Hol- 
lywood and  Broadway — as  mirrored  on  these  pages. 


Main  love  story  involves  Emily  (Martha)  and  George  (William) 


It  griped  Fredric  March  (then  Fred 
Biclcel),  some  twenty  years  ago,  to 
pose  as  farm  hands  and  such,  while — 


— Neil  Hamilton  ("the  handsomest  and 
best  man  model  in  all  my  experience," 
says  Brown)  portrayed  "smart  society" 


I 


,Hl 


48 


J& 


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*»  V 


Henry  Fonda  was  mixing  modeling  with 
summer  stock  when  Brown  chose  him  as 
a  model  from  these  1930  views  in  the 
indispensable  John   Powers  directory 

Left,  a  youngster  of  1928-29  better 
known  today  as  "Joan."  The  artist 
discovered  her  in  an  Atlantic  City 
beauty  contest  (which  she  didn't  win) 

Also  from  the  1928-29  catalogue,  at 
right:  Paulette  Goddard,  who  was  one 
of  the  first  models  to  demand — and 
get — as  much  as  five  dollars  an  hour 


H* 


«CF£  J 


s& 


irry  Uberoff  (now  Alan 

irtis)    caught    modeling 

an   Eric   Hatch   novel 


Florence  Rice  was  six  when 
she  first  posed  for  Brown, 
and    kept   on   till   film   days 


The  best  character  model  he  ever 
had — the  late  Flora  Finch,  in  an 
O.  Henry  story  thirty  years  ago 


MAN    STUDIO 


The  signature  above  is  more  familiar  than  the 
face  of  the  illustrator  himself.  For,  like  the 
cinema  directors  and  cameramen  whose  methods 
he  uses,  Arthur  William  Brown  is  known  to  the 
public  only  through  his  work  (as  seen  at  right) 


How  a  noted  illustrator's  methods  proved  to  be  the  "model"  way  to  film  fame! 


BY  FREDERICK  VAN  RYN 


//^™RED  was  certainly  jealous  of  Neil.  He 
mm  couldn't  understand  why  he  should  pose 
I  constantly  as  a  farm  hand  or  a  subway 
guard  while  Neil  would  be  glorified  all  over  the 
country  advertising  a  new  collar  or  a  new  hat. 
'I'm  just  as  handsome  as  Neil  is,'  he  used  to  say, 
but  somehow  whenever  I  had  to  illustrate  a 
story  dealing  with  a  man  who  was  just  too 
good-looking  for  words,  I  would  always  send 
for  Neil.  .  .  ." 

The  Fred  in  question  is  none  other  than 
Fredric  March,  the  "too  good-looking  for 
words"  is  Neil  Hamilton.  The  man  who  re- 
members them,  when  both  were  eager  to  make 
an  extra  five  dollars,  is  Arthur  William  Brown, 
one  of  America's  most  popular  illustrators  and 
a  former  employer  of  some  of  Hollywood's 
highest-paid  stars. 

Ninety  per  cent  of  the  readers  of  this  maga- 
zine were  yet  to  be  born  when  way  back  in 
the  1900's  "Brownie"  handed  three  one-dollar 
bills  to  a  homely  looking  woman  who  struck 
him  as  being  an  "ideal  character  model."  Her 
name  was  Flora  Finch  and  the  stupendous  sum 
of  three  dollars  was  earned  by  her  the  after- 
noon "Brownie"  came  around  to  illustrating  a 
story  by  a  man  called  O.  Henry  for  a  popular 
monthly  magazine.  A  few  years  later  Flora 
was  making  a  thousand  dollars  a  week  in  the 
movies.  Still  later  she  ceased  to  be  popular 
and  retired.  When  she  died  recently,  her  name 
meant  absolutely  nothing  to  the  present  gen- 
eration of  movie  fans  but  her  photograph  was 
still  occupying  a  place  of  honor  in  Arthur  Wil- 
liam Brown's  album. 

(Continued  on  page  89) 


J*tr 


Like  some  of  the  others,  June  Coll- 
yer  left  quite  a  gap  in  the  Kelland 
serials  when  she  left  for  Hollywood 


As  "The  Invisible  Man," 
Vincent  Price's  mustache- 
lessness  was  hardly  noted! 
It's  in  full  view  in  "The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables" 


Clark  Gable  fought  a  losing 
battle  to  keep  from  shaving 
off  his  mustache  for  a  1936 
prize-fight  film — and  hasn't 
appeared   without  one  since! 


It's  off-again,  on-again 
for  Fredric  March  through- 
out his  pictorial  career, 
and  now  it's  gone-again  for 
his  role  in  "Susan  and  God" 


For  the  sake  of  accuracy, 
George  Brent  went  without 
lip  whiskers  in  "The  Fight- 
ing 69th,"  but  got  'em  back 
for    "  'Til    We    Meet   Again" 


Brian  Aherne's  another  who 
has  an  open  mind  about  the 
question.  For  instance,  he 
appeared  both  without  and 
with   in   "My   Son,    My   Son!" 


He  rose  to  first  cinematic 
fame  clean-shaven  but  Errol 
("The  Sea  Hawk")  Flynn  has 
not  faced  a  camera  that  way 
since    1938's    "The    Sisters" 


Srf  •  -™ 


.JP 


WITH 


j  j   a  a 

OR 


It  wasn't  ''Typhoon1'  that 
blew  away  Robert  Preston's 
whiskers,  'cause  he's  been 
seen  without  them  before. 
Now  he's  wearing  'em  again 


WITHOUT? 

Hirsute  revolution  among  the  Hollywood  heroes!  Some 
are  sporting  brand-new  mustaches,  others  have  shaved 
them  off.  Which  side  of  the  barbershop  are  YOU  on  ? 


.    —•>    -fl^1*      ....     Het  aU-  » 


If  you  believe  a  mustache 
marks   the    villain,    you've 

t'ust  forgotten  Basil  Rath- 
>one  in  "Tower  of  London" 
(though    he    usually    has    one) 


S\6«« 


The  pro's  and  anti's  have 
argued  about  Don  Ameche  in 
the  past,  but  he  nearly  al- 
ways wears  one  now,  as  he 
does    in    "Lillian    Russell" 


Ah,  this  should  stir  things 
up,  for  "Waterloo  Bridge" 
discloses  the  first  appear- 
ance of  any  such  fashion  in 
Bob  Taylor's  whole  career! 


OVER    THE    STUDIOS 


Chance  and  Change  are  Hollywood's 
household  gods.  Just  glance  at  the 
reasons  behind  nearly  every  movie 
now    in    production    or   preparation! 

BY  JACK  WADE 


THE  lady  in  the  New  York  Public  Library 
looked  surprised.  A  man  had  just  asked 
her  what  books,  next  to  the  Bible,  were  most 
in  demand  by  the  general  public. 

"  'The  Swiss  Family  Robinson,'  "  she  replied. 
"Then  'Tom  Brown's  Schooldays,'  then  'Deer- 
slayer.'  " 

The  man  wrote  carefully  in  his  notebook, 
thanked  her,  and  left.  He  was  Gene  Towne, 
half  of  Hollywood's  new  "The  Play's  the  Thing 
Productions."  And  as  a  result,  at  RKO  Studios 
this  month  we  find  hundreds  of  people  working 
and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars  being  spent, 
filming  "Tom  Brown's  Schooldays."  "Swiss 
Family"  came  first  and  "Deerslayer"  follows. 
All  that  stemmed  from  a  one-minute  conversa- 
tion in  a  public  library! 

Every  month  we  cover  the  studios  and  find 
movies  being  made,  on  great  sets,  buzzing  with 
activity,  brilliant  with  lights  and  color,  tense 
with  drama.  A  little  later  the  world  thrills  to 
them  in  a  thousand  theaters.  But  long  before 
that,  they  really  started — -maybe  by  a  chance 
conversation  or  a  caprice  of  circumstance.  For 
instance — 

In  Nazi  Germany,  over  a  year  ago,  a  Holly- 
wood director  was  photographing  background 
scenes  for  "Florian."  Suddenly  rough  hands 
seized  him  and  his  camera  was  snatched  away. 
"Heil  Hitler!"  said  his  Gestapo  captors.  "Come 
with  us."  The  director,  Dick  Rosson,  spent  the 
next  few  weeks  in  a  Nazi  concentration  camp. 
From  his  harrowing  experiences  M-G-M  has 
vivid,  accurate  information  for  its  inside  Nazi- 
land  picture,  "The  Mortal  Storm." 

Because  a  Hollywood  milkman  proudly  told 
his  customer,  a  studio  executive,  "I've  got  a  cute 
baby  girl,"  Universal  is  now  making  "Sandy  Is 
a  Lady,"  starring  that  cute  baby  girl.  Because 
"Oomph"  was  a  catchy  word,  Warner  Brothers 


"Tom  Brown's  School- 
days" puts  former  Dead 
End  Kid  Billy  Halop  in  a 
top  hat  along  with  Jim- 
my Lydon  and  Freddie 
Bartholomew  —  while 
"Torrid  Zone"  puts  red- 
headed Ann  Sheridan 
down  in  the  tropics  with 
Jimmy  Cagney,  Andy 
Devine  and  Pat  O'Brien 


and  Ann  Sheridan  are  knee-deep  in  the  sexy, 
tropical  "Torrid  Zone."  Because,  back  in  1908 
he  was  in  a  Broadway  play  called  "The  Royal 
Mounted,"  we  find  Cecil  B.  DeMille  bring- 
ing his  thirty-three-year-old  movie  production 
dream  to  life  in  "Northwest  Mounted  Police"  at 
Paramount. 

The  start  of  any  DeMille  epic  is  always  a  ma- 
jor Hollywood  event.  For  instance,  when  we 
look  in  on  the  big,  log  fort  set  Paramount  has 
reared  on  its  back  lot,  Barbara  Stanwyck,  Clau- 
dette  Colbert,  Joel  McCrea,  Henry  Wilcoxon, 
ex-DeMille  stars  all,  have  been  in  to  give  CB  a 
send-off,  and  the  set  is  stacked  with  flowers  and 
telegrams  from  the  fabulous  DeMille  star  family 
of  twenty-seven  Hollywood  years.  It  will  be 
like  that  all  day  long.  Mrs.  DeMille,  who  very 
rarely  looks  in  on  a  Hollywood  lot  these  days,  is 
observing  her  thirty-year  domestic  custom  of 
visiting  her  husband's  set  on  the  first  day. 


With  old-line  competition  like  that,  it's  hard 
for  us  to  collar  the  great  DeMille  for  some  facts 
and  figures  on  "Northwest  Mounted  Police."  In- 
cidentally, Mr.  DeMille  is  also  trying  to  get  Gary 
Cooper,  Preston  Foster,  Robert  Preston,  Mon- 
tagu Love  and  five  or  six  other  actors  lined  up 
for  a  scene.  But  there's  no  one  cooler  or  more 
collected  than  "Cee  Bee." 

"I've  been  waiting  twenty-seven  years  for 
color,"  he  explains.  "What's  a  picture  about  the 
Mounted  without  red  coats?"  Although  he  used 
color  for  the  first  time  in  Hollywood — away  back 
in  1917  in  "Joan  the  Woman" — he  has  never 
made  a  modern  all-color  film.  This  one  is  a 
Technicolor  "first,"  too,  for  Gary  Cooper,  Made- 
leine Carroll  and  Paulette  Goddard. 

There's  plenty  of  good  color  material  around 

to  work  on,  too,  we'd  say.    The  set  is  practically 

on   fire   with   scarlet-coated   stars   and   extras. 

(Continued  on  page  74) 


52 


Associate  Fashion  Editors:  Frances  Hughes,  June  Smith,  Peggy  Sweet 


Prices  quoted  on  these  pages  vary  in  different  sections  of  the  country. 
For  additional  stores  where  these  fashions  may  be  purchased  see  page  85. 


p£gy 


For  free  wheeling,  Judith 
chooses  this  Sandeze  three- 
piece  play  suit  with  smart 
boyish  knee-length  shorts. 
The  reversible  jacket  has 
a  Talon-fastened  closing. 
Around  $9,  matching  hat,  $1 

Saks  34th  St.,  N.  Y. 
Shillito's,  Cincinnati 
Emporium,  San  Francisco 


"Your  game's  twice  as  good 
when  your  costume's  right," 
says  Judith,  who'll  next  be 
seen  in  Paramount's  "Those 
Were  the  Days."  That's  why 
she's  so  fond  of  this  light  blue 
chambray  Kaddy  Fee  golf 
dress,  with  its  action  back, 
link  -  button  action  sleeves, 
and   a    plaid   belt;   around   $6 

R.  H.  Mac?,  New  York 
Carson  Pirie  Scott,  Chicaoo 
H.  P.   Wasson,  Indianapolis 


54 


Off  to  a  picnic  in  a  new  Ford 
station-wagon  —  and  pert  as 
can  be  in  a  "Nelly  Donsemble." 
Her  white  jean  jumper  tops  her 
play  suit  of  polka  dot  percale, 
$3.95.  Her  Joyce  white  cape 
"Papoose"    sports    shoes,    $5.95 

McCrcery,  New  York 
Carson  Pirie  Scott,  Chicago 
Shillito's,  Cincinnati 


"You  simply  can't  improve  on  an 
Alice  Marble  tennis  dress  and  a 
Spaulding  racket,"  says  Judith, 
taking  a  lesson  from  Arrowhead's 
pro,  Frank  Feltrop.  White  pique 
frock  and   bloomers.  Around   $7 

Best  &  Co.,  .V.   }'. 

Carson  Pirie  Scott,  Chicago 

Roos  Bros.,  San  Francisco 


Piquant  as  Puck,  Judith 
Barrett  takes  you  on  a 
rollicking  round  of  play 
at  Arrowhead  Springs — 
cotton-clad,    of    course! 


"Your  turn  next,"  smiles 
Judith,  knowing  that  she 
will  wind  up  champion  in 
her  pink  linen  and  spun 
rayon  dress  with  gathered 
skirt,  green  drawstring 
belt  and  paddle  pockets 
saddle -stitched  in  the 
same  green.    Around  $14 


Tailored  Woman,  New  York 
H.  P.  Wasson,  Indianapolis 


•Anchors  aweigh,  full  speed  ahead 
— in  a  faded  blue  denim  sailing  suit 
as  seaworthy  as  can  be.  The  halter 
shorts,  $2.50;  nickel  button  jacket, 
$2.50;  white  lisle  shirt,  $1;  "Bib- 
n-Tucker"     denim     shoes,     $3.95 


B.  Altman,  N.   Y. 

ShillitoS,  Cincinnati 

F.  &  R.  Lazarus,  Columbus 


All  set  for  a  vagabond  outing  is  our 
Judith,  with  a  Monarch  Silver  King 
bike  and  red  suspender-slacks  with  a 
striped  cotton  shirt,  from  Travelo; 
around  $11.  Her  Joyce  shoes  are  $4; 
Elizabeth  Arden  sun-gogs,  around  $3 

Lord  &  Tavlor,  N.  Y. 
Carson   Pine  Scott.  Chicago 
Shillito's,   Cincinnati 


55 


":«>** 


I .  A  pretty  miss  awaits  her  luncheon  date 
in  a  brown  and  white  seersucker  frock  that 
is  topped  by  a  brown  linen  weskit.  Around 
$  1 6.  Thecrown  band  of  the  wide-brimmed 
hat  is  wrapped  in  striped  fabric  to  match 
the  frock.    White  gloves  add  final  dash 


5.  It's  very  good  psychology  to  fill  the 
house  with  white  blooms  in  hot  weather 
— just  as  it's  good  fashion  to  wear  a 
black  and  white  checked  gingham  dress 
with  a  childish  red  drawstring;  around 
$11.      Pique   cartwheel   hat,   around    $6 


3.  Week-ending  in  a  "Globe  Trotter" 
three-piece  traveling  costume.  The  leaf 
green  fitted  jacket  has  a  matching  skirt 
with  button-up  front,  and  a  flowered 
blouse.  Around  $16.  The  cocoanut  straw 
sport  hat  is  $3.    Luggage  by  Hartmann 


4.  A  junior  advertising  executive  studies 
a  layout  while  she  herself  is  studied  and 
admired  for  her  taste,  on  a  hot  summer's 
day,  in  wearing  a  grey  plaid  gingham 
frock  with  belted  overblouse  that 
has   big    breast   pockets.      Around    $15 


For  stores   in  other  cities  featuring   the  fashions 
these  pages  turn  to  page  85 


O  TO  TOWN 


Inside  attraction:  Wintry  polar  bears.  Outside 
attraction:  Summery  frocks.  Left,  all-around- 
pleated  printed  calico  skirt  with  a  reversible 
pique  jacket  lined  to  match,  $8.95.  Pique  calot, 
$2.95.  Right,  daisy-print  Everfast  spjn  rayon 
and  cotton  casual  with  pleated  bosom  and  cute 
belt  of  straw,  $10.95.    Linen  Breton  hat,  $5.95 


Marian  Stephenson 


Pigeons  and  pinafores.  Left,  a  gay 
little  pinafore-dress  in  white  and 
blue  striped  Everfast  seersucker,  with 
dimity  blouse,  $8.95.  Leave  off  the 
blouse  when  you  want  to  take  a 
sun  cure.  Right,  sprightly  Roman- 
striped  seersucker  pinafore  with  a 
ruffled  dimity  guimpe,  $8.95.  (Both 
are  on  the  best  of  terms  with   Lux) 


You  can  win  horses  with  sugar,  but 
to  win  friends  wear  one  of  these! 
Left,  a  soft  white  shirtfrock  in 
Celanese  Ridgeway  crepe  with  gold 
buttons  marching  down  the  front, 
$16.95.  Baku  mushroom  hat,  $6.95. 
Right,  brown  and  white  spun  rayon 
shirtfrock  with  crossbar  checked  bo- 
dice, flaring  skirt,  flap  pockets — 
$14.95.    Linen    button-hat,    $3.95 


These  charming  frocks  are  available  at 
I .  Magnin,  Seattle  and  California  shojis 


ARIATIO 


Follow  Carole  Landis's  lead 


and  reduce  your  summer  eve- 
ning wardrobe  to  the  coolest 
and  smartest  dancing  minimum 


FOR  "THE  LITTLE  FOOT,"  Hollywood's  new- 
est dance  rage  (it's  like  the  old  square 
dance),  an  ingenue  suspender  dress  of  baby 
pink  spun  rayon  with  a  mile-wide  skirt  and 
jabot-blouse  of  eyelet  organdy.    Around  $17 

Shillito's,  Cincinnati 

G.  Forrester,  Waterbury 

FOR  THE  CONGA  (left),  Carole  swings  her 
"uno-dos-treses  ("one-two-three's,"  to  us)  in 
pajamas  of  red  and  white  striped  Celanese 
Jersanese,  topped  with  a  slimming  cummer- 
bund and  a  simple  white  shirt.    Around  $17 

Bloomingdale,   New    York 
H.  P.  Wasson,  Indianapolis 
H.  Liebes,  San  Francisco 


FOR  THE  RHUMBA,  the 
blonde  Carole  Landis,  of  Hal 
Roach's  "Turnabout,"  picks  a 
delightfully  daring  midriff  dress 
in  dotted  spun  rayon  shaded 
from  buttercup  yellow  into  a 
golden    brown.    Around     $23 

B.   Allman,  New  York 

Shillito's,   Cincinnati 

H.  P.    Wasson,  Indianapolis 


of   r/»s  »_° *<J    »«_'<, 


THE  monarchs  of  the  jungle  (now  a  "circus 
movie"  troupe) 
Held    a    midnight    protest    meeting,    in    a 

mournful  little  group. 
"Just  look,"  the  Elephant  bewailed,  "at  these 

dull  tusks  of  mine; 
You'd  never  guess  that  they  were  made  of  ivory, 

pure  and  fine." 
The  Rabbit  twitched  his  nose  and  moaned,  "Sup- 
pose you  had  pink  eyes?" 
"Do  you  think,"  horned  in  the  Rhino,   "a  big 

mouth  like  mine's  a  prize?" 
The   Leopard   showed   his   teeth    and    snarled, 

"Who  wants  a  spotted  skin?" 
"Or  such  a  scrawny  neck?"  moaned  the  Giraffe, 

above  the  din. 
"Humph,"  sneered  the  Camel,  with  a  leer,  "I 

have  a  skin  like  leather, 
But  people  say  I'm  careless — and  especially  in 

warm  weather." 
The  Monkey  swung  into  the  ring  and  added  to 

the  clamor: 
"Well,  being   'hairy  as  an  ape'  is  no  asset  to 

glamour!" 
The  Hippo  heaved  a  sigh  and  let  a  ponderous 

teardrop  fall; 
"Suppose,"  she  said,  "you  had  a  waist  that  was 

no  waist  at  all?" 
They  all  turned  to  the  Lion;  he  would  help  them 

with  his  brain  .  .  . 
But  he  was  busy  snarling  at  his  dingy,  tangled 

mane. 
"The  Clown,"  they  groaned,  "refused  to  help, 

for  he  was  worried,  too, 
Because  somebody  told  him  that  his  make-up 

looked  like  glue, 
And  the  Sleight-of-Hand  Magician  said  he  had 

no  tricks  for  beauty.  .  .  ." 
So   Photoplay   stepped   in   and   said:     "Here's 

where  I  do  my  duty!" 


A  Noah's  Ark  allegory  with  a  moral 
for  every  girl  who  ever  got  an  in- 
feriority complex   from  star-gazing! 


rOOR  beasties!  They'd  have  been  a  lot  hap- 
pier if  they'd  stayed  in  the  jungle.  But,  no. 
They  had  to  go  to  Hollywood.  And  it  was  ter- 
ribly exciting,  at  first,  playing  in  Foreign  Legion 
films  with  Gary  Cooper,  or  Tarzan  adventures 
with  Johnny  Weissmuller,  or  madcap  comedies 
with  Cary  Grant. 

But  they  got  a  really  colossal  inferiority  com- 
plex. Back  home,  everybody  had  told  them  how 
photogenic  they  were  and  that  they  simply  owed 
it  to  themselves  to  get  into  the  movies.  What  a 
blow  to  their  pride  it  was  on  the  set,  when  they 
started  comparing  their  own  "natural  beauty" 
with  the  clear  complexion  of  Susan  Hayward, 
the  pearly  teeth  of  Maureen  O'Sullivan,  the 
graceful  figure  of  Katharine  Hepburn,  in  those 
same  motion  pictures! 

There  isn't  much  that  poor  dumb  animals  can 
do  under  such  circumstances.  How  much 
luckier  we  human  beings  are!  If  we  get  an  in- 
feriority complex,  after  admiring  Hedy  Lamarr's 
luscious  mouth  or  Claudette  Colbert's  sparkling 
eyes,  we  can  go  right  out  and  Do  Something 
About  It  All.    In  fact,  we  can  do  the  same  things 


Y      LUCILLE     CROCUS 

that  the  Hollywood  beauties  do! 

There's  no  reason,  for  instance,  why  you 
should  have  to  face  the  same  problem  as  the 
Elephant  with  the  tarnished  tusks.  Why,  you 
can  make  your  teeth  look  more  like  ivory  than 
the  real  thing,  just  by  conscientiously  scrubbing 
them  morning  and  night — not  crosswise,  mind 
you,  or  straight  up  and  down,  but  with  a  circu- 
lar motion  away  from  the  gums,  using  a  long- 
bristled  brush  and  a  good  dentifrice. 

As  for  the  Rabbit — some  breeds  (don't  ask  us 
which!)  just  naturally  have  pink  eyes.  But  they 
don't  get  them  the  way  we  do,  from  too  much 
work,  or  even  too  much  play.  Meet  this  prob- 
lem as  Carole  Lombard  does — use  an  efficient 
eyebath  and  relax.  Apply  it  directly,  or  satu- 
rate little  pads  with  it  and  place  them  over  your 
eyelids  while  you  lie  down  for  ten  minutes  or 
so.  Then  plan  to  make  these  eye-insurance 
methods  part  of  your  regular  beauty  regime,  so 
that  you  won't  have  to  anticipate  further 
troubles.  Nature  thoughtfully  gave  us  the  sort 
of  mouths  that  we  could  do  a  great  deal  to 
change,  once  we  discovered  the  secret  of  ap- 
plying artificial  color  for  a  natural  effect.  That 
isn't  much  help  to  the  cavern-mouthed  Rhi- 
noceros— but  it  means  that  we  can  look  at  the 
stars  and  learn.  The  Hollywood  method  of  ap- 
plying lip  rouge  with  a  brush  is  just  about  the 
most  effective  way  ever  devised  to  give  a  mouth 
whatever  size  or  shape  is  most  becoming  to  your 
own  facial  contours,  and  it's  now  available  to 
every  girl.  You  can,  like  Ginger  Rogers,  use 
the  brush  to  make  up  your  entire  mouth  with  a 
paste  or  liquid  rouge,  or  simply  to  paint  the 
outline  and  then  fill  it  in  with  your  pet  lipstick. 

However,  nature  did  give  the  animal  king- 
dom one  lucky  break.  Their  hides  are  adapted 
to  the  changing  seasons,  while  human  skins 
(which  require  constant  care  because  of  the  ar- 
tificial conditions  under  which  we  live)  need 
extra  help  at  such  times.  Maybe  the  Leopard 
(Continued  on  page  90) 


59 


*tss 


,,Jlrir^»Miii«inPiiiEiiin»»,tfU,lU 


»u» 


3740  —  The  current  Hollywood 
vogue  for  light  tops  finds  its  way 
into  your  outdoor  wardrobe.  It 
needn't  be  the  perennial  sweater- 
and-skirt,  either,  as  proved  by  this 
two-piece  design  featuring  a  white 
blouse  in  Everfast's  pique  and  a 
red  skirt  in  Everfast's   "Caribbee" 


3771 — Combine  spicy  sophistica- 
tion with  the  welcome  coolness  of 
summer  fabrics  by  teaming  plaid- 
and-plain  in  a  hooded  blouse  and 
skirt  design  for  evening  —  using 
Everfast's  white  dimity  and  their 
seersucker  "L'Amour,  L'Amour" 
for    the    hood    and    swirling    skirt 


60 


3734 — Accent  your  tiny  waist  with 
a  flaring  skirt  and  dig-down  pock- 
ets! We  like  this  best — don't  you? 
— in  Everfast's  pique  with  red  and 
white  checks.  You'll  find  many  uses 
for  this  practical  frock,  which  can 
go  shopping  in  town,  playing  in  the 
country,  or  pack  neatly  for  travel 


The  symbol  K2  identijies  these 
PHOTOPLAY-McCALL  PATTERNS 
available  at  leading  department 
stores    throughout    the    country 


mm  m 


Fresh  as  the  daisies  that  dot  her 
costume  is  Rosemary  Lane  in  this 
Freshy  playsuit  of  Cohama's  red, 
green  and  blue  rayon  crepe.  For  pub- 
lic appearances  Rosemary  keeps 
on  the  button-front  skirt — for  a  pri- 
vate romp  she  strips  to  the  one- 
piece  playsuit  beneath.  $6.95  at  J. 
W.  Robinson,  Los  Angeles;  Saks 
34th  St.,  N.  Y.;  Hochschild  Kohn, 
Baltimore,  Md.  Rosemary  stars  next 
in  Warners'  "An  Angel  from  Texas" 


The    idea    of  a    cotton   shopping    spree 
Filled  Miss  Penny  Wise  with  glee. 
"I'll  pick  a  charming  little  dress 
For  fourteen  ninety-five  or  less! 
I'll  choose  the  newest  cotton  finds 
Styled  with  the  very  smartest  lines — 
Some  with  ruffles — some  with  collars. 
I'll  get  big  values  for  few  dollars." 
We  think  every  dress  a  great  success 
And  we  hope  your  answer,  too,  is — yes! 


Penny  Wise  Fashions 

are  featured  at: 

Ritsstks,  ffew  York 

Carson  I'irie  Scott,  Chicago 

akillito't,  Cincinnati 

H.  P.  Wasson,  Indianapolis 

G.  Forrester,  \\'alerl>urv 


/* 


1.  CALICO  plays  a  stellar  role  in  this  blue  and 
white  canvas-striped  frock  with  its  flyaway  skirt, 
quilted  jacket  bodice,  and  pique  ruffles.  $6.95. 
There's  a  matching  calot  to  pin  to  your  curls,  too 

2.  LINEN,  in  buttercup  yellow,  fashions  a  princess 
frock  with  green  rickrack  braid  edgings  'round  its 
sleeves  and  square  yoke,  and  with  four-leaf  clovers 
embroidered  'round  the  width  of  the  skirt.    $12.95 

3.  SEERSUCKER  in  a  rainbow  plaid,  for  a  dirndl  of 
youthful  spirit.  $7.95.  Just  as  young  and  merry 
are  the  Breton  sailor  with  jaunty  yellow  quills,  and 
the    red    and   yellow   Paris   Fashion   moccasin   shoes 

4.  GINGHAM,  checked  in  black  and  white,  makes  a 
love  of  an  afternoon  frock,  with  organdy  ruffles 
and  a  velvet  ribbon  drawstring.  The  skirt's  front 
fullness  is  contrasted   by  the  straight  back.     $7.95 

5.  DOTTED  SWISS  is  cleverly  teamed  with  broad 
bands  of  crisply  starched  net  in  this  midnight  blue 
dinner  dress  iced  with  white  pique  collar  and  gar- 
nished with  a  cluster  of  lush  red  cherries.     $14.95 


6.  DIMITY,  dotted  and  demure,  swirls  out  into  a 
gown  with  the  tiniest  of  waists  and  old-fashioned, 
off-the-shoulder  ruff  of  white  organdy  that  will  make 
you   as   bewitching   as   a    Hollywood   star.      $12.95 


63 


4rJ? 


Lively  contrast  in  a  frock  of  white 
imported  linen  with  bands  of  navy 
braid  worn  by  Joan  Bennett  who  will 
next  be  seen  in  Wanger's  "The  Son 
of  Monte  Cristo."  Her  halo  beret 
is  headline  news  this  summer.  Both 
are  from  I.  Magnin,  Los  Angeles,  Cal. 


* 


ti, .  o 


What's  going  on —  and  where? 
Who's  doing  which — and  why?  Fol- 
low filmland's  almanac  and  find  out! 

A  Hollywood  Bride  Tells  of  Her  Happiness: 

"I  CAN'T  tell  you  the  peace  and  happiness 
I  that  is  mine  now."    One  has  only  to  look  at 
|  blonde     and    beautiful    nineteen-year-old 
Lana  Turner,  Queen  of  the  co-eds  and  wife  of 
Artie  Shaw,  King  of  the  Jitterbugs,  to  know  she 
speaks  the  truth.  Radiance  fairly  lights  her  way. 
"My  happiness  is  proof  that  love  that  comes 
suddenly  and  overwhelmingly  is  best.   Long  en- 
gagements tend  to  detract  rather  than  add  to 
real  love.     Too  many  quarrels  and  misunder- 
standing before  marriage  are  not  the  best  foun- 
dations upon  which  to  build  lasting  happiness. 

"It's  true  Artie  and  I  did  not  get  along  during 
the  making  of  'Dancing  Co-Ed,'  six  months  ago. 
It's  true  I  said  I  disliked  him.  But  now  I  know 
it  was  because  I  did  not  understand  him  and 
mistook  his  earnestness  for  arrogance.  But  I 
will  say  this — I  felt  a  strong  attraction  for  him 
even  when  we  were  at  our  misunderstanding 
best. 


'%>*. 


">*, 


\U 


&>* 


,fi**  *'*>■??* 


PHOTOGRAPHS       BY       HYMAN       FINK 


"This  marriage  has  given  me  new  ambition 
to  go  ahead.  I  have  wonderful  competition  in 
my  husband  and  we  are  determined  to  top  each 
other  in  our  careers,  to  keep  on  top  and  go  along 
the  highroads  together." 

That  Lana  turned  Hollywood  over  on  its  ear 
by  suddenly  eloping  to  Las  Vegas  with  the  King 
of  Swing,  when  for  three  years  her  only  beau 
had  been  Attorney  Greg  Bautzer,  is  under- 
stating for  a  fare-thee-well. 

"I  didn't  even  think  of  that,"  the  bride  told  us 
over  a  morning  cup  of  coffee  in  the  M-G-M  com- 
missary. "There  was  no  sudden  quarrel  be- 
tween Greg  and  me;  no  rebound  love,  as  has 
been  hinted.  I  simply  went  out  on  a  date  one 
evening   with   Artie,   and  we   drove   along   the 


"w: 


'*s 


«9s 


beach  and  talked  quietly.  Gradually,  I  knew 
that  all  I  had  dreamed  of  and  hoped  for  in  love 
and  marriage  and  companionship  had  come  to 
me  through  Artie,  and  so — well,  we  saw  no  rea- 
son for  delay.  I  have  new  ambitions  now  in  my 
career  and  intend  to  work  hard  and  advance. 
I  know  my  studio  bosses  realize  this,  for  shortly 
I  have  been  promised  a  new  type  of  role.  Artie 
has  new  plans  too." 

The  nineteen-year-old  Lana  and  twenty- 
nine-year-old  Shaw,  twice  married  before,  had 
a  honeymoon  cottage  all  waiting  for  them  in 
Artie's  newly-purchased  Beverly  Hills  home. 
The  three  years  that  have  elapsed  since  Mervyn 
LeRoy  spied  the  beauteous  Lana  on  the  Holly- 
wood High  School  campus  and  established  her 


65 


/ 


■'A 


L'f, 


I  > 


Olivia  de  Havilland  (with  Jimmy  Stewart)  and  Bette  Davis  (with  an  ultrasmart  corsage 
idea),  Cocoanut-Groving  for  the  4-A  (Associated  Actors  and  Artistes  of  America)  dance 


in  pictures  has  brought  many  surprises  into  the 
life  of  Lana  Turner.  But  nothing,  not  even  her 
first  role  in  "They  Won't  Forget,"  has  brought 
her  the  happiness  that  her  marriage  to  Artie 
Shaw  has  brought. 

And  we  have  the  bride's  word  for  it. 


Rah  for  the  Irish! 

MAUREEN  O'HARA,  that  colleen  discovery  of 
Charles  Laughton's  from  Ireland,  is  not  only 
making  movie  history  in  Hollywood  (you'll  love 
her  in  "A  Bill  of  Divorcement"),  but  creating 
something  of  a  local  one-woman  riot  by  her  out- 
spoken frankness. 

For  instance,  in  a  recent  conversation  with 
Columnist  Harrison  Carroll,  the  subject  of  im- 
portant Irishmen  arose  and  Maureen  said,  "Well, 
I'll  give  my  list  of  the  ten  most  interesting  con- 
temporary Irishmen,  and  I  don't  mean  some  of 
these  phony  Irishers  that  are  called  by  that 
name."    (Ouch!) 

"First  I'd  choose  Archbishop  Cantwell  of  Los 
Angeles.    Then  I'd  choose  in  order: 

2.  Eugene  O'Neill,  the  playwright. 

3.  John  Ford,  the  director. 

4.  Gene  Tunney,  the  retired  heavyweight 
champion. 

5.  James  Farley,  the  politician. 

6.  James  Cagney,  the  movie  actor. 

7.  Joseph  Kennedy,  America's  ambassador 
to  Great  Britain. 

8.  Frank  Murphy,  justice  of  the  Supreme 
Court. 

9.  George  McManus,  the  cartoonist. 

10.  George  M.  Cohan,  the  actor. 

"Yes,  but  what  about  that  famous  Irish  actor 
here  in  Hollywood,  one "  Mr.  Carroll  asked. 

Maureen's  eyes  widened.  "You  mean  you 
haven't  heard  about  him?"  she  said.  "Why,  he's 
an  Orangeman." 


Set  Capers 

I  HERE'S  never  a  dull  moment  on  the  set  of 
"Lillian  Russell,"  when  Alice  Faye  and  Don 
Ameche  are  at  work  together.  The  other  day 
when  we  walked  on  for  a  look  around  there  was 
consternation  and  much  to-do  in  the  air.  For 
Alice  had  lost  her  rats  and  the  hairdresser 
couldn't  dress  her  hair  for  the  scene.  Besides 
that,  those  very  same  rats  and  sundry  switches 
made  to  match  Alice's  fair  hair  had  set  the 
studio  back  a  pretty  penny  and  had  taken  time 
to  manufacture.  We  joined  in  the  search,  know- 
ing from  the  glint  in  Don's  eye  that  there  was 
a  gag  in  the  offing  some  place.  Then  someone 
thought  to  search  the  portable  dressing  room 
of  the  smirking  Ameche.  And,  sure  enough, 
there,  hanging  from  the  ceiling,  were  the  miss- 
ing hair  pieces  with  a  large  sign  attached — 
"Faye,  scalped  by  Ameche."  Incidentally,  the 
corset  situation  on  the  set  is  gradually  getting 
the  chorines  down.  Alice  has  solved  her  prob- 
lem by  leaving  the  armor-like  foundations  on 
the  entire  time  she  is  on  the  set.  But,  the  cho- 
rines have  a  terrible  time  getting  laced  into 
their  stays  after  lunch  and  after  they  have  had 
a  breath  or  two  between  scenes. 


Recovery  Program 

I  HERE  was  no  one  in  the  hospital  corridor  but 
one  nurse,  as  a  pair  of  very  long  legs  tore  down 
the  hall  and  paused  a  moment  before  a  door 
marked,  "Do  not  disturb." 

"You  want  something?"  the  nurse  said. 

The  long  legs  whirled  around.  "Yes.  My 
wife.    How  is  she,  please?" 

"Just  a  minute,"  the  nurse  announced.  "I 
must  have  her  name,  you  know." 

"It's  Mrs.  Aherne,"  the  tall  man  replied  oblig- 
ingly. "I'm  her  husband." 


The  nurse  did  a  double-take,  swallowed  twice 
and  quickly  ushered  Brian  Aherne  into  the 
room  of  his  bride,  Joan  Fontaine. 

He'd  flown  3,000  miles  from  New  York  to  be 
with  Joan  during  the  operation.  A  few  nights 
later,  when  her  picture,  "Rebecca,"  was  pre- 
viewed, he  sat  in  the  theater  beside  her  mother 
and  watched  the  miracle  of  a  little  girl  who  had 
just  been  trying  to  get  somewhere  in  pictures 
for  several  long  years,  become  a  great  star. 

The  news  he  carried  back  to  her  bedside  had 
much  to  do  with  her  recovery  and  all  Holly- 
wood rejoices  with  them. 


Crazy  Like  a  Fox 

I  HE  job  of  being  a  movie  star's  wife  isn't  easy. 
There's  competition  (innocent  or  otherwise) 
from  every  glamour  girl  he's  thrown  with  in 
a  picture!  But  Cal  knows  one  wife  who  has 
kept  her  man  for  a  good  long  time — Billie  Cag- 
ney. And  he  knows  a  little  story  which  illus- 
trates one  of  the  novel,  yet  wholly,  effective 
ways  in  which  she's  done  it. 

A  few  years  ago  a  certain  screen  ingenue  who 
was  in  a  picture  with  Jimmy  fell  madly  in  love 
with  him.  The  fact  that  he  was  happily  mar- 
ried meant  nothing  to  her.  She  was  out  to  get 
him  any  way  she  could.  All  of  which  was  ap- 
parent to  everyone,  with  one  exception — Jimmy 
himself.  Being  a  decent  chap  and  in  love  with 
his  wife,  he  saw  the  young  siren  only  in  the 
role  she  chose  to  play  for  him,  that  of  a  misun- 
derstood, helpless  female,  alone  in  a  bewildering 
world — meaning  Hollywood — in  need  of  mascu- 
line advice  and  aid.  So  he  spent  a  good  deal  of 
time  on  her,  giving  her  the  advice  she  asked, 
helping  her  with  her  screen  problems,  playing 
the  gallant  male,  generally. 

Until,  one  summer's  day,  after  the  picture  was 
finished  and  the  Cagneys  had  left  for  the  East, 


66 


*^0 


Kay  Francis  and  Arthur  Hornblow  enjoy  a 
laugh  at  Ciro's,  while  we  get  a  fashion 
tip   from   the   clever   cut   of   Kay's   collar 


"The   Affairs   of  Anatole" — starring    Director   Litvak   and   (this 
week — only?)   Madeleine  Carroll;  the  supper  setting  is  Ciro's 


things  got  a  bit  thick.  The  young  lady  actually 
followed  them  and  invaded  their  retreat  in 
Martha's  Vineyard  to  ask  more  "advice"  from 
Jimmy.  She  arrived  right  after  lunch  one  after- 
noon. Jimmy,  slightly  bewildered,  but  still 
courteous,  welcomed  her,  but  his  welcome  was 
nothing  as  cordial  as  Billie's.  She  practically 
gushed.  "Come  right  in!"  she  cried.  "I'm  so 
glad  you  are  here,  because  I  am  going  away  to- 
day and  Jimmy  needs  company." 

Whereupon,  while  Jimmy  stood  by  with  his 
mouth  open,  she  did  just  that.  She  got  into  the 
car  and  drove  away,  leaving  the  nonplused  Mr. 
Cagney  and  the  visitor  behind.  She  stayed  away 
until  after  dinner  that  night.  When  she  finally 
returned,  Jimmy  met  her  at  the  door — alone 
and  in  a  state. 

"Why  in  blankety  did  you  leave  me  that 
way?"  he  growled.  "Stuck  with  a  strange  fe- 
male! I  didn't  know  what  to  talk  about  all  aft- 
ernoon. I — "  he  mopped  a  beaded  brow — "had 
a  helluva  time!" 

Which  was  good  insurance  that  the  young 
lady  in  question  would  never  be  a  threat  again, 
even  if  she  had  been  in  the  past.  Which  was, 
of  course,  what  Billie  Cagney  had  gambled  on. 

Still  ...  it  takes  nerve  to  leave  your  husband 
alone  with  a  siren.    Could  you  do  it? 


Joan  Bennett  (more  like  Lamarr 
than  Lamarr,  since  Hedy's  hair- 
cut), with  Walter  Wanger  and 
Claudette  Colbert  at  the  4-A's 


Littlest  princess  at  "Rebecca" 
premiere:  Pat  Hitchcock,  wit!i 
Papa  Alfred  (who  only  directed 
the  film  itself)  and  Mama  Alma 


At  the  American  Legion  fights, 
Bing  and  Dixie  Lee  Crosby  en- 
dorse the  casual  hat  for  a  more 
than  casual   interest  in  sports 


Tid  Bits  and  Knick  Knacks: 

Cal  wishes  you  to  get  a  new's-eye  view  of: 

Charles  laughton,  who  has  bought  him- 
self a  new  home  and  who  has  invited  his  friends 
to  a  swimming  pool  warming!  Charlie  has  had 
his  pool  steam-heated,  believe  it  or  not. 

Lili  Damita  shopping  at  the  Farmers'  Market, 
spied  a  young  goat  for  sale  and  promptly  bought 
it  for  Errol  Flynn.  "Hmmm,"  hmmmed  a  friend, 
"she's  returning  Errol's  goat  that  she  got  last 
month." 

(Continued  on  page  92) 


•  THE  BISCUIT  EATER-Paramount 

HERE'S  unexpected  distinction  in  a  picture  none 
thought  would  amount  to  much.  Charming,  senti- 
mental, with  superb  performances.  Made  in  Georgia, 
home  of  blue-blood  hunting  dogs,  it  describes  the 
patient  effort  of  a  little  boy  to  make  a  capable  pointer 
out  of  the  runt  of  a  litter.  The  boy  is  Billy  Lee,  the 
pup  is  "Promise" — an  inspired  combination.  With 
the  help  of  a  little  colored  boy,  Cordell  Hickman, 
Billy  sets  out  to  make  Promise  the  winner  of  the 
field  trial.  Young  Billy  comes  close  to  earning  star- 
dom; Cordell,  the  blackest  little  Sambo  you  ever 
saw,  is  also  the  most  amusing.  Richard  Lane,  as 
Billy's  father  and  Helene  Millard,  as  his  mother 
respond  perfectly  to  Stuart  Heisler's  sympathetic 
direction. 


BEYOND  TOMORROW-RKO-Radio 

I  HIS  is  a  study  in  sweetness  and  light,  as  enervating 
a  sermon  upon  what  will  happen  to  you  if  you  aren't 
good  as  ever  went  under  the  guise  of  entertainment. 
The  first  third  of  the  picture  shows  three  lonely 
business  men  befriending  a  boy  and  a  girl  who  are 
adrift  in  the  big  city.  Then  the  three  men  die,  but 
remain  in  the  scene  as  ghosts.  The  boy,  a  singer 
from  Texas,  makes  a  success  on  the  radio — but  is 
lured  from  the  straight  and  narrow  by  Helen  Vin- 
son, actress,  who  gets  him  a  starring  part  in  her 
show.  She  is  supposed  to  be  a  soulless  strumpet, 
rejected  from  heaven  by  God.  The  piece  displays 
naivete.  Richard  Carlson,  Jean  Parker,  Charles 
Winninger,  C.  Aubrey  Smith,  Maria  Ouspenskaya 
and  others  are  in  the  cast. 


GUIDE     TO 


PICTURES 


*  IRENE-RKO-Radio 

James  Montgomery's  famous  stage  success, 

"Irene,"  has  finally  hit  the  celluloid,  with  Anna 
Neagle,  of  all  people,  as  the  little  Irish  nobody.  We 
say  "of  all  people"  because  Miss  Neagle  has  been 
impressed  on  your  minds  as  calm  Nurse  Cavell  and 
dignified  old  Queen  Victoria;  and  in  this  she  sings 
and  dances  and  bounces  about  in  the  gayest  man- 
ner. Anna  is  a  salesgirl  who  meets  a  millionaire, 
Ray  Milland.  Milland,  struck  with  her  beauty  and 
charm,  buys  controlling  interest  in  an  exclusive 
dress  shop  in  order  to  give  his  new  find  a  job  as 
a  model.  Along  come  the  conflicts  when  Anna  is 
assigned  to  wear  a  fabulous  gown  to  a  ball  and  ruins 
it  before  the  evening  begins.  Worried  sick,  she  puts 
on  a  blue  satin  gown  of  her  mother's  and  everything 
turns  out  all  right — about  the  dress,  at  any  rate. 
The  girl  has  you  worried  for  a  time,  because  she 
shows  signs  of  preferring  Milland's  rival,  Alan  Mar- 
shal, to  Ray  himself.  That  little  blue  number  is  the 
inspiration  of  the  haunting  melody,  "Alice  Blue 
Gown,"  which  duly  haunts  the  entire  production, 
giving  it  especial  charm.  The  film  has  a  lilting  qual- 
ity throughout;  it  is  a  happy  thing,  despite  the  sim- 
ple problems  which  appear  as  tragedy  to  the  naive 
Anna.  Even  the  Cinderella  theme,  which  emerges 
after  the  ball  is  over,  is  saved  from  the  stigma  of 
its  antiquity  by  the  method  of  presentation.  Anna 
is  mistakenly  sponsored  as  Lady  O'Dare,  an  Irish 
debutante,  and  is  set  up  in  style  for  the  benefit  of 
the  shop.  Billie  Burke,  May  Robson,  Roland  Young 
and  many  veteran  troupers  assist  the  principals. 


FORTY  LITTLE  MOTHERS-M-G-M 

HERE'S  a  star  cast  in  a  no-star  picture,  because 
the  direction  is  no  better  than  the  story.  Getting 
underway  with  a  large  dose  of  the  wide-eyed  Can- 
tor pathos,  the  offering  gives  promise  of  being  sig- 
nificant, with  Eddie  in  his  true-life  role  as  a  hu- 
manitarian. You  will  note  with  relief  that  the  out- 
moded, stupendous  Cantor  girl  revue  seems  to  have 
been  avoided,  only  to  find  the  girls  have  been  given 
a  picture-long  recess  in  which  to  romp.  Eddie 
draws  tears  when,  broke  and  jobless,  he  becomes 
father  of  a  baby  by  proxy;  Rita  Johnson  didn't 
really  mean  to  abandon  her  child.  Come  the  tears 
again  when  he's  in  police  court  on  account  of  steal- 
ing a  bottle  of  milk  for  the  kid.  Frank  Morgan, 
as  judge  and  ex-schoolmate,  gives  Cantor  a  position 
teaching  in  a  school  for  girls.  There  the  picture 
ends  and  the  froth  begins.  Forty  tittering  school- 
girls are  too  much  for  Eddie,  or  any  audience,  to 
handle.  The  girls  reveal  great  imagination  in 
scheming  to  rid  themselves  of  the  sad-eyed  new 
prof,  while  Madame  Judith  Anderson  and  her  aide, 
Nydia  Westman  (a  precious  little  mouse),  are  in 
great  consternation  over  Eddie's  seemingly  odd  be- 
havior. He's  hidden  that  baby  out  in  his  quarters, 
you  see.  The  rest  of  the  film  is  gagged  with  the 
usual  gags  about  diapers,  but  the  complications  end 
happily  for  all  concerned.  Miss  Anderson,  as  the 
mistress  of  the  school,  is  hilariously  ascetic.  Young- 
sters Bonita  Granville  and  Diana  Lewis  (Mrs.  Wil- 
liam Powell  to  you),  Martha  O'Driscoll  and  Louise 
Seidel,  among  others,  are  excellent. 


*  THE  DOCTOR  TAKES  A  WIFE-Columbia 


WHEN  you  speak  of  "fabricated  stories"  and  "typi- 
cal Hollywood  product"  you  mean  this.  You  can 
just  picture  the  story  conference  over  at  Columbia. 
"We  can  have  'em  married,"  says  one;  "And  still 
not  married,"  says  another,  "so  the  romance  will 
keep."  "Give  'em  careers;  that'll  create  situations." 
"What  about  the  Mistake  That  Changes  Their 
Lives?"  tags  the  first  writer — and  they're  set.  Well, 
Ray  Milland  is  a  doctor,  Loretta  Young  a  novelist 
who  has  an  overnight  best  seller  in  her  book  glori- 
fying the  spinster.  By  the  error  of  a  "just  married" 
sign  on  the  wrong  car,  the  papers  give  out  that 
Loretta  and  Ray  are  married.  She  can't  deny  it 
and  have  a  scandal;  so  they  pretend  and  she  starts 
another  book,  glorifying  the  married  woman. 
Meanwhile  the  situation  is  fine  for  Milland,  because 
his  new  status  fits  him  for  a  professorship  which  is 
much  coveted  by  his  colleagues.  There  is  a  fiancee 
to  make  the  risque  setup  more  so,  and  there  are  the 
usual  bedroom  scenes  and  night-club  sequences. 
The  new  vogue  for  showing  the  hero  at  a  disad- 
vantage is  here  pursued  to  the  point  of  having  Mil- 
land  in  his  underclothes;  he  is  quite  cute.  With  all 
this  recognizable  studio  flam-doodle,  it's  surprising 
enough  that  the  film  is  amusing  and  worth  the 
money.  Loretta  is  stunning,  Milland  overplays  oc- 
casionally and  underplays  the  rest  of  the  time,  Gail 
Patrick  (the  fiancee)  is  well  cast  and  Reggie  Gardi- 
ner is  Reggie  Gardiner;  as  ever  was  and  always  is. 
The  professors  who  straggle  in  and  out  are  a  dull 
bunch  and  don't  matter. 


63 


•  TWO  GIRLS  ON  BROADWAY-M-G-M 

GEORGE  MURPHY,  Joan  Blondell  and  Lana  Tur- 
ner have  in  this  turned  out  the  sort  of  musical  for 
which  you  have  been  waiting.  It  has  all  the  stuff: 
Good  music,  good  footwork,  and,  praised  be,  an  in- 
telligent story.  Murphy  starts  things  by  opening  a 
wedge  for  dance-partner  Joan  Blondell  to  follow 
him  to  Broadway.  She  arrives  with  her  little  sister; 
it's  the  lovely  Lana.  George  can't  believe  she's 
grownup — but  Kent  Taylor,  producer  of  the  show, 
needs  only  one  look  for  proof.  You'll  get  a  lump 
in  your  throat  as  Joan  is  relegated  to  cigarette-girl 
status  in  order  to  further  little-sister  Lana's  career. 
There's  an  excellent  dance  scene  featuring  George 
and  Lana,  with  the  veteran  Murphy,  of  course,  tak- 
ing most  of  the  honors. 


•  THE  DARK  COMMAND-Republic 

I  HE  number  of  the  fair  sex  who  help  shape  history 
mounts.  Here  it  is  the  blonde  Claire  Trevor  who 
affects  the  destiny  of  territorial  Kansas.  John 
Wayne  seeks  her  favor  by  running  for  Marshal  of 
the  frontier  town  of  Lawrence.  Walter  Pidgeon, 
defeated  candidate,  woos  power  and  Miss  Trevor  by 
becoming  the  ruthless  guerilla  leader  of  a  band  of 
raiders  who  terrorize  the  countryside  until  Wayne 
and  his  men  step  in.  Director  Raoul  Walsh  has 
caught  the  rich  flavor  of  frontier  life  in  this  action- 
filled  film,  and  a  roster  of  fine  actors  make  it  A-one 
fun.  John  Wayne  scores  as  the  virile  Marshal,  Wal- 
ter Pidgeon  is  a  villainous  villain,  and  Claire  Trevor 
has  the  necessary  charm.  Outstanding  support  is 
offered  by  Roy  Rogers  and  Marjorie  Main. 


*  'TIL  WE  MEET  AGAIN-Warners 

I  HERE  is  a  tendency  lately  to  dramatize  the  phil- 
osophy that  there  are  worse  things  than  death.  Well, 
in  this  cheery  story  both  George  Brent  and  Merle 
Oberon  are  doomed  from  the  first  reel.  He's  an 
escaped  murderer  and  she's  got  coronary  thrombosis 
or  something  equally  lethal.  After  a  very  symbolic 
beginning,  with  both  drinking  the  same  Paradise 
cocktail,  they  travel  about  on  boats:  George  with  his 
captor,  Pat  O'Brien,  and  Merle  with  her  ailing  heart. 
A  deathless  love  develops  between  them  and  al- 
though each  discovers  the  other's  secret,  each  pre- 
tends. The  piece  has  moments  of  extraordinary 
drama.  Brent  and  Miss  Oberon  do  splendid  work, 
as  do  Geraldine  Fitzgerald,  Binnie  Barnes  and  Eric 
Blore.    See  it  for  a  good  cry. 


SAVESYOUR 


RE     TIME     AND     MONEY 


THE    BEST   PICTURES   OF  THE    MONTH 

The  Biscuit  Eater 

Irene 

The  Doctor  Takes  a  Wife 

Two  Girls  on  Broadway 

The  Dark  Command 

'Til  We  Meet  Again 

A  Bill  of  Divorcement 

Buck  Benny  Rides  Again 

It's  a  Date 

Star  Dust 

Virginia  City 

Double  Alibi 

Human  Beast 

It  All  Came  True 

BEST   PERFORMANCES    OF    THE    MONTH 

Billy  Lee  in  "The  Biscuit  Eater" 

Cordell   Hickman  in  "The  Biscuit  Eater" 

Promise  (the  dog)  in  "The  Biscuit  Eater" 

Anna   Neagle  in  "Irene" 

George  Murphy  in  "Two  Girls  on  Broadway" 

John  Wayne  in  "The  Dark  Command" 

George  Brent  in  "  'Til  We  Meet  Again" 

Merle  Oberon  in  "  'Til  We  Meet  Again" 

Maureen  O'Hara  in   "A  Bill  of  Divorcement" 

Ellen  Drew  in  "Buck  Benny  Rides  Again" 

Jack  Benny  in  "Buck  Benny  Rides  Again" 

Deanna  Durbin  in  "It's  a  Date" 

Kay  Francis  in  "It's  a  Date" 

Walter  Pidgeon  in  "It's  a  Date" 

Jean  Gabin  in  "Human  Beast" 

Ray  Milland  in  "French  Without  Tears" 


•  A  BILL  OF  DIVORCEMENT-RKO-Radio 

VO  you  remember  how  exciting  it  was  some  years 
back  when  a  tall,  lean  girl  named  Katharine  Hep- 
burn went  floating  around  the  screen  in  "A  Bill  of 
Divorcement"?  Maureen  O'Hara  plays  the  role  in 
this  re-make  of  the  same  story.  It's  a  somber  film 
at  best,  dealing  as  it  does  with  hereditary  insanity 
and  the  ruin  of  a  young  girl's  life.  Learning  of  the 
pathological  strain  in  her  ancestry,  young  Maureen 
courageously  spurns  her  betrothed  and  decides  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  her  life  (so  long  as  she's 
sane)  to  caring  for  her  neurotic  father.  The  father, 
you  see,  has  escaped  from  his  asylum  and  come 
home,  confident  that  he's  got  his  wits  about  him  at 
last.  Maureen  can't  very  well  depend  on  her 
mother,  Fay  Bainter,  because  that  lady  has  obtained 
a  divorce  and  wants  to  marry  Herbert  Marshall. 
Adolphe  Menjou  has  the  role  of  the  neurotic,  pre- 
viously done  by  John  Barrymore,  and  is  good — but 
the  comment  is  made  with  reservations.  One  feels 
the  character  is  an  excellent  conception  of  a  maniac, 
rather  than  the  real  thing,  and  Menjou's  devices 
sometimes  are  obvious.  Fay  Bainter  and  Marshall 
carry  on  admirably,  somewhat  oppressed  by  the 
roles  and  oppressing  in  portrayal.  It's  the  fault  of 
the  story.  Miss  O'Hara  is  enchanting  at  times,  man- 
aging to  fuse  a  spirit  of  youth  and  hope  with  the 
burdensome  nature  of  her  part.  The  film's  preach- 
ments about  divorce  are  dated  today.  On  the  whole, 
"A  Bill  of  Divorcement"  is  another  in  the  run  of 
dismal  psychological  studies,  well-done,  and  drip- 
ping with  quality.     But  not  for  the  masses. 


*  BUCK  BENNY  RIDES  AGAIN-Paramount 

BuCKETY-BUCKETY  through  the  sage  brush  goes 
Jack  Benny  on  his  hobby  horse,  and  you  get  to  see 
the  best  adaption  of  radio  personalities  to  the  screen 
so  far  done  by  Hollywood.  This  cigar-smoking  in- 
corrigible does  some  pretty  amusing  nip-ups  as  the 
Young  Man  Who  Went  West,  but  he  has  his  picture 
stolen  in  spots — lots  of  spots — by  that  valiant  valet, 
Rochester,  by  Carmichael,  the  Polar  bear,  and  by 
Ellen  Drew.  The  script  writers  started  at  home: 
They  created  a  story  about  a  radio  comedian  who 
falls  in  love  with  a  member  of  a  "sister  team."  This 
would  be  Miss  Drew.  He  thinks  she  ought  to  be 
satisfied  with  his  gags  and  nice  disposition,  but 
what  she  wants  is  virility.  So  Phil  Harris  persuades 
Benny  to  travel  out  West,  to  a  dude  ranch.  It's 
a  dilly  of  a  ranch,  with  a  tame  Indian  on  it.  The 
intrepid  Benny  is  in  the  process  of  being  scared 
clear  back  to  Waukegan  when  Ellen  shows  up. 
With  his  arts  of  persuasion,  and  with  wallet  in  hand, 
Buck  bribes  the  ranch  hands  to  let  him  sock  them 
around  during  a  framed  hold-up.  Thus,  he  thinks, 
Ellen  will  see,  be  impressed,  and  quiver  with  ardor. 
It  is  when  an  honest-to-Pete  robbery  comes  off  that 
you  understand  what  it  is  all  leading  to.  Rochester 
offers  his  impression  of  an  Indian  and  with  it  will 
knock  you  in  the  aisles.  Carmichael  is  cute,  and 
comes  in  handy.  Ellen,  as  we  intimated  above,  is 
better  than  you'd  expect,  giving  so  much  to  her 
role  it's  obvious  she  should  have  better  ones.  The 
dance  routines  are  pretty,  the  music  pleasant. 

(Continued  on  page  95) 


69 


Maligned  by  Hollywood,  but  glad  to  be  back — 
Erich  Von  Stroheim  of  "I  Was  an  Adventuress" 


°;;:>^ 


ROUND-UP 


BY  SARA  HAMILTON 


NO  place  in  all  the  world  offers  to  its  people 
that  dreamed-of  opportunity  of  stepping, 
even  for  just  a  little  while,  into  another 
world,  as  does  Hollywood;  of  becoming,  through 
a  screen  role,  another  being;  a  new  personality 
who  thinks  and  dreams  and  feels  as  another 
being.  There's  always  the  hope,  you  see,  of  that 
one  role  that  will  suddenly  lift  an  actor  or 
actress  from  the  most  stubborn  of  routines  into 
a  bright  new  limelight  again. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  coveted  dream  which  keeps 
the  newcomers  constantly  pouring  in,  with  a 
certain  bright  eagerness  to  join  the  parade  of 
veterans,  some  of  whom  have  been  reborn 
through  strange  channels.  One,  for  instance,  as 
the  symbol  of  Christ-in-all-men,  one  as  the  un- 
seen voice  of  a  tiny  conscience,  one  black  and 
shiny  as  the  servitor  with  the  white  and  shiny 
heart.  And  so  goes  the  parade,  the  newcomers 
and  the  veterans,  ready  to  step  out  of  rank  when 
the  call  comes,  into  a  solo  of  special  achieve- 
ment. And  so.  may  we  present,  ladies  and 
gentlemen: 

Cliff  Edwards — that  still,  small  voice. 

No  doubt  your  grandmother  as  well  as  mine, 
constantly  warned  of  that  still,  small  voice 
within.  But  never  in  our  wildest  dreams  did 
we  imagine  it  would  turn  out  to  be  Cliff 
Edwards.  Clime  (alias  "Ukulele  Ike"),  as 
Jiminy  Cricket,  the  conscience  of  "Pinocchio," 
is  the  most  amazing  conscience  we  have  ever 
met.  For  that  matter,  he's  the  only  one  we've 
ever  met,  face  to  face. 

For  one  year  and  seven  months  Edwards 
read  lines  through  a  recording  microphone  at 
the  Disney  Studio,  without  knowing  in  the  least 
what  they  referred  to.  "Break  it  up,  boys,"  or 
"Well,  it's  about  time,"  Cliff  would  read,  while 


he  wondered,  as  he  says,  "What  in  hell  was  go- 
ing on."  It  wasn't  until  Edwards  was  in  New 
York,  after  a  personal  appearance  tour,  that 
he  saw  "Pinocchio,"  and  when  it  was  over,  he 
sat  there,  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  awed 
to  those  tears  of  reverence  at  the  genius  of  a 
man  who  could  take  transcribed  words  and 
create  around  them,  the  living  personality  of  a 
being,  yea  an  insect,  called  Jiminy  Cricket. 
Cliff  Edwards  is  prouder  of  his  unseen  achieve- 
ment as  the  Conscience  Jiminy  in  "Pinocchio," 
than  he  is  of  any  previous  glory  in  his  years  of 
show  business.  And  he  waited  almost  thirty 
years  for  that  chance.  It  could  happen  only  in 
Hollywood. 

I  wish  I  could  tell  you  where  Cliff  Edwards 
first  saw  the  light  of  day.  But  you  see,  Cliff 
himself  doesn't  know  that.  I  wish  I  could  even 
tell  you  the  age  of  this  living,  breathing  con- 
science. But  like  all  consciences,  he  has  to  be 
ageless  for  even  Cliff  himself  doesn't  know. 

Something  about  Hannibal,  Missouri,  runs 
through  his  mind  and  he  thinks  someone  once 
told  him  he  was  born  there.  But  his  parents 
died  when  he  was  so  young  and  there  seemed 
no  special  reason  to  stay  in  the  house  in  Chicago 
after  they  were  gone,  so  he  ran  away  so  very 
young,  none  of  the  facts,  not  even  his  age, 
remained  in  his  memory.  He  went  to  St. 
Charles,  Missouri,  because  he  thought  he  had 
an  aunt  there,  only  he  hadn't;  so  he  sold  news- 
papers, went  to  school  up  to  the  seventh  grade, 
worked  in  shoe  factories,  stamping  heels  (he's 
stamped  quite  a  few  in  Hollywood  since  then), 
and  then  joined  a  quartette  of  boys  who  went 
on  a  vaudeville  tour,  and  "has  been  mixed  up 
in  the  show  business  ever  since,"  as  he  puts  it. 
Mixed  up  is  right.     For  instance,  it  was  while 


Ian  (never-gets-the-girl)  Hunter  rates  those 
cheers    he's    getting    in    "Strange    Cargo" 


Muriel  Angelus  of  "Down  Went   McGinty' 
picked  the  right  man  for  a  headlong  collisior 


70 


A  fast  track  for  some,  a  torturous  one  for  others,  but  they've  crossed  the  line — winners,  at  last 


he  was  on  tour  with  a  school  act,  four  bad  boys 
and  a  teacher  telling  mildewed  jokes,  he  spied 
a  banjo  ukulele  in  a  tiny  corner  hock  shop  in 
St.  Louis.  He  bought  it.  He  couldn't  play  it, 
but  he  adored  it,  and  soon  taught  himself  how 
to  strum  it  fairly  well.  For  a  while  he  played 
the  trap  drums  in  Joe  Frisco's  band  and  in  a 
Chicago  night  club  he'd  mingle  among  the  cus- 
tomers, after  the  orchestra  had  gone  home, 
strumming  his  uke  for  the  small  change  it 
brought  him.  One  of  the  waiters  would  yell, 
"Hey,  Ukulele,  play  over  here."  Finally  some- 
one tagged  "Ike"  onto  the  nickname  and  he's 
been  "Ukulele  Ike"  ever  since. 

The  government  turned  him  down  when  he 
tried  to  join  the  army  during  the  World  War, 
because  it  too  could  find  no  record  of  his  birth 
and  was  afraid  he  was  too  young.  But  Florenz 
Ziegfeld  enlisted  him  and  from  1919  to  1927 
Cliff  was  a  Ziegfeld  star.  M-G-M  tested  him  in 
New  York  and,  when  his  Orpheum  Circuit  tour 
brought  him  to  Los  Angeles,  signed  him  to  a 
contract.  "Singin'  in  the  Rain"  in  "The  Holly- 
wood Revue"  brought  him  movie  fame.  He's 
been  with  M-G-M  off  and  on  ever  since.  He 
isn't  married — at  least  not  now — and  for  years 
he  has  had  the  same  colored  boy,  one  Clarence 
Curry,  who  still  can't  pronounce  "ukulele." 
Clarence  calls  it  "You-lay-lee."  Schwab's  Drug 
Store  in  Hollywood  is  Cliff's  office,  when  he's 
in  Hollywood.  "I'll  see  you  at  eleven-thirty 
at  the  office,"  he'll  say.  So  at  eleven-thirty  one 
shows  up  at  Schwab's  to  meet  Cliff. 

And  here's  a  secret.  Cliff  claims  he  can't 
play  that  damned  ukulele  yet.  At  least  not  the 
pieces  in  sharps  or  flats  or  minors  or  things. 
He  loves  "Star  Dust,"  and  "Say  It  with  Music," 
and  can  no  more  play  them  than  a  rabbit.    Yet 


he's  made  a  career  of  ukulele  playing. 

His  tour  as  Jiminy  Cricket  with  the  voices  of 
Pinocchio  and  Donald  Duck  is  bringing  him  the 
greatest  happiness  he's  had  in  a  long  time.  Cliff 
gets  a  bang  out  of  being  some  other  fellow's 
conscience. 

"Tsch,  tsch,  mustn't  do  that,"  he'll  say. 

Blonde  and  British 

Blonde,  English  Muriel  Angelus,  the  unemo- 
tional Maisie  in  "The  Light  that  Failed,"  will 
probably  be  remembered  by  fans  as  the  girl  who 
didn't  want  Ronald  Colman  at  any  price;  the 
girl  who  would  rather  have  a  career  than  a 
husband  any  day. 

To  her  close  friends,  here  and  abroad,  Muriel 
is  known  as  the  girl  who  never  talks  about  her 
career  away  from  the  screen  and  stage,  who 
thinks  people  in  the  every  day  workaday  world 
the  most  interesting,  and  would  gladly,  yea  will- 
ingly, give  up  her  career  for  the  man  who  may 
one  day  become  her  husband.  So,  you  see  how 
very  wrong  one  can  be  if  one  judges  from  a 
screen  character. 

Natural,  genuine,  easy  of  manner,  Muriel, 
who  has  been  in  America  two  and  one-half 
years,  adores  it,  has  that  intuitive  something 
that  links  her  affection  and  heart  to  things 
American;  its  people,  its  manner  of  speaking, 
the  idea  that  a  boy  from  the  slums  can  become 
the  man  in  the  White  House,  its  eagerness  to 
know,  these  have  won  her  heart. 

From  some  impish  fairy  godmother  on  a  spree, 
Muriel  must  have  inherited  her  theatrical  tal- 
ent, for  certainly  she  couldn't  have  attained  it 
from  Father  Angelus,  an  analytical  chemist,  or 
from  a  forebear  of  her  mother's  who  actually 


1940  edition  of  what  the  young  woman  of  means 
is    doing  —  Janice    Logan    of    "Dr.    Cyclops" 


He  has  a  message  for  his  fans,  this  newcomer 
—Victor    Mature    of    "One     Million     B.C." 


*«c? 


invented  chloroform.  You  can't  get  a  song  and 
dance  out  of  that,  no  matter  how  hard  you  try. 
Yet  as  a  child,  Muriel  was  chosen  to  play  a  fairy 
at  the  old  Drury  Lane  theater,  dancing  in  Fo- 
kine's  ballet  for  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 
Two  years  later  she'd  been  promoted  from  a 
fairy  to  an  angel  in  a  Sybil  Thorndike  play,  and 
at  fourteen  she  awoke  to  the  hard  cold  necessity 
of  becoming  a  chorus  girl  in  a  review.  She 
had  won  medals  at  the  school  festivals  for  her 
singing,  so  musical  comedy  seemed  her  forte. 
Once,  between  jobs  as  she  tramped  about  dis- 
couraged, her  dancing  slippers  and  frock  in  a 
bag  over  her  arm,  she  ran  headlong  into  a  tall 
man  going  in  the  opposite  direction.  Out  of 
the  bag  rolled  the  slippers  and  out  of  Muriel, 
under  his  kind  imploring,  rolled  her  tragic  story. 
Taking  her  arm,  the  tall  man  led  her  back  to 
the  theater  and  the  next  night  she  danced  with 
wings  on  her  heart  in  the  chorus  of  "The  Mid- 
night Follies." 

Incidentally,  the  fairy  prince  who  got  bumped, 
was  our  own  James  Whale  who  directed  some 
of  our  better  films. 

The  life  of  Muriel  Angelus  can  best  be  told 
by  the  people  she  meets  in  her  own  studio  (Par- 
amount) commissary.    Nigel  Bruce  comes  trot- 
ting over  with,  "Muriel,  I  haven't  seen  you 
since  you  were  my  wife  in  the  picture, 
'Red  Aces,'  in  London." 

Ray  Milland  is  next.  "Remember  that 
test  we  made  together  in  London  for  this 
very  studio  and  both  got  turned  down 
cold?   Weren't  the  type,  they  told  us." 

Her  chance  at  English  movies  came 
when  a  producer  spotted  her  in  the  chorus 
of  the  English  company's  "The  Vagabond 
King."  In  no  time  Muriel  was  playing 
leads,  but  the  stage  seemed  more  profita- 
ble and  Muriel  left  pictures  to  replace  Pat 
Paterson,  now  Mrs.  Charles  Boyer,  in  the 
second  lead  in  "Sons  o'  Guns."  The  lead 
in  "The  Jolly  Roger"  at  the  Savoy  fol- 
lowed. Next  came  the  starring  role  in 
the  stage  version  of  "Balalaika,"  which 
brought  her  to  the  attention  of  Vinton 
Freedley,  New  York  producer,  and  the 
next  thing  Muriel  knew,  she  was  playing 
on  Broadway  in  "The  Boys  from  Syra- 
cuse," with  a  contract  for  Hollywood  and 
"The  Light  that  Failed." 

She  loves  her  last  picture,  "Down  Went 
McGinty,"    with    Brian    Donlevy.     Lives 
with  her  mother  on  a  Hollywood  hillside; 
has  an  American  beau  who  flies  her  all 
through  the  Western  skies;  has  that  Eng- 
lish peaches-  and-cream  complexion  that 
had  even  Gary  Cooper  doing  a  quick  double- 
take   toward   our   commissary   table.     And   no 
wonder;  her  ash-blonde  hair  is  natural,  her  fig- 
ure rounded  but  lovely,  her  speech  unaffected, 
her  heart  ready  for  life  and  love,  with  courage 
to  take  both  in  her  very  beautiful  hands. 

Mature  by  Name— Not  by  Nature 

Victor  Mature,  the  young  giant  signed  re- 
cently by  Producer  Hal  Roach,  had  plenty  of 
practice  for  his  role  of  the  primitive  caveman  in 
"One  Million  B.  C."  For  Victor,  believe  it  or 
not,  has  spent  the  greater  part  of  the  last  five 
years — in  a  tent.  No,  sorry.  Victor  isn't  a  fresh 
air  fiend  or  a  cultist  or  a  circus  performer.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  Victor  simply  had  no 
place  else  to  live.  So  with  borrowed  canvas 
from  the  Pasadena  Community  Theater  store- 
house, Victor  pitched  his  home  on  the  far  cor- 
ner of  a  friend's  garden  in  Pasadena  and  there 
abode  he,  all  six-feet-three  of  him. 

It  was  Victor's  fault,  really,  that  he  arrived 
in  California  from  his  home  in  Louisville,  Ken- 
tucky, with  empty  pockets,  for  you  see  Victor 
arrived  by  the  running-away-from-home  route. 
Shortly  after  his  arrival  he  wired  his  father — 
"Dear  Dad:  Arrived  in  California  safe  and 
sound  with  eleven  cents  in  my  pocket."  But 
instead  of  the  money  order  he  expected,  all  Vic 


got  was  a  return  wire  from  his  father  saying, 
"Dear  Victor:  Happy  you  are  well.  When  I 
arrived  in  New  York  from  Austria  I  had  six 
cents  in  my  pocket  and  couldn't  even  speak 
English.  You're  five  cents  up  on  me."  That's 
when  Victor  pitched  his  wigwam. 

Gilmore  Brown  of  the  Pasadena  Community 
Theater  had  faith  in  Victor  and  soon  he  was 
given  a  fellowship  in  the  school  and  became  a 
working  student.  He  played  like  fury  in  every- 
thing that  came  his  way,  doing  exactly  136  plays 
in  the  four  and  one-half  years  he  was  there. 
Once,  while  on  a  visit  back  East,  he  was  given 
a  job  touring  with  Cornelius  Otis  Skinner  in 
"Hedda  Gabler,"  but  when  that  was  over,  here 
was  Victor  back  in  Pasadena  playing  the  lead  in 
"Autumn  Crocus."  The  flaming  posters  show- 
ing Victor  in  his  role  for  "To  Quito  and  Back," 
finally  had  Hal  Roach  sending  for  the  persever- 
ing young  lad  from  Pasadena.  Roach  liked  him 
and  signed  him  for  his  first  picture,  "The  House- 
keeper's Daughter." 

He's  twenty-four  now,  has  more  hair,  black 
and  curly,  on  his  head  than  the  law  should 
allow,  is  not  married,  has  melting  brown  eyes 
and  is  a  vegetarian,  mainly  through  necessity. 
Now  that  he  can  afford  meat  he  occasionally  in- 


The  blazing  biography  of  a  great  Gallic  actor 
whose  genius  blossomed  dangerously  early — 
and  whose  career  almost  ended  just  as  it  was 
really  beginning.  Follow  this  romantic  cinema 
hero  as  he  retraces  his  real-life  path  from 
Figeac  —  through    Paris  —  to   Hollywood! 


THE  LIFE  AND  LOVES  OF 
CHARLES  BOYER 

in  JULY  PHOTOPLAY 


dulges  in  a  steak  burned  to  a  cinder.  His  early 
life  was  one  constant  parade  through  one  school 
after  another,  with  St.  Joseph's  College  and 
Kentucky  Military  Institute  among  them.  Vic- 
tor claims  he  ran  away  because  his  father 
wanted  him  to  work  in  his  refrigeration  plant. 
Victor  couldn't  "took  it,"  for  acting  was  in  his 
soul.  He's  all  over  the  billboards  now  with 
"One  Million  B.  C."  behind  him  and  the  grand 
lead  in  "Captain  Caution"  ahead. 

His  clothes,  loose  and  tweedy,  are  the  floppy 
kind,  he  never  wears  hats,  and  has  asked  as  a 
very  special  favor  that  we  tell  the  many  kind 
fans  who  have  written  him  for  pictures  that  he's 
tickled  pink  and  he  will  send  them  as  soon  as 
he  pays  his  back  debts.  He's  kinda'  strapped 
right  now,  so  please  understand,  he  begs. 

And  you're  welcome,  Victor. 

A  Young  Modern — in  Hollywood 

A  1940  edition  of  Katharine  Hepburn,  though 
not  quite  so  startlingly  dynamic,  is  one  Miss 
Janice  Logan,  America's  answer  to  what  the 
well-bred  young  woman  of  means  is  doing  for 
herself  these  days,  and  incidentally,  she's  Para- 
mount's  answer  to  the  new-face  problem  in  pic- 
tures. Janice's  face,  of  course,  is  new  only  to 
the  public.  She's  had  the  same  one  herself 
some  slight  twenty  years,  not  a  pretty  one  to 


be  sure,  but  an  arresting  one  with  firm  square 
frame,  freckles,  blue  eyes  definitely  on  the  slant, 
and  brown  hair  brushed  till  it  shimmers.  Not 
the  doll  type,  by  any  means,  Janice  looked  not 
unlike  an  animated  toy  as  one  of  the  little  peo- 
ple in  the  picture,  "Dr.  Cyclops."  Reduced  to 
doll  size  by  radium  (according  to  the  picture), 
Janice  was  colossal.  She  did  all  right  for  her- 
self in  "Undercover  Doctor,"  and  "What  a  Life," 
in  which  she  played  a  very  efficient  secretary. 

On  May  29th,  Janice  was  born  in  Chicago. 
Her  father,  Stuart  Logan,  was  prominent  in  Mid- 
western investment  circles,  and  life  for  Janice 
was  a  succession  of  smart  schools  for  smart 
young  ladies,  the  last  being  Sarah  Lawrence 
College. 

They  laughed  when  she  sat  down  to  a  dra- 
matic career.  A  visit  to  her  older  sister  in 
Hollywood  brought  her  in  contact  with  the 
movies.  Gregory  Ratoff,  a  friend  of  her  sister's, 
arranged  for  a  test  at  Twentieth  Century-Fox 
that  turned  out  to  be  definitely  on  the  baddish 
side.  But  she  did  manage  to  squeeze  into  Para- 
mount's  training  school  and  over  at  Selznick's 
for  a  test  for  Scarlett  O'Hara.  It  was  that  test 
that  finally  interested  Paramount.  At  the  exact 
moment  the  training  school  went  out  of  exist- 
ence, Janice  stepped  into  a  Paramount 
contract. 

Now  that  she's  made  the  grade,  her  fam- 
ily is  delighted  at  her  success.  Where  they 
once  glared  at  her  with  nostrils  aquiver, 
they  now  applaud.  She  writes  short 
stories — just  for  the  practice — loves  good 
music,  has  all  the  earmarks  of  1940  gen- 
tility. Night  clubs  and  hot  spots  never  see 
her.  Janice  is  all  a  part  of  that  Hollywood 
the  outsider  seldom  sees — the  intelligent, 
quiet,  hidden  away,  yet  vitally  alive  part 
that  makes  the  very  echoes  of  this  city 
vibrate  round  the  world. 

Genius  Conies  Home 

Erich  Von  Stroheim,  the  man  who  made 
cinematic  history  with  his  directing,  writ- 
ing and  acting  in  such  pictures  as  "Foolish 
Wives,"  "Blind  Husbands"  and  "Greed," 
is  back  in  Hollywood  once  again,  after  ten 
years'  absence. 

This   time,   Erich,   the   irrepressible,   is 

acting   in   "I   Was   an    Adventuress,"   for 

Twentieth  Century-Fox.  It  took  a  man  a z 

daringly    unafraid    as   Darryl   Zanuck   to 

bring  Von  Stroheim  back  to  Hollywood. 

Tales  of  Von's  extravagances  when  he  was 

on  top  of  the  heap  had  just  about  washed 

him  out  of  the  picture.   When  he  openly  spoke 

his  mind  in  the  wrong  direction,  the  washout 

was  completed,  and  for  five  years  Von  Stroheim 

walked  in  endless  circles,  trying  to  find  some 

answer  to  his  jobless  condition.    France  finally 

came  as  that  answer,  and  for  the  past  three 

years  Von  made  pictures  abroad,  among  them    ' 

the  unforgettable  "Grand  Illusion."    It  was  from 

France  that  Zanuck  summoned  him  home. 

His  attitude  is  still  one  of  defiant  hurt.  Like 
a  small  boy  trying  to  conceal  his  wounds,  he  lets 
fly  in  all  directions  his  tirades  against  Holly- 
wood, brands  the  story  of  his  extravagance  as 
lies;  and  what's  more,  he  produces  facts  and 
figures  to  bear  him  out.  As  far  as  we  can  ascer- 
tain, then,  this  man's  chief  crime  seems  to  lie 
in  the  fact  he  was  at  least  a  good  fifteen  years 
ahead  of  his  time. 

Stocky,  sturdy,  head-shaven,  he  smiles  as  he 
says,  "Hollywood  calls  me  "that  German,  bull- 
necked,  head-shaven  so-and-so."  In  one  re- 
spect Hollywood  is  wrong  there,  for  Von  is  an 
Austrian  who  came  to  America  in  his  youth, 
joined  our  army  because  soldiering  was  the  only 
job  he  knew,  and  when  that  was  over,  became 
ditchdigger  extraordinary. 

A  chance  finally  came  to  become  prop  boy 

to  D.  W.  Griffith  and  later  his  assistant,  and  at 

last  Von  emerged  in  all  his  Prussian  glory  as 

(Continued  on  page  80) 


72 


vv 


& 


•V0^(, 


«* 


CLEVER  GIRLS  everywhere  are 
taking  Hollywood's  tip  —  using 
Lux  Toilet  Soap  as  a  daily  bath 
soap,  too.  This  gentle  soap  with 
ACTIVE  lather  carries  away  per- 
spiration, every  trace  of  dust  and 
dirt.  It  makes  you  fresh  from 
head  to  toe— sure  of  daintiness. 
You'll  love  this  luxurious  beauty 
bath— the  delicate,  clinging  fra- 
grance it  leaves  on  your  skin. 


"***•»«»' 


ALICE  FAYE  IS  RIGHT! 
THIS  ACTIVE-LATHER 
BEAUTY  BATH  MAKES 
YOU  SORE  OF 
DAINTINESS 


don't  be  careless 

ABOUT  DAINTINESS! 

A  DAILY  LUX  SOAP 
BATH  /MAKES  YOU 
SURE  OF  SKIN 
THAT'S  SWEET 


/tfideftK 


Star  of  the  20th  Century-Fox 


Production,  "LILLIAN  RUSSELL' 


LEAVES  yOU 
FEELING  SO 
REFRESHED  — A 

LOVELY  FRAGRANCE 
ON  YOUR  SKfN 


The 

Complexion 
Soap  9  out  of  10 
Screen  Stars  use 


GOSH,  SUE,  I 
LIKE  TO  BE  NEAR 

you-you'RE  so 

SWEET- 


JUNE.     1940 


73 


We  Cover  the  Studios 


on  the  wrisis  of 
thousands  everywhere 

C  HOT  OH 

untie*** 


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Preston  Foster  makes  a  super  slick- 
looking  "Mounlie,"  with  flaming  jacket 
and  fur  forage  cap.  On  the  other  hand, 
Gary  Cooper  is  back  in  his  slouchy  old 
Texas  rags,  with  drooping  cartridge  belt 
and  six-guns  and  tilted  sombrero. 

The  plot  of  "Northwest  Mounted 
Police,"  DeMille  cautions  us,  is  no  mere 
always-get-your-man  stuff.  It  goes  back 
into  history — to  the  Riel  Rebellion  of 
1885.  That  was  when  the  Canadian 
government  sent  a  handful  of  mounted 
police  into  Saskatchewan  to  divide  up 
the  half-breeds'  land  for  settlement. 
The  half-breeds,  several  thousand 
strong,  objected — with  bullets. 

The  scene  we  watch  is  very  simple. 
Gary  and  Preston  Foster  are  being 
properly  introduced  in  Inspector  Mon- 
tagu Love's  office.  They  don't  like  it  a 
bit,  but  they  salute,  turn  and  leave. 
After  about  the  fifth  take,  DeMille  is 
still  worried  about  something.  He  stalks 
across  the  set  to  his  corps  of  research 
bookworms.  They  knit  their  brows 
furiously.  Then  three  or  four  of  them 
dash  off  the  set.  DeMille  turns  and  ad- 
dresses his  cast. 

"There's  some  question,"  he  says, 
"whether  a  Mountie  in  1885  simply 
turned  and  left  his  superior  officer — or 
about-faced  in  a  military  manner.  Natu- 
rally, we  can't  proceed  until  we  find 
out!"  Naturally.  So  the  picture  is  tem- 
porarily suspended. 

WHETHER  it's  good  business  or  bad 
business  making  propaganda  pictures, 
one  thing  is  obvious — Hollywood  is  do- 
ing it,  and  pulling  no  punches. 

"The  Mortal  Storm"  comes  from  a 
novel  by  Phyllis  Bottome,  dramatically 
detailing  the  disintegration  of  a  German 
family  under  Nazi  persecutions.  Besides 
Dick  Rosson,  who  learned  about  the  in- 
side of  a  real  concentration  camp, 
M-G-M  is  reaping  the  benefit  of  tech- 
nical advice  eagerly  supplied  by  the 
scores  of  refugees  from  Germany. 

It  doesn't  seem  like  Hollywood  when 
we  arrive  on  the  snowy,  German  village 
square  set  where  Margaret  Sullavan, 
Jimmy  Stewart,  Robert  Young,  Robert 
Stack  and  William  Orr  are  at  work. 

"Maggie"  and  Jimmy  are  a  familiar 
Hollywood  studio  duo  to  us  by  now. 
But  handsome  Bob  Stack  and  Bill  Orr 
are  new  at  M-G-M,  which  borrowed 
Bob  from  Universal  and  Bill  from  War- 
ners. 

Bob  and  Bill  march  now  at  the  head  of 
a  squad  of  young  storm  troopers  after 
Jimmy  Stewart,  who  won't  join  up. 
From  the  other  side  of  the  set  appears 
Jimmy,  seeing  Maggie  home.  When 
they  waylay  him  in  front  of  her  house, 
the  script  calls  for  a  terrific  fight. 

The  whistle  blows  and  the  red  light 
flickers.  The  troopers  start  chanting. 
Jimmy  and  Margaret  come  into  the 
scene — and  the  fight  begins.  It's  a  lulu, 
too — while  it  lasts. 

Suddenly  Margaret  cries,  "Oh!"  and 
flys  over  backward  in  what  Hollywood 
used  to  know  as  a  "high  and  gruesome." 
Jimmy  Stewart  jumps  down  beside  her. 
But  she's  as  cold  as  a  pickle. 

"I  didn't  see  her,"  Jimmy  croaks.  "I 
thought  she  was  another  trooper,  and — 
I — I  let  her  have  one!" 

Margaret  has  stopped  seeing  fireworks 
by  now.  She  sits  up  and  rubs  her  jaw. 
"Lucky  you  got  me  on  the  button, 
Jimmy,"  she  grins  ruefully.  "A  shiner 
wouldn't  be  so  good." 

"I'm  sorry,"  whispers  Jimmy.  "I'm  a 
clumsy  lug!" 

"I  think  you're  simply  devastating, 
Mr.  Stewart,"  says  Margaret,  touching 


(Continued  from  page  52) 

her  chin  tenderly.    "And  how!" 

Nothing,  however,  could  be  more  dev- 
astating to  us  than  the  idea  of  "Andy 
Hardy  Meets  a  Debutante,"  the  current 
Mickey  Rooney  embarrassment  M-G-M 
is  brewing  this  month.  Marvelous 
Mickey  pitted  against  a  Brenda  Frazier- 
ish  glamour  gal  in  the  toils  of  love,  is 
something  we  wouldn't  miss  for  all  the 
holly  in  Hollywood. 

Judy  Garland  has  been  switched  into 
this  Hardy  Family,  for  an  added  attrac- 
tion; also  Diana  Lewis,  the  very  pretty 
Mrs.  William  Powell.  Of  course,  Ann 
Rutherford,  as  Polly  Benedict,  goes 
with  the  Hardy  Family  lease. 

The  idea  behind  "Andy  Hardy  Meets 
a  Debutante"  is  a  rash  boast  by  Andy 
that  he's  just  "like  that"  with  New 
York's  Number  One  Society  Siren. 
A  Manhattan  trip  and  circumstances 
force  him  to  make  good  his  boast. 

The  scene  we  see  shows  Mickey  in 


Signs  of  the  season:  Bill  Powell  in 
a  raincoat — his  wife,  Diana  Lewis, 
in  summer  furs,  print  dress  and  hat 
consisting    of    one    enormous    flower 


court.  Sixty  hard-bitten  Hollywood  ex- 
tras are  sitting  around  on  the  benches, 
yawning.  Mickey  is  supposed  to  arrive 
in  the  courtroom  in  place  of  his  dad, 
Lewis  Stone.  The  extras  are  to  register 
surprise.  Director  Seitz  explains  it  to 
them  as  Mickey  stands  by. 

"Just  murmur,"  instructs  Seitz,  "a 
conversation-buzz  of  surprise — like  you 
would  if  you  saw  a  little  boy  suddenly 
walk  up  to  the  judge's  bench."  Mickey 
is  nudging  him  in  the  ribs  and  frowning. 
Seitz  bends  an  ear  down — then  corrects 
himself.  "Er— "  he  says,  "rather,  like 
you  would  if  you  saw  a  young  man 
walk  up  to  the  judge's  bench!" 

"Susan  and  God,"  the  really  A-l  pic- 
ture of  the  M-G-M  month,  is  nearby. 
It  has  Joan  Crawford,  Fredric  March, 
John  Carroll  (M-G-M's  white  hope), 
Rose  Hobart,  Ruth  Hussey,  Bruce  Cabot 
— and  all  sorts  of  attractions,  not  to 
mention  a  reduced  Director  George 
Cukor,  minus  seventy-two  pounds! 


Joan  Crawford  was  M-G-M's  final 
choice  for  this  Gertrude  Lawrence  part 
of  a  featherheaded  wife  who  gets  re- 
ligion and  proceeds  to  sell  it  to  all  her 
idle  rich  friends,  thereby  thoroughly 
messing  up  their  lives.  As  if  to  make 
her  simple  do-unto-others  creed  the 
more  ridiculous  for  the  selfish  charac- 
ters in  the  script,  Cukor  has  surrounded 
them  with  a  set  that  simply  drips  lux- 
ury. But  even  more  lavish  is  the  off- 
stage, Hollywood  side. 

In  one  corner  a  Ping-pong  ball  is 
being  swatted  vigorously  by  Bruce 
Cabot  and  Rose  Hobart.  In  another, 
Guilaroff's  hairdressers  and  Adrian's 
dressmaker's  are  shuttling  up  and  down, 
laden  with  thousand  dollar  gown  crea- 
tions. On  a  side  of  the  stage,  long  rows 
of  gilded  chairs,  neatly  labeled  "Mr. 
Cabot,"  "Mr.  March,"  "Miss  Crawford," 
and  so  forth,  are  lined  up  in  military 
order.  Behind  them  cluster  rows  of 
personal  maids,  chauffeurs,  flunkeys  and 
stand-ins. 

On  the  set  itself,  Cukor  seems  to  be 
having  a  mild  fit.  He  isn't,  of  course. 
It's  just  the  way  he  directs.  Outside 
camera  range,  la  Crawford  herself,  in  a 
quilted  bathrobe,  is  rehearsing  her  lines. 
She  keeps  running  onto  the  set,  crying, 
"It's  all  a  matter  of  divine  guidance!" 

After  Joan  has  rushed  in  crying  "It's 
all  a  matter  of  divine  guidance"  that 
many  times,  we're  ready  to  believe  it 
really  is!  But  Cukor  is  still  doing  the 
guiding  here.  He  smiles  craftily. 
"Fine!"  he  cries.  "Splendid!  That's 
the  first  time  you  made  me  believe  it. 
All  right— let's  start  all  over!" 

nE  pass  on  to  the  comparative  sanity 
of  Hal  Roach's  mixed-up  movie,  "Turn- 
about." 

"Turnabout"  is  another  fantastic 
Thome  Smith  idea,  which  Hal  Roach 
seems  to  fancy.  It's  based  on  the  cute 
idea  of  a  man  and  wife  switching  their 
sexes,  thanks  to  an  all-seeing  and  wise 
little  god  named  Ram. 

A  real  Hollywood  wife  and  husband, 
Adolphe  Menjou  and  Verree  Teasdale, 
have  important  jobs  in  this,  with  John 
Hubbard  and  Carole  Landis,  two  Roach 
discoveries. 

The  set  we  see  is  an  ultramodern  New 
York  penthouse  boudoir,  glittering  with 
mirrors  and  chromium  and  shiny  bric- 
a-brac.  All  this  has  been  gathered  just 
so  it  can  be  wrecked. 

The  wrecker  in  this  case  is  Josephine, 
a  Malayan  sun  bear.  Hubby  brings  her 
home  as  a  pet  and  Josephine,  the  script 
says,  tears  the  joint  into  little  shreds. 
Roach  hopes  for  the  best,  as  he  lets 
Josephine  loose  in  all  this  finery.  But 
to  his  dismay  she  trots  right  over  to  a 
little  dressing  table  and  sniffs  a  bottle 
of  perfume  ecstatically!  It  turns  out 
she's  simply  nuts  about  honey,  and 
as  long  as  there's  anything  sweet  around 
there's  no  chance  of  a  satisfactory  wreck 
job.  So  they  stopper  everything  up. 
The  cameras  turn  and  Josephine  kicks 
over,  rips  open  or  smashes  everything 
in  the  place  very  effectively. 

It  doesn't  seem  to  make  sense,  but 
Hal  Roach,  whose  property  Josephine 
has  just  cracked  up  to  the  tune  of  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  beams  happily  and 
gives  her  a  lump  of  sugar! 

Well,  it's  pleasant  to  get  back  to  nor- 
malcy at  Twentieth  Century-Fox, 
where  Darryl  Zanuck's  movie-of-the- 
month  is  "Maryland."  Everyone  knows 
about  the  Derby,  of  course,  but  the  an- 
nual Maryland  Hunt  Club  race  is  much 
more  obscure,  though  much,  much  more 
(Continued  on  page  76) 


74 


PHOTOPLAY 


Whitney  Bourne's  luxurious 
Ne.v  York  apartment  is  the 
meeting  place  of  society  and 
the  arts.  She  spends  a  great 
deal  of  time  in  Hollywood 
where  she  follows  a  career 
in  the  movies. 


Miss  June  Rothe,  TWA  air 
hostess,  has  learned  to  serve  a 
7-course  meal — alone — to  21 
people  traveling  at  200  miles 
per  hour!  Charm,  limited 
weight,  nurse's  training  are 
other  job  requirements. 


^1 


BUT  BOTH  GIVE 
THEIR  SKIN  THIS 

SAME  THOROUGH 
CARE 


Extract  CompAuy 


that  has  won  a  loyal 
following  from  coast  to  coast 

I  HOT  OH 
UlfttCtttS 


siNCt    '«'* 


Headliners  all,  Croton  Watches  "star" 
in  quality,  accuracy,  smart  masculine 
handsomeness.  Count  on  Croton  for  the 
utmost  in  reliability  and  value!  From 
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ll/uirrofed  folde 


CROTON  WATCH  COMPANY  •  NEW  YORK  CITY 


swanky.  The  plot  of  "Maryland"  is 
woven  about  this  gentleman  jockey 
steeplechase. 

John  Payne,  Zanuck's  new  fair-haired 
lad,  gets  himself  another  big  break  in 
"Maryland."  John,  Walter  Brennan, 
Fay  Bainter  and  Charlie  Ruggles  are 
all  grouped  around  a  red  plantation 
house,  as  Henry  King  directs  Johnny's 
homecoming  scene. 

Johnny,  returning  from  abroad,  is 
about  to  inform  his  horrified  maw  that 
he's  going  to  devote  his  life  to  horse- 
flesh. The  sad  news  hasn't  broken  yet, 
though,  so  the  scene  is  gala.  Walter 
Brennan,  the  old  trainer,  Charlie  Rug- 
gles, Fay  Bainter,  and  black  servants, 
rush  out  to  greet  son  John,  as  he  drives 
up  and  starts  dishing  out  presents. 

Up  near  us,  by  the  camera,  stands  a 
girl  looking  on  quietly  and  not  saying  a 
thing.  We  recognize  her  through  her 
smoked  glasses  as  Brenda  Joyce,  John's 
love  affair  in  this.  The  call-sheet 
doesn't  have  Brenda  down.  We're  sur- 
prised to  see  her. 

"I've  never  met  Mr.  Payne,"  explains 
Brenda.  "And  since  the  first  scene  we 
have  together  is  a  love  scene,  I  thought 
I'd  just  drop  around  quietly  and  size 
him  up!"    These  modern  girls! 

Mary  Beth  Hughes,  another  TC-F 
modern  maiden,  is  getting  a  much  bet- 
ter chance  to  size  up  her  man,  Cesar 
Romero,  when  we  look  in  on  the  "Rogue 
of  the  Rio  Grande"  set,  down  the  studio 
line.    Cesar's  in  a  bathtub. 

"Rogue  of  the  Rio  Grande"  is  stand- 
ard Cisco  Kid  drama,  so  we  won't  go 
into  that.  The  set  we  invade  is  an  old- 
fashioned  Western  hotel  room,  where 
Cesar  is  supposed  to  be  using  Mary 
Beth's  tub — the  only  one  in  town.  The 
tub  is  hooked  to  an  ancient  fire  engine 
outside  the  stage  for  heating. 

Mary  Beth  is  a  sexy,  twenty-year- 
old  blonde  charmer.  The  scene  is  where 
she  finds  the  Kid  sneaking  a  wash  job  in 
her  private  pool.  Several  times  she 
slings  open  the  door,  very  unladylike, 
and  screams,  "Get  out  of  my  tub!" 
Cesar  just  grins  and  keeps  on  scrub- 
bing. At  the  fourth  take  when  Mary 
Beth  yells,  "Get  out  of  my  tub,"  Cesar 
surprises   everyone,   including  Director 


(Continued  jrom  page  74) 

"Lucky"  Humberstone,  by  obliging, 
very  nimbly. 

It  seems  the  fire  engine  heating  plant 
has  backfired,  and  the  water  tempera- 
ture has  shot  from  80  to  140  degrees. 
Luckily,  Cesar's  wearing  shorts. 

RKO  found  Jimmy  Lydon,  a  freckle- 
faced  kid  with  a  wonderful  grin,  to 
carry  the  title  role  of  Thomas  Hughes' 
classic,  "Tom  Brown's  School  Days." 
We  find  Freddy  Bartholomew  (so  tall 
now!),  Jimmy,  and  Billy  Halop,  the  ex- 
Dead-Ender,  having  a  grand  time 
smashing  old  flashlight  bulbs  and  scar- 
ing the  set  half  out  of  its  wits. 

It  is  the  original  boys'  school  plot  the 
movies  have  filched  time  and  again; 
that  is,  the  school,  infested  by  holy  ter- 
rors, gets  set  right  by  the  new  spirit. 
Sir  Cedric  Hardwicke  is  the  headmaster 
who  does  all  that,  Josephine  Hutchinson, 
his  patient  wife.  The  scene  we  see  is  a 
bit  of  discipline.  Billy  and  Jimmy  have 
been  scrapping,  and  they're  up  on  the 
carpet,  bloody-nosed  and  black-eyed, 
with  their  foppy  clothes  ripped  and  torn. 

Sir  Cedric  gives  them  such  a  scorch- 
ing dressing  down  that  Billy  Halop 
bursts  into  tears  and  goes  to  pieces. 
We  expect  Billy  to  be  a  hysterical  wreck 
when  it's  over.  But  the  minute  the 
"Cut!"  sounds — "Boom!"  and  "Bop!"  go 
a  couple  of  old  flashlight  bulbs.  He's 
dropped  them  behind  Jimmy  Lydon  and 
Sir  Cedric,  and  when  they  jump  a  mile, 
Billy's  tears  are  vanished  in  a  burst  of 
happy  haw-haws.  He  may  be  dolled  up 
in  an  Eton  jacket,  but  we're  afraid  Billy 
is  still  a  Dead  End  kid  at  heart! 

iHAT  infantile  movie  confession, 
"Sandy  Is  a  Lady,"  is  our  first  set  stop 
at  Universal,  where  we  find  pictures 
being  made  in  a  slightly  cockeyed  man- 
ner, due  to  Baby  Sandy's  language  limi- 
tations. Mischa  Auer,  Billy  Gilbert, 
Gene  Pallette  and  Edgar  Kennedy,  a 
quartet  of  Hollywood's  surest  fire  funny 
men,  are  grouped  around  the  personal- 
ity tot.  Tom  Brown  and  Nan  Grey  play 
Mama  and  Papa,  and  the  two  musical 
kids  who  made  a  hit  in  "The  Under- 
Pup,"  Billy  Lenhart  and  Kenneth 
Brown,  have  been  worked  into  the  story. 
Naturally,  directing  a  baby  consists  of 


keeping  on  the  alert  for  whatever  hap- 
pens. Director  Charlie  Lamont  tells  us 
he  has  found  out  two  things — "Tiger 
Rag"  is  Sandy's  favorite  piece,  and  the 
word  "Cut!"  starts  her  gurgling  and 
smiling.  So  they  reverse  things.  When 
they  want  to  start  a  scene  with  Sandy, 
they  yell  "Cut!"  It's  a  little  confusing 
to  the  camera  crew — but  we  can  testify 
it  works  with  Sandy. 

The  long-heralded  red-hot  mama  pic- 
ture for  Ann  Sheridan,  "Torrid  Zone," 
holds  the  spotlight  at  Warner  Brothers 
this  month.  Down  on  the  "Thirty 
Acres,"  a  Central  American  banana 
plantation  has  sprung  up,  with  row 
upon  row  of  real,  transplanted  banana 
trees. 

"Torrid  Zone"  is  the  story  of  a  hard- 
boiled  cafe  entertainer  (that's  Annie) 
who  shows  up  in  banana  land.  There 
she's  used  by  a  fruit  king  (that's  Pat 
O'Brien)  to  lure  back  his  cocky  planta- 
tion manager  (that's  Jimmy  Cagney) . 

Director  Bill  Keighley  gives  us  a  ride 
on  the  1875  vintage  railroad  to  the 
transplanted  trees.  Everybody's  used  to 
the  terrific,  stifling  smell  of  ripening 
fruit — except  us — and  possibly  Annie. 

We  watch  with  compassion  as  Ann 
hides  in  a  loaded  banana  car.  The  cam- 
eras are  turning  now,  and  Jimmy  Cag- 
ney gallops  his  horse  down  the  rows, 
hot  after  Annie,  the  stowaway.  She's 
supposed  to  elude  him  in  the  script — 
but  she  doesn't  do  anything  like  that. 
Instead,  there's  a  blood-curdling  scream 
and  Ann  Sheridan  comes  tumbling  out 
the  sidedoor  pullman  shouting  bloody 
murder. 

It  takes  a  few  minutes  to  calm  her 
down.  Then  she  explains  that  some  hor- 
rible furry  beast  crawled  over  her  neck. 
The  prop  man  grins  and  pops  in  the  car. 
In  a  minute  he's  out  holding  a  squashed 
tarantula.  "That  makes  five  since  the 
picture  started,"  he  says.  "They're 
frozen,  and  when  they  thaw  out  they 
start  going  places." 

"You're  a  success,  Ann,"  grins  Jimmy 
Cagney,  wickedly.  "You're  hot  enough 
to  thaw  out  a  spider." 

From  the  look  Ann  throws  Jimmy, 
we'd  say  she's  also  hot  enough  to  shrivel 
a  Cagney! 


The  Marriage  Plans  of  Ginger  Rogers  and  Howard  Hughes 


There  was,  for  instance,  Mr.  Hughes' 
giving  a  champagne  party  to  the  camera 
boys.  Just  a  sort  of  thank-you  dinner, 
said  Mr.  Hughes.  Of  course  the  boys  ate 
the  dinner  and  imbibed  the  champagne. 
The  joker  came  out  when  a  few  nights 
later  the  young  sportsman  asked  the 
lads  if  they'd  mind,  please,  not  photo- 
graphing him  when  he  came  into  night 
clubs.  The  reason  was,  he  explained, 
that  his  oil  business  associates  didn't  like 
him  pictured  as  a  playboy. 

Oil  business  indeed!  How  do  you 
suppose  Ginger  felt  referred  to  as  an 
oil  business!  Amused,  I'll  wager,  from 
all  I  know  of  the  girl.  The  night  after 
the  cameramen  all  solemnly  swore  they 
certainly  wouldn't  photograph  their  fly- 
ing pal,  she  and  Howard  first  appeared 
in  a  glittering  spot  together — Ciro's,  of 
course,  the  time  being  now — and  what 
could  the  cameramen  do,  poor  things, 
having  drunk  all  that  Hughes'  cham- 
pagne, except  not  to  snap  them? 

There  was  the  sign,  too,  big  as  a  bill- 
board in  Howard  and  Ginger  being  out 
alone  together.  For  both  of  them  have 
always  run  in  packs  up  until  now, 
Howard   going   in   for   foursomes,    and 


(Continued  from  page  18  ) 


Ginger  favoring  clusters  of  eight  or  ten. 
But  what  has  been  happening  lately  is 
Ginger  and  Howard  out,  blissfully  danc- 
ing, just  they  two;  either  that,  or  sit- 
ting at  her  home  looking  at  movies  in 
Ginger's  projection  room. 

For  their  love  of  movies  is  one  of  the 
great  things  they  have  in  common. 
Howard  has  been  a  producer  in  the 
past,  you  remember,  putting  "Hell's 
Angels"  and  Jean  Harlow  over  with  a 
bang,  and  he  may  return  to  producing 
again  this  fall.  He  has  always  chosen 
glamour  girls  for  his  companions,  so 
there  is  no  question  of  Ginger  giving  up 
her  career  for  love.  Reversely,  Ginger 
won't  have  to  worry  over  her  husband- 
to-be  getting  too  deeply  into  film  com- 
petition with  her.  Producing  is  simply 
an  amusing  sideline  with  Howard 
Hughes.  The  oil  business  is  his  real 
business.  Flying  is  his  hobby  (Ginger 
loves  flying,  too)  but  he  is  no  stunt  flyer 
though  he  is  a  past  master  of  this  art. 
He  is  serious,  there,  working  ceaselessly 
for  the  advancement  of  aviation. 

Ginger  shares  this  flying  enthusiasm. 
One  of  the  mad  delightful  factors  in 
this  exciting  courtship   (and  one  of  the 


ways  that  they  have  kept  the  glaring 
eyes  of  Hollywood  from  watching  their 
love  affair)  has  been  the  impulsive  way 
they  have  made  use  of  Howard's  speedy 
plane.  Whenever  the  whim  has  seized 
them  they  have  hopped  in  his  plane  to 
flash  down  to  San  Diego  for  lunch  or 
up  to  San  Francisco  for  dinner;  to  make 
a  delightful  swoop  toward  Mexico  or 
way  up  North  to  the  snow  country.  If 
you  don't  think  that's  romantic,  kid- 
dies, then  you  are  just  so  many  sticks 
in  the  mud. 

The  seriousness  of  their  future  plans 
can  be  judged  by  the  fact  that  Ginger  is 
trying  to  sell  her  house,  and  that  Lela 
Rogers',  Ginger's  mother,  who  adores 
her,  has  given  Howard  Hughes  her 
blessing. 

Of  course,  we  admit  that  a  year  is  a 
long  time  in  any  Hollywood  hogan  and 
no  one  can  be  considered  married  out 
here  until  everything  is  signed,  sealed 
and  delivered  (and  not  always  then). 
But,  really,  the  illumination  in  the  eyes 
of  Miss  Rogers  and  Mr.  Hughes  as  they 
look  at  each  other  these  evenings,  across 
night-club  tables,  does  seem  to  be  that 
true-for-ever-and-ever  glow. 


76 


PHOTOPLAY 


MICROSCOPE  TESTS 

prove  Clairol  takes  a  cue  from 
nature  .  .  .  producing  varied 
shadings  as  well  as  the  desired 
shade  .  .  .  instead  of  one  paint- 
ke  color  produced  by  so  many 
ordinary  dyes! 


AMERICA'S  LEADING  HAIRDRESSERS  bay: 

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JUNE,     1940 


77 


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Originator  of  ZiP  Cream  Deodor 


NEW  YORK 
(at  49th  St.) 
Stops  perspiration 


Can  Hollywood  Mothers  Be  Good  Mothers? 


which  comes  whenever  a  star  is  absent 
from  the  competitive  picture  business. 
There  are  too  many  other  actresses 
waiting  to  fill  the  vacancy. 

Anyway,  the  Hollywood  child  is  a  de- 
sired child.  Hollywood  women  want 
children  so  much  they  adopt  them,  if 
necessary.  The  kids  of  the  movie  stars 
are  happy  and  healthy  and  normal,  and 
when  they  grow  up  they  have  a  good 
chance  to  turn  into  respectable,  pro- 
gressive, socially  valuable  men  and 
women. 

For  years,  of  course,  parenthood  was 
taboo  in  the  picture  industry.  At  one 
time  all  the  stars  denied  having  chil- 
dren, if  they  did  have  them;  now  they 
proudly  announce  the  approach  of  the 
stork. 

LET'S  observe  the  actress  on  the  job  as 
a  mother.  I  speak  as  one — I've  a  son 
named  Dion,  who's  eight  this  year. 

In  the  beginning,  the  Hollywood 
mother  has  her  children  under  the  most 
modern  medical  circumstances,  so  that 
the  baby  has  the  right  start  in  life.  Then 
she  sets  about  bringing  the  youngster 
through  its  infancy  in  the  best  possible 
manner.  There  is  a  nurse,  a  baby  spe- 
cialist, and,  of  course,  scientific  feeding 
and  approved  methods  all  around. 

Next  comes  the  school  period.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  first  day  of  kindergar- 
ten for  Dion.  Joan  Blondell  was  going 
to  start  her  youngster,  Norman,  in  the 
same  school  and  we  all  went  down  to- 
gether. Of  course  as  soon  as  Normie 
and  Dion  discovered  we  were  going  to 
leave  them  they  set  off  into  frightened 
tantrums. 

That  was  at  eight  o'clock.  Joan  and 
I  sat  huddled  in  a  little  anteroom,  peer- 
ing through  a  whozit  in  the  wall  at  our 
young,  until  one  o'clock,  when  the  place 
closed.  Dion  and  Normie  were  still 
yelling.  At  ten  I  had  turned  to  Joan 
determinedly.  "It's  brutal,"  I  fumed. 
"They  won't  be  able  to  eat  or  anything 
else.  I  don't  care  if  Dion  never  learns 
anything,  I'm  going  in  there  and  take 
him  home." 

"So  am  I,"  Joan  said,  and  we  turned 
purposefully.  The  headmistress  was 
standing  just  behind  us. 

"If  you  do,"  the  headmistress  said, 
"you'll  never  get  them  to  school  again. 
They'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  so.  It's 
the  same  with  all  children." 

Joan  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  We 
went  back  to  our  observation  posts. 

We  stayed  at  them  from  eight  until 
one  every  school  day  for  two  solid 
weeks!  Fortunately,  neither  of  us  was 
working  at  the  time.  Dion  lost  three 
pounds  and  went  on  strike  about  his  ten 
o'clock  milk,  but  on  the  fifteenth  day 
he  came  home  with  a  frightening  con- 
coction of  paper  and  crayon  marks  and 
glue  he'd  made,  and  he  was  beaming  all 
over. 

Now  he's  reached  the  age  where 
he  wants  to  stay  after  school  and  play 
football.  This  coming  term,  when  he 
goes  into  the  public  school  in  Beverly 
Hills,  he'll  be  able  to  do  that  every  af- 
ternoon. 

I  HE  swank  private  school  is  not 
very  popular  among  Hollywood  moth- 
ers. I  know  a  couple  of  stars  who  found 
their  kids  boasting  of  the  big-shot 
parents  the  other  boarding-school  stu- 
dents had.  Out  came  the  kids  and  into 
public  grammar  school. 

I  think  the  charge  that  stars'  chil- 
dren are  snobbish  is  founded  on 
very  weak  authority.  You  must  re- 
member the  youngsters  in  Hollywood 
aren't  awed  by  actors  or  actresses.  Dion 


(Continued  jrora  page  17) 

knows  simply  that  Mr.  Power  and  his 
wife,  or  Mr.  Gable  and  his  wife,  are 
coming  to  dinner.  He  knows  them  as 
individuals,  not  as  famous  names.  And 
goodness  knows,  Dion  isn't  impressed 
by  me.  He's  seen  me  only  once  on  the 
screen. 

The  picture  was  "Banjo  on  My  Knee," 
I  remember.  When  we  came  out  of  the 
theater  I  asked  him  what  he  thought. 
He  said  he  liked  the  fight  between  Joel 
McCrea  and  that  other  guy. 

"Didn't  you  like  me?"  I  asked,  some- 
what wistfully. 

"Well,  your  dress  was  pretty." 

And  that  was  all. 

Now  about  this  supposition  that  be- 
cause Hollywood  women  work  all  day 
they  never  get  a  chance  to  see  their 
children.  Suppose  we  observe  the 
average  mother's  day  with  her  little 
boy.  This  was  an  average  day  at  my 
sister's.  She  raised  our  small  nephew 
when  his  mother  died. 

Busy  with  her  household  tasks,  she 
gets  him  up  at  seven-thirty,  hands  him 
breakfast  and  bundles  him  off  to  school. 
He  takes  his  lunch,  so  she  doesn't  see 
him  at  noon.  By  the  time  he  comes 
home,  at  three  o'clock,  she's  busy  pre- 
paring dinner — and  he  wants  to  play 
with  the  kids,  anyway — so  she  gives  him 
a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  and  he  tears 
out  to  play.  She  calls  him  in  to  dinner, 
and  talks  with  him  through  the  meal,  if 
he  isn't  too  tired  to  talk  to  her.  Say  for 
forty-five  minutes.  After  dinner,  she 
has  more  work  to  do  and  Junior  has 
homework,  so  after  admonishing  him  to 
wash  his  teeth,  and  reminding  him  that 
he  has  to  get  up  early  for  school,  she 
kisses  him  good  night. 

Well,  I  see  Dion  at  breakfast,  too. 
When  I'm  finished  at  the  studio  at  six 
he's  waiting  in  the  car,  to  ride  home 
with  me,  having  been  given  his  dinner 
earlier.  Then  until  seven-thirty  every 
evening,  we  talk — about  his  day  and 
what  he  thinks  and  what  his  problems 
are.  At  seven-thirty  he  goes  to  bed. 
That  is,  when  I'm  working.    He  loves  it 


Standing  with  reluctant  (?) 
feet  where  the  movie  chalk 
lines  meet — Kenneth  Brown 
and  Billy  Lenhart  rehears- 
ing  for   "Sandy  Is  a    Lady" 


when  I'm  working,  because  otherwise 
his  bedtime  is  seven. 

There's  a  difference,  you  see,  between 
the  relationship  of  the  ordinary  mother 
and  the  Hollywood  mother.  We  get  fif- 
teen minutes  or  a  half -hour  extra  with 
our  children.  And  on  week  ends  and 
layoffs  and  vacations  we  have  even 
more. 

nS  for  spoiling  the  kids  in  Hollywood 
.  .  .  I've  gone  to  children's  parties 
where  little  gilt-edged  trust  funds  tod- 
dled about,  not  very  impressed  by  the 
circus,  the  clowns,  magicians,  the  color 
movies  or  the  banquet;  and  I  remem- 
bered my  own  childhood.  I  didn't  get 
any  parties  at  all.  Generally  speaking, 
very  few  stars  had  plushy  early  days  or 
came  from  rich  families. 

Thus  it's  only  natural  to  feel,  "I  want 
Junior  to  have  all  the  things  I  didn't 
have."  That's  understandable,  but  it's 
not  intelligent.  I  had  to  learn  that.  Had 
to  realize  that  giving  a  child  a  surfeit  of 
things  now,  dwarfs  his  perspective  later 
on.  I've  had  to  discipline  myself  to 
insure  his  future  happiness!  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  rob  him  of  the-  excitement  and 
triumph  of  a  right  perspective  on  pos- 
sessions— and  other  Hollywood  mothers 
discipline  themselves  on  this  matter  as  I 
do.  Christmas  before  last  Dion  got 
thirty  or  forty  expensive  presents,  from 
Bob  and  me  and  from  our  friends.  No 
child  of  seven  can  cope  with  so  much. 
Last  Christmas  I  told  Dion  he  could 
have  just  five  things  he  wanted. 

And  that's  what  he  got.  The  rest  were 
sent  to  the  orphanage.  Dion  really  ap- 
preciated his  presents  then,  and  has 
taken  care  of  them. 

That  is  one  form  of  discipline.  Holly- 
wood mothers  don't  spank  their  chil- 
dren, but  they  demand,  and  get,  respect 
and  obedience.  I  made  sure  Dion  knew 
right  from  wrong  as  soon  as  he  could 
talk  or  understand;  now,  when  he  does 
something  he  shouldn't,  he's  punished 
by  being  deprived  of  something  he 
wants  very  much.  He  can't  go  skat- 
ing, or  he  can't  exercise  other  valu- 
able privileges. 

He  had  a  date,  for  instance,  to  go  with 
his  little  friend,  Joanie  Benny,  to  see 
"Gulliver's  Travels."  He  was  bad  for 
a  whole  day,  and  knew  he  was  bad, 
and  didn't  care;  so  Joanie  went  to 
the  picture  and  Dion  stayed  home.  It 
broke  his  heart,  and  mine,  but  it's  go- 
ing to  be  several  weeks  before  he  can 
see  "Gulliver."    He  knows  why,  too. 

I  SUPPOSE  the  best  answer,  finally,  is 
in  the  children  themselves  when  they 
grow  up  and  show  the  world  how  Holly- 
wood's method  of  child-raising  works. 

I  think  it  has  presented  some  pretty 
good  examples,  which  all  towns  pro- 
duce. Look  at  Tim  Holt.  Look  at  Lon 
Chaney,  Jr.  Look  at  Noah  Berry,  Jr. 
Look  at  Harold  Lloyd's  daughters.  Look 
at  the  dozens  of  others  I  could  name,  if 
there  were  space.  They're  healthy,  tal- 
ented, good-looking,  well-mannered. 

After  all,  sociologists  continue  to  re- 
mind us  that  rich,  physically  strong,  in- 
telligent people  should  have  more  chil- 
dren than  they  do.  Well,  Hollywood 
seems  to  be  taking  the  advice  to  heart. 
In  the  face  of  wars  and  the  rumors  of 
general  catastrophe,  Hollywood  women 
are  taking  time  out  to  bear  strong, 
beautiful  children,  or  to  adopt  them. 
And  whether  the  rearing  of  these  chil- 
dren is  good,  bad,  or  indifferent,  at  least 
they'll  exist  and  they'll  have  healthy 
bodies,  tans,  straight  teeth,  and  minds 
filled  with  the  ideals  of  American  De- 
mocracy. 


78 


PHOTOPLAY 


This  Powder  Enlivens  the 

Beauty  of  Your  Skin 


f  YOUR  skin  seems  to  look  dull  and  lifeless 
at  times,  try  this  famous  face  powder  created  by  Max  Factor 
Hollywood.  You'll  be  surprised  what  a  difference  it  will  make. 

First,  there's  a  color  harmony  shade  just  for  your  type  that 
will  impart  the  look  of  lovely  youthful  beauty  to  your  skin. 

Second,  the  texture  is  so  fine  that  your  make-up  will 
be  satin-smooth,  clinging  and  lasting. 

If  you  are  blonde  or  brunette,  brownette 
or  redhead,  remember  there's  a  color  har- 
mony shade  of  Max  Factor  Hollywood 
Powder  that  will  accent  the  loveliness  of 
your  own  complexion  colorings... $1.00 


JUNE,     I  940 


79 


Now  you  can  double-dare  the  harshest 
daylight  or  evening  spot-light  to  show 
a  trace  of  line,  freckle  or  blemish.  Look 
lovelier  than  you  ever  dreamed  —  by 
using  the  new  POWD'fy-BASE  stick. 


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I 
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a  Rachelle 
D  Brunette 
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a  Light 
Q  Bright 
Q  Dark 


Round-Up  of  Pace  Setters 


'There  is  a  Maiden  Form  let  Every  Type  el  Figurel' 


the  actor  and  director  who  first  intro- 
duced to  the  screen  "frankness  in  sex," 
as  he  terms  it.  Today,  after  all  these 
years,  taxicab  drivers,  writers,  icemen, 
remember  the  monocled  menace  of 
those  early  pictures. 

He  became  an  American  citizen  years 
ago  and  loves  this  country.  Across  one 
brow,  romantically  enough,  he  wears  a 
saber  cut  and  on  the  back  of  his  shaven 
neck,  he  very  unromantically  wears  a 
wound  where  a  horse  kicked  him. 

His  smile  is  news.  It  completely 
wipes  away  the  frown,  the  hurt,  from 
his  eyes,  and  brings  out  a  dimple  in  his 
left  cheek,  revealing  the  man  Von 
Stroheim  that  was  meant  to  be.  Let's 
lift  our  lamps  higher  that  this  genius 
may,  once  again,  find  his  way  home. 

Mammy  Goes  to  Town 

From  the  north,  east,  west  and  the 
very  deep  south  come  letters,  messages, 
congratulatory  newspaper  clippings,  to 
a  round-faced,  humble,  but  gifted  Ne- 
gress, named  Hattie  McDaniel.  With 
that  Oscar  in  her  hand,  won  for  her 
role  of  Mammy  in  "Gone  with  the 
Wind,"  Hattie  at  last  comes  into  her 
own.  For  all  God's  chilluns  ain't  got 
Oscars,  have  they,  Hattie?  Nor  do  they 
have  that  swell  role  in  "Maryland," 
which  Hattie  has  just  completed  for 
Twentieth  Century-Fox. 

For  the  beauty  of  her  soul,  the  hu- 
mility in  her  heart,  the  spark  of  genius 
within,  Hattie  should  have  won  some 
award  even  without  the  Mammy  role. 

Born  of  a  Baptist  minister  in  Wichita, 
Kansas,  Hattie,  the  thirteenth  child,  has 
made  her  way  through  this  world  with 
a  song  in  her  heart  and  on  her  lips. 
When  the  family  moved  to  Denver,  Hat- 
tie took  to  singing  and  reciting  with  ges- 
tures. She  ended  up  winning  the 
gold  medal  at  the  Temperance  Union 
meeting  for  her  absolutely  amazing  ren- 
dition of  "Convict  Joe."  She  toured  the 
Pantages  Circuit  with  George  Morri- 
son's band,  all  colored,  and  later 
branched  out  into  her  own  little  act, 
written  by  herself.  When  bookings 
were  slow,  Hattie  took  to  someone's 
kitchen.  Once  in  Milwaukee  when  Hat- 
tie was  down  to  two  dollars  and  no  job, 
she  found  a  woman  who  gave  her  a 
room  on  time,  and  finally  a  job  as  maid 
in  the  ladies'  room  of  Sam  Pick's  road- 
side cafe.  After  the  orchestra  had  gone 
home  nights,  Hattie  in  her  white  apron 
would  come  out  and  sing  to  customers 
who  showered  her  with  applause  and 
greenbacks.  Hollywood  found  her  next. 
Small  jobs  here  and  there  came  her  way, 
but  in  between,  when  the  going  was 
bad,  Hattie  took  in  washing,  still  with 
a  song  in  her  heart.  Gradually,  during 
her  ten  years  here,  the  cooking  and  the 
laundry  jobs  grew  fewer  and  fewer  and 
more  and  more  Hattie  was  seen  on  the 
screen. 

She  didn't  talk  about  how  much  she 
wanted  the  Mammy  part.  "Long  ago  I 
learned  to  keep  my  mouth  shut,"  she 
says.  "Too  much  talking  is  bad  in 
Hollywood."  Everyone  in  town  tested, 
and  then  came  Hattie's  turn,  and  Hattie 
just  opened  her  heart  and  let  the  tears 
flow  out.  There  were  no  more  Mammy 
tests  after  that,  for  Selznick  put  her 
under  contract  at  once. 

With  her  niece,  she  keeps  her  little 
house  in  Los  Angeles.  Every  Sunday 
morning,  there  sits  Hattie  in  the  front 
row,  God  love  her,  at  the  Independent 
Church  of  Christ,  her  face  beaming  with 
the  joy  of  the  message. 

To  her  we  give  Photoplay's   special 


(Continued  from  page  72) 

award  of  esteem  to  a  great  heart  that 
will  never  die. 

Opportunity  Knocks  at  Last 

On  a  Santa  Monica  hilltop  overlook- 
ing a  temperamental  Pacific  ocean  lives 
Ian  (pronounced  E-an)  Hunter,  his 
wife,  and  two  young  sons.  The  man 
who  scored  so  unforgettably  in  "Strange 
Cargo,"  is  a  natural,  genial  Englishman, 
voted  by  all  Hollywood  as  tops. 

Most  of  his  stories  deal  with  his  boat. 
Mrs.  Hunter,  pert,  English  and  a  good 
scout,  accompanies  him  on  his  thirty- 
five  foot  sailboat,  and  the  two  spend  all 
their    spare    time    sailing    the    Pacific. 

Ian  spent  the  first  fourteen  years  of 
his  life  in  Cape  Town,  South  Africa, 
where  he  was  born  on  June  13th.  When 
the  war  tore  apart  his  part  of  the  world, 
his  three  older  brothers  enlisted  in  the 
English  army,  and  Ian  followed  them  to 
England.  He  failed  to  fool  the  recruit- 
ing sergeant  with  his  age,  however,  and 
entered  Aldhenham  College  for  two 
years  until  he  grew  old  enough  to  en- 
list, and  for  two  years  he  lived  under 
fire  in  France.  When  the  war  was  over, 
there  were  but  three  Hunter  boys,  and 
the  two  older  boys  decided  definitely 
on  the  stage.  Ian,  as  usual,  tagged 
along.  In  1919  Basil  Dean,  well-known 
English  theatrical  figure,  gave  Hunter 
his  first  big  opportunity  and  Ian  proved 
a  hit  in  the  stage  plays  "A  Bill  of  Di- 
vorcement" and  "The  Best  People,"  and 
in  Broadway's  "The  High  Road." 

Hollywood  was  only  3,000  miles  from 
Broadway,  and  Warners  soon  placed  the 
tall,  blue-eyed  and  quite  handsome 
actor  in  a  dozen  or  so  movies  where  he 
never  quite  got  the  girl.  Ian  was  that 
actor  that  everyone  said  of,  "I  like 
Hunter.    Seems  like  a  good  fellow." 

In  "To  Mary — with  Love,"  for  Twen- 
tieth Century-Fox,  the  town  suddenly 
changed  the  lyrics  to,  "Say,  that  Hunt- 
er's a  damned  good  actor,  no  fooling." 
On  loan  to  M-G-M  (where  he  is  now 
under  contract),  he  made  steady  prog- 
ress until  his  unforgettable  portrait  of 
that  soul  in  all  men,  Cambreau  of 
"Strange  Cargo." 

He  collects  etchings,  builds  elaborate 
bridges  for  his  ship  models,  swims  in  the 
ocean  and  not  his  own  swimming  pool, 
plays  the  piano,  loves  to  listen  to  good 
stories  and  good  conversation,  trains  his 
two  dogs.  In  short,  Hunter  is  the  hero 
in  every  good  book  or  story  we've  ever 
read,  only  in  Hollywood,  for  some  con- 
founded reason,  they  never  let  him  get 
the  girl.     Let's  start  a  campaign! 

A  Real  Winner— With  a  Photographed 
Finish 

Blonde,  nineteen-year-old  Nan  Grey, 
Universal  starlet,  has  been  in  love  with 
the  same  man  (Jackie  Westrope)  for 
seven  years,  has  been  married  to  him 


Grade  Fields  and 
Monty  Banks  had 
reason  for  smiling 
at  the  4-A  Ball; 
not  so  many  hours 
later,  the  British 
star  and  producer 
(the  latter  a  pop- 
ular comedian  of 
silent  screen  days) 
were  quietly  wed 
— and  then  sailed 
back     to     England! 


for  one,  has  acted  in  pictures  seven 
years  and  came  into  her  own  in  "Three 
Smart  Girls,"  followed  by  "Three  Smart 
Girls  Grow  Up."  Nan  is  still  growing 
up  in  the  midst  of  life  while  most 
youngsters  are  preparing  for  it. 

At  twelve,  Nan  left  her  native  Houston 
to  visit  friends  in  Hollywood  with  no 
thought  of  pictures.  Her  father  was  an 
official  of  the  Motion  Pictures  Operator's 
Union  in  Houston,  so  naturally  Nan 
had  heard  movies  discussed  from  the 
behind  the  camera  angle  all  her  life, 
and  felt  none  of  the  thrill  of  it  most 
youngsters  do.  Nevertheless,  an  agent 
friend  of  the  family  was  so  impressed 
with  this  natural  young  beauty  from 
Texas,  he  secured  her  a  contract  at 
Warners,  with  Nan  nonchalantly  ex- 
panding her  thirteen  years  into  sixteen 
and  playing  a  bit  in  "The  Firebird," 
with  Verree  Teasdale  and  Ricardo  Cor- 
tez,  and  "Mary  Jane's  Pa." 

Her  year  at  Warners  completed,  she 
moved  to  Universal  and  has  been  there 
ever  since.  She's  made  a  full  dozen  or 
more  pictures  there,  including  "Tower 
of  London,"  "The  Invisible  Man  Re- 
turns," "Sandy  Is  a  Lady,"  and  "The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables."  Radio  has 
also  taken  up  her  time. 

Contrary  to  most  girls,  Nan  married 
her  childhood  hero.  With  Houston 
newspapers  screaming  the  achieve- 
ments of  Jockey  Jackie  Westrope  at  the 
Epsom  Downs  track  (the  Texas  Ep- 
som Downs) ,  Jackie,  at  fifteen,  was  the 
rage  of  the  town.  Just  before  she  left 
Houston  Nan  met  her  idol,  and  shortly 
after  she  arrived  in  Hollywood,  Jackie 
appeared  to  ride  at  the  California  tracks. 
There  has  been  no  one  else  in  her  heart 
from  that  moment,  seven  years  ago. 
Nor  in  Jackie's  either. 

Together  Jackie  and  Nan  ride  bi- 
cycles, roller  skate,  ride  horses  (well, 
naturally)  and  play  golf.  With  her  own 
hands,  Nan  bakes  wonderful  eggless, 
milkless,  non-baking  powder  cookies, 
which  Jackie  consumes  by  the  jarful, 
and  then  he  must  steam  off  the  result- 
ing poundage.  It's  true  love,  believe 
me.  They  take  their  careers  sensibly 
and  as  matter-of-factly  as  most  young 
moderns.  Between  pictures,  Nan  flies 
to  wherever  Jackie  is  riding,  always 
making  it  back  in  time  for  the  broad- 
cast. 

Sports  clothes  are  her  forte,  and  the 
other  day  while  helping  her  husband 
pack  his  belongings  for  the  Tanforan 
track,  she  perched  his  jockey  cap  atop 
her  blonde  head,  and  instantly  got  an 
idea.  She's  going  to  popularize  feminine 
jockey  caps  for  sportswear.  That  will 
be  me  coming  in  next  to  last  around  the 
home  stretch,  my  jockey  cap  flying  to 
the  breeze. 

In  that  number,  we  wouldn't  even 
make  show  money. 


BO 


PHOTOPLAY 


II  II 

My  Mother  was  a  Flapper! 


But  her  daughter  is  a  "glamour  girl"!  Not  for  her  those 
flapping  galoshes  . .  .  and  shapeless  dresses  of  1920!  Modern  girls  like 
streamlined,  figure-fitting  things  .  .  . 

Which  is  why  more  girls  buy  Kotex  sanitary  napkins  today  than  all 
other  brands  put  together!  Made  in  soft  folds  (with  more  absorbent 
material  where  needed... less  in  the  non-effective  portions  of  the  pad) 
Kotex  fits  better  ...  is  less  bulky  .  .  .  than  pads  having  loose,  wadded 
fillers!  No  wonder  Kotex  is  the  most  popular  napkin  made! 


A  real  achievement!  An  improved  moisture-resistant 
material  (newly  developed  by  the  Kotex  laboratories)  is 
now  placed  between  the  soft  folds  of  every  Kotex  pad  . . . 
to  give  you  extra  protection. 

And  with  this  extra  protection  goes  the  blessed  knowl- 
edge that  Kotex  ends  are  invisible!  Flat,  form  fitting  ends 
(patented  by  Kotex)  never  make  tell-tale  outlines  .  .  .  never 
reveal  your  secret  .  .  .  the  way  "stubby-end"  napkins  do! 


Kotex*  comes  in  three  sizes,  too!  Unlike  most  nap- 
kins, Kotex  comes  in  three  different  sizes  —  Super— Regular 
—Junior.  (So  you  may  vary  the  size  pad  to  suit  different 
days'  needs.) 

Try  all  3  sizes  and  learn  what  real  comfort  means !  All  3 
have  soft,  folded  centers... flat,  tapered  ends... and  mois- 
ture-resistant "safety  panels".  And  all  3  sizes  sell  for  the 
same  lotv  price  ! 


Feel  its  new  softness  . . .  Prove  its  new  safety . . .  Compare  its  new  flatter  ends 

You  scarcely  know  you're  wearing  it!" 


^<£^l 

"1 

►    i 

~?^^^         ^ 

toffkv       4 

^' 

^1M1 

IT'S  THRIFTY 

liMBLl               ^ 

to  get  this  30- 

Napkin  box.  More 

convenient,  tool 

»Trade  Murk  Reg.  U.  S.  Pat.  Office 

JUNE,      1940 


Hawaiian  Honeymoon 


•  "The  brighter  the  righter". . .  is  fashion's  lat- 
est color  advice  on  lips.  Coty  "Sub-Deb"  re- 
sponds with  ringing  new  shades— bright,  clear, 
rich,  red!  And  you  get  these  high-style  Coty 
colors  without  fear  of  Lipstick  Parching!  To 
help  you  avoid  chapping  and  roughness,  "Sub- 
Deb"  contains  a  special  softening  ingredient- 
designed  to  protect  lips,  while  it  gives  them 
exciting  color.  You'll  adore  "Sub-Deb "...try  it! 

THRILLING   RANGE  OF  9  SHADES! 
Ask  especially  to  see  the  very  new  "Magnet 
Red". . .  a  vital  red  red,  full  of  dash  and  style. 


Double  Sub-De 

$l.00 

Sub-Deb 

50 


OTY 


front,  the  waves  slipping  away  under 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  the  bulk  of  Dia- 
mond Head  looming  ahead,  the  mon- 
strous, upturned  cup  of  the  sky  covering 
them  and  though  everything  was  beau- 
tiful she  found  no  comfort  in  it. 

Through  the  main  cabin  door  she 
could  see  Angus  MacBride  studying  a 
map.  In  the  entrance  to  the  first  cabin, 
Laurel  was  twisting  and  tying  a  bright 
bandanna  over  her  sleek  black  hair, 
leaving  enough  framing  her  face  to 
make  it  more  a  beauty  than  a  utilitarian 
measure. 

Caroline  sat  in  a  wicker  chair  on  one 
side  of  the  main  cabin  with  a  look 
denoting  thorough  disapproval  of  every- 
thing. On  the  opposite  side,  in  an 
identical  chair,  Randy  sat  with  a  look 
denoting  exactly  nothing. 

Angus  put  down  the  map,  opened  the 
icebox  and  brought  out  seven  bottles  of 
beer.  He  opened  them  and,  as  he  did 
so,  handed  them  one  by  one  to  Alastair. 
Alastair  relayed  one  to  Randy  who  took 
it  without  comment,  one  to  Caroline 
who  took  it  with  the  comment  "I  don't 
want  any,"  handed  two  down  to  Laurel, 
one  for  her  and  one  for  David,  who  was 
in  the  second  cabin  forward.  Alastair 
said  to  Caroline,  "Where's  Ann?" 

Without  looking  up,  Caroline  said, 
"Funny,  she  was  chained  to  my  wrist  a 
moment  ago.  She  must  have  gnawed 
off  her  hand  and  escaped." 

"I'm  in  the  fish  box,"  Ann  said 
mournfully.  Laurel  was  not  in  view. 
Was  David  kissing  her  now?  Were  they 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes  and 
thinking,  'Soon  we'll  be  free  to  belong 
to  each  other  openly'?  Or  were  they 
just  sitting  on  bunks  opposite  each 
other,  drinking  beer?  Oh  God,  how 
awful  it  was  to  be  a  woman  and  not 
belong  to  anybody! 

Alastair  came  out  with  her  beer.  He 
loitered.     "Lonely?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  it's  awful  being  on  a  desert 
island,"  said  Ann.  "Just  the  rustling  of 
the  wind  in  the  trees,  you  know?  And 
thinking  about  civilization  and  eating 
clams.  I'm  getting  very  sick  of  clams 
but  then,  one  has  to  live,  hasn't  one?" 

"You're  getting  so  you  talk  just  like 
Caroline."  There  was  a  note  of  resent- 
ment in  his  voice.  He  took  a  big  swig 
of  beer. 

Ann  said,  "Come  back  when  I'm  really 
up  in  the  part.  I'll  show  you  something." 

Inside  the  cabin  Angus  picked  up  a 
ukulele  and  started  strumming  it  and 
Alastair  wandered  back  to  listen.  Laurel 
and  David  came  and  stood  on  the  steps 
side  by  side. 

Angus  sang,  with  a  rather  nice  voice, 

"Whe-en  Hilo  Hattie  does  the  Hilo  Hop 
There's  no-ot  a  bit  of  use  for  a  traffic 

cop 
For  ev'rything  and  ev'rybody  comes  to 

stop 
When  Hilo  Hattie  does  the  Hilo  Hop. 

She  does  her  very  best  to  satisfy 

Slie  shakes  her  holoku  and  she  winks 

her  eye, 
You'll  always  find  the  fellows  hanging 

round  her  lanai, 
When  Hilo  Hattie  does  the  Hilo  Hop." 

"What,"  said  Randy,  "is  her  holoku?" 
"Dress,  libertine,"  said  Caroline. 
"Oh."  Randy  went  back  to  his  beer. 

"That  wahine  has  an  opu  with  a  college 

education, 
There's  no  motion  she  won't  go  through, 
She  doesn't  leave  a  thing  to  your  imag- 
ination. .  .  ." 


(Continued  from  page  25) 

"Opu?"  Randy  said,  with  a  stir  of  in- 
terest. 

"Stomach,"  said  Angus. 


"O-oh,   Hattie's   sure   to   die   from   too 

much  gin 
But  she  will  never  pay  for  her  life  of 

sin  .  .  . 
St.  Peters  going  to  take  a  look  and  say, 
'Come  on  in.' 
When  Hilo  Hattie  does  the  Hilo  Hop." 

"Very  misleading,  this  language," 
Randy  said. 

Caroline  threw  down  her  magazine 
and  came  out  on  the  afterdeck.  She  dis- 
covered Ann  in  the  fish  box  and  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  swivel  chairs. 
"What's  that  huddle  in  there  on  the 
steps?"  she  said.  "And  what  are  you 
doing  out  here?  Aren't  you  woman 
enough  to  protect  your  own  interests?" 

Ann  said,  "Lay  off  me.  Just  because 
you're  mad  at  Randy." 

Caroline  said  tartly,  "This  Mormon 
village  that's  springing  up  right  under 
Alastair's  nose  is  going  to  look  sweet  in 
print,  isn't  it?" 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do,  go  in 
and  sit  on  their  laps?" 

"I  expect  you  to  get  her  out  of  his 
lap,"   Caroline   said. 

"Sorry,"  Ann  said,  "I'm  an  actress, 
not  a  magician." 

Abandoning  the  subject  abruptly, 
Caroline  looked  thoughtful  for  a  mo- 
ment. "Where,"  she  said,  "is  Diamond 
Head?" 

"Behind  us,"  Ann  said. 

"Right  behind  us  so  you  could  reach 
out  and  touch  it?"  Caroline  said.  "Or 
is  that  a  wave?" 

It  was  a  wave  big  enough  to  obscure 
Diamond  Head.  And  that,  in  any  man's 
language,  is  a  wave. 

Caroline  put  her  hand  on  her  head. 
"I'm  beginning  to  feel  odd,  really  I  am. 
If  I'd  known  we  were  going  to  ride 
steeplechase,  I'd  have  brought  a  horse." 

I  HE  Humuhumunukunuku  nosed  gal- 
lantly into  another  mountain  of  water, 
struggled  to  the  top  and  took  a  belly 
dive  into  space.  She  groaned  as  she 
hit  the  trough,  shook  herself  and  seemed 
to  have  a  moment  of  indecision  about 
which  direction  to  take.  This  decided, 
she  attacked  the  next  liquid  Mt.  Everest. 

"I  feel,"  Caroline  said,  in  the  voice  of 
one  hypnotized,  "like  an  ungrateful  rat, 
but  I  don't  like  this.  I  want  to  go 
home." 

She  rose,   groped  her  way   into  the 


main  cabin  and  collapsed  in  a  heap  on 
one  of  the  long  bunks,  emitting  low, 
piteous  moans.  Randy  hovered  over  her. 

"Try  to  think  of  something  else,"  he 
urged. 

"Try  to  mind  your  own  business." 
Caroline's  equilibrium  had  gone  but  her 
spirit  hadn't  entirely  taken  flight. 

I  HEY  were  pitching  in  earnest  now. 
Leaning  out,  hanging  fast  to  the  fish 
box  and  looking  toward  the  prow,  Ann 
saw  endless  walls  of  water  rolling  up 
out  of  the  darkness  with  seeming  glut- 
tonous intent.  There  was  nothing  be- 
hind them  except  limitless  black,  roll- 
ing, pushing  water.  David  and  Laurel 
had  disappeared.  They  must  have,  she 
decided,  gone  forward  again.  Ann  shiv- 
ered a  little.  She  was  wet  through  from 
the  spray.  She  climbed  out  of  the  fish 
box  feeling  desolate  and,  clinging  to  the 
swivel  chairs  in  order  to  keep  her  feet 
on  the  slippery  deck,  made  her  way  into 
the  main  cabin.  Even  with  her  eyes 
closed,  Caroline  wore  a  look  of  singular 
and  admirable  determination.  As  Ann 
leaned  over  her,  she  opened  one  eye. 
"If  anybody  asks,  later,"  she  said 
weakly,  "my  relatives  all  went  down  on 
the  Titanic.  We  have  a  way,  we  Hath- 
aways,  of  picking  the  most  inconvenient 
form  of  death." 

Ann  looked  across  the  cabin.  Angus 
was  jiggling  key£  and  pushing  buttons 
on  the  radio  telephone.  She  went  over 
to  him.    "What're  you  doing?" 

He  frowned.  "Trying  to  reach  shore. 
I  didn't  tell  anybody  we  were  coming 
out."  Abruptly  he  abandoned  the  ef- 
fort.    "Can't  get  a  rise  out  of  them." 

"Is  there  anything  wrong?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Angus.  "Have 
another  beer,  Ann?" 

"No  thanks.  It's  pretty  rough,  isn't 
it?" 

Willi,  at  the  wheel,  gave  her  a  pecu- 
liar look  and  made  a  little  hissing  noise 
through  his  teeth.  Angus  said,  "It's 
rougher  than  usual." 

Ann  felt  her  way  down  the  com- 
panionway. 

Laurel  and  David  were  in  the  second 
cabin.  Ann  stopped  in  the  doorway 
saying,  "May  I  come  in?  There  aren't 
very  many  places  one  can  go  on  a  small 
boat,  are  there?" 

Laurel  was  sitting  on  the  bunk  oppo- 
site David,  smoking.  She  said,  "I'm  glad 
you  came  down.  David  and  I  have  been 
talking." 

Ann  slid  up  onto  the  bunk  beside 
David,  careful  not  to  sit  too  close  and 
thereby  seem  to  be  establishing  a  claim. 


Very  proud  papa!  Deprived  of  an  opportunity  to  be  with  his  wife,  Frances, 
when  their  second  child  (and  first  son)  was  born,  Henry  Fonda  hurried  from 
the  "Lillian  Russell"  set  to  New  York,  where  the  two  celebrated  at  La  Conga 


82 


PHOTOPLAY 


"Things  might  as  well  be  talked  out 
now  as  any  time,"  Laurel  added,  with  a 
businesslike  air. 

"What  things?" 

"Oh  .       details"  said  Laurel. 

David  was  staring  at  his  shoes.  Ann 
had  seen  him  look  just  this  way  before, 
when  he  was  considering  whether  or 
not  to  sign  a  contract  for  a  picture. 

Ann  said,  "What  details?  It  seems 
to  me  everything  is  settled.  David  is 
still  in  love  with  you  and  I'm  going  to 
divorce  him  so  he  can  remarry  you. 
Have  I  left  anything  out?" 

Laurel  smiled  winningly.  "Nothing  of 
importance, '  she  said.  "But  unimpor- 
tances have  to  be  discussed  too,  unfor- 
tunately." 

"For  instance?" 

"Well,"  Laurel  said,  "for  instance, 
David  tells  me  you  haven't  discussed  a 
settlement." 

Ann  felt  a  slight  pressure  from  Da- 
vid's elbow.  Had  she  imagined  it?  He 
was  still  staring  at  his  shoes. 

"Money?"  Ann  said. 

Again  the  winning  smile.  Laurel's 
voice  was  very  gentle  and  friendly. 
"It's  customary,"  she  said,  "when  two 
people  get  a  divorce,  to  make  certain 
financial  arrangements.  I  want  to  know 
.  .  ."  she  laughed  a  little,  ".  .  .  as  David's 
former  and  future  wife,  just  how  much 
money  you  expect  from  him.  I  want 
to  know  where  we  stand." 

"Why?"  Ann  said.  "Isn't  David 
enough?" 

There  was  a  flash  of  hatred  in  Lau- 
rel's eyes  for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  "You  mustn't  be  bitter,"  she 
said.  "I'm  only  being  ...  as  everybody 
has  to  be  sometimes  .  .  .  practical." 

"I'm  not  bitter,"  Ann  said.  "Just 
curious.  I  don't  see  what  money  and 
settlements  have  to  do  with  love,  that's 
all.    I  was  only  asking." 

David  said,   "I  think   you're  being  a 


little  hasty,  Ann.  It's  only  natural  that 
Laurel  should  want  to  know  what  to 
expect  in  the  future "  He  looked  at 
Laurel.  "When  we  were  first  married," 
he  said,  "I  was  earning  well  over  fifty 
thousand  a  year,  wasn't  I?" 

"Fifty-three,  to  be  exact,"  Laurel 
said,  "with  the  agent's  commission  de- 
ducted." 

"Mmm."  David  looked  at  his  shoes 
again.  "I'm  getting  a  lot  more  now. 
But  you've  no  idea  how  income  tax  eats 
into  those  figures  " 

"I  know,"  Laurel  said  sympathetically 
She  turned  back  to  Ann.  "What  do  you 
think  would  be  fair,  Ann?" 

Again  that  slight  pressure  This  time 
Ann  knew  she  hadn't  imagined  it.  "TU 
have  to  discuss  it  with  my  lawyer  "  she 
said.    "I  hadn't  thought  about  it  really." 

'Of  course,"  Laurel  said,  "it  isn't  as 
though  you  didn't  have  a  huge  income 
of  your  own  ' 

"No,"  Ann  agreed.  "I  have  a  very 
good  salary.  But  of  course  an  actress 
can't  count  on  more  than  .  .  .  well,  ten 
years  at  best  " 

"Oh,  but  you'll  marry  again,"  Laurel 
said  patting  her  knee.  "Then  it  will  be 
your  husband's  place  to  see  that  you're 
taken  care  of.  A  girl  as  attractive  as 
you  are.  .  .  ." 

"That's  very  kind  of  you,"  Ann  said. 
"But  at  the  moment  I'm  just  counting 
on  the  money  I  earn  myself." 

Laurel  laughed.  "You're  making  at 
least  two  thousand  a  week." 

"Yes  I  am,"  Ann  said.  "I'm  making 
more." 

II NN  looked  at  David.  He  wore  a  dif- 
ferent expression  now.  He  seemed  to 
be  listening  to  something.  Ann  said, 
"What  is  it?" 

"Does  it  strike  you,"  David  said,  "that 
there's  something  missing?" 

"Missing?" 


"The  motor  seems  to  have  stopped," 
David  said.  "Excuse  me  a  moment."  He 
got  up  and  left  the  cabin.  Laurel  and 
Ann  looked  at  each  other.  Laurel 
smiled.  "I  hope  we're  going  to  be  very 
good  friends  afterward,  Ann.  I've  really 
grown  quite  fond  of  you." 

"Have  you  really?"  Ann  said. 

"Yes.  There's  something  about  you 
You're  so  .  .      so    . 

"Simple-minded?"  Ann  said. 

"I  don't  think  that's  a  very  nice  way 
to  accept  an  offer  of  friendship." 

"I  dont  either,"  Ann  said.  "That  is, 
I  don't,  if  one  wants  the  friendship.  But 
1  don't  want  yours,  you  see.  You're  not 
my  type.  Laurel "  She  followed  David 
out  of  the  cabin. 

Above,  she  found  David,  Willi  and 
Randy  leaning  over  the  gaping  aperture 
made  by  lifted  deck  sections.  Angus 
was  at  the  wheel.  He  said,  without  re- 
gard for  courtesy,  "Get  out  of  the  light." 

Ann  stepped  aside  and  made  her  way 
carefully  to  the  bunk  where  Caroline 
was  lying.  The  Humuhumunukunuku 
was  pitching  like  a  bucking  horse.  The 
sound  of  the  waves  crashing  against  her 
prow  was  louder  and  more  menacing. 

Laurel  came  up  from  below  and  said 
to  Angus,  "What's  happened?" 

"Nothing,"  Angus  said. 

"The  engine's  stopped,"  Laurel  said, 
as  though  Angus  had  with  deliberate 
malice  thrown  it  overboard. 

"Yes,"  Angus  said  quietly,  "the  en- 
gine's stopped." 

"Is  it  broken?" 

"If  it  weren't,  it  wouldn't  have 
stopped."  This  was  a  different  Angus. 
Ann  realized  for  the  first  time,  watch- 
ing him,  that  they  were  in  a  serious 
situation  unless  Willi,  diligently  poking 
into  the  engine's  interior,  was  success- 
ful. 

Willi  dashed  that  hope  when  he 
straightened    up    and    said    into    space, 


"It's  no  good.  The  block  has  cracked  " 
Angus  said,  "Take  the  wheel."  With- 
out a  word  Willi  threw  down  his  wrench 
and  took  Angus'  place.  Angus,  rubbing 
his  arms,  leaned  against  the  table  and 
looked  around.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said, 
"but  without  a  motor  we  can't  get  to 
Molokai.  I'd  Jike  to  be  able  to  say  that 
somebody  is  on  the  way  out  to  pick  us 
up  but  I  can't  seem  to  get  through  to 
Honolulu  on  the  radio  telephone.  And 
nobody  knows  we're  out  here " 

Caroline   sat    up.      "What's    going    to 
happen?" 

"We're  going  to  drift,''  said  Angus 
"Unless,"  said  Randy,  "we  capsize  " 
David  went  out  to  the  afterdeck.  Ann 
followed  and  stood  beside  him  She 
realized  for  the  first  time  how  big  the 
Pacific  Ocean  is  and  how  little  she  was. 
David,  hanging  to  the  rail,  cupped  his 
hand  against  the  wind.    "Afraid?" 

"Yes,"  Ann  said.  Soberly  she  watched 
the  massive  waves  rolling  behind  them. 
"I'd  like  to  say,"  David  said,  "that  the 
money  discussion  down  there  was  not 
my  idea.    I  hope  you  know  that,  Ann." 
"I  do,"  Ann  said,  and  then  in  her  ears 
rang  the  same  words  spoken  at  another 
time  and  meaning  something  quite  dif- 
ferent.   She  put  her  hand  out  on  an  im- 
pulse and  took  his  arm. 
"Oh  David!"  she  said. 
"What,  dear?" 

"Nothing.    Just  .  .  .  oh,  David." 
They  weren't  divorced.    He  might  be 
divorced  from  her  but  she  would  never 
be  divorced  from  him.     She  knew  that 
now. 


"'Til  death  do  us  part"  was  Ann's 
vow — and,  every  moment,  death  seems 
more  imminent  than  divorce,  despite 
Laurel's  stranglehold  on  David.  Strange 
things  happen  in  the  crippled  boat, 
adrijt  in  an  angry  sea;  jollow  its  course 
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JUNE,      I  940 


S3 


'My  Life  With  John" 


(Continued  jrom  page  26) 


timental  novel,  most  likely,  and  it  had 
one  of  those  mawkish  deathbed  scenes. 
But  it  said  one  thing  which  seemed  to 
me  wise  then,  and  still  does.  The  heroine 
was  a  woman  who  lived  in  the  future. 
One  day  she  woke  up  and  found  herself 
dying,  with  all  of  life  unlived. 

"I  made  up  my  mind  then  and  there 
that  the  only  thing  I'd  ever  regret  was 
not  having  lived  my  life  to  its  fullest. 
Today  is  all  you're  sure  of,  so  take  what 
today  offers — whether  it's  a  walk  in  the 
park  or  love  or  pain  even.  If  I  were 
to  pass  out  this  minute,  at  twenty-four, 
I  will  have  lived  twenty-four  years 
completely,  and  I  have  every  intention 
of  living  the  rest  of  my  life  the  same 
way. 

ill 

MS  for  my  life  with  John,  it's  built  on 
two  things — love  and  similar  tastes.  And 
I  think  the  second  is  more  important. 
It  was  my  passion  for  the  theater  that 
brought  us  together. 

"I  was  majoring  in  journalism  at  col- 
lege, and  we  had  an  assignment  to  do 
an  interview.  I'd  read  that  John  was  in 
town.  I'd  been  nutty  about  him  from 
childhood — about  all  the  Barrymores,  in 
fact.  I  had  scrapbooks  filled  with  pic- 
tures and  clippings.  I  thought,  what  a 
marvelous  scoop  if  I  could  get  an  inter- 
view with  John  Barrymore."  Her  face 
turned  impish  as  she  murmured,  "Long- 
est interview  on  record,  I  imagine. 
Lasted  five  years. 

"I  wrote  him  a  note,  and  when  he 
phoned,  I  thought  it  was  a  gag.  Then 
I  recognized  his  voice  and  almost  keeled 
over.    When  I  got  to  the  hospital,   he 


started  interviewing  me.  I  told  him 
about  my  mad  love  for  the  theater.  I 
told  him  about  the  scrapbooks,  which 
amused  him.  I  told  him  I'd  had  some 
auditions  with  NBC,  and  he  asked  if 
I'd  like  to  bring  the  script  over  next 
day  and  read  it  to  him.  He  talked  to  me 
about  Shakespeare.  Have  you  ever 
heard  John  talk  about  Shakespeare? 
Then  you'll  know  that  I  sat  enthralled. 
Figuratively,  I  soaked  my  head  in  water. 
I  said  to  myself,  'He's  bored  to  death  at 
the  hospital,  you  sap.  Once  he  gets 
down  south,  he'll  forget  all  about  it.'  " 

Not  till  John  phoned  from  Florida  did 
Elaine  begin  to  take  the  situation  seri- 
ously. He  had  planned  a  five  weeks' 
cruise  on  his  yacht.  He  was  back  in 
ten  days.  It  was  a  whirlwind  courtship 
in  the  most  dazzling  romantic  tradition. 
They  were  married  the  following  No- 
vember. 

The  most  fundamental  of  the  interests 
they  share  is  an  exhilarating  zest  for 
life.  The  notion  has  got  abroad  that 
John  is  a  thoroughgoing  cynic.  Nothing 
could  be  further  from  the  truth. 

"That's  what  makes  living  with  him 
such  fun,"  says  his  wife.  "He's  a  terrific 
enthusiast.  He'll  decide  one  morning 
that  he  can't  live  another  minute  with- 
out going  through  the  Museum  of  Na- 
tural History.  That  doesn't  mean  let's 
do  it  tomorrow  or  next  week.  It  has  to 
be  now.  I  may  have  my  whole  day 
planned,  but  I  might  as  well  call  it  all 
off,  and  I  do.  If  anyone  had  ever  told 
me  that  I  could  be  fascinated  by  stuffed 
animals  and  geological  exhibits,  I'd  have 
said,  'You're  crazy!'  But  that  was  before 


I'd  seen  stuffed  animals  with  John. 

"He  never  does  anything  in  a  mild 
way.  Suppose  he  wants  to  read  a  book. 
It  wouldn't  occur  to  him  to  pick  one  off 
the  shelf.  He  has  to  buy  out  the  book- 
shop. Before  I  knew  him,  I'd  never  read 
a  mystery.  He  adores  them,  especially 
these  honest-to-God  horror  stories. 
Now  he's  got  me  going,  and  it's  a  race 
as  to  who  can  find  the  most  gruesome. 

nE  both  loathe  routine,  we  both 
loathe  set  hours.  It's  usual  for  people 
to  get  up  in  the  morning  and  have 
breakfast  and  lunch  and  dinner  and  go 
to  bed.  That's  not  our  way.  If  we  feel 
like  talking  half  the  night,  we  sit  round 
the  fire  and  talk  half  the  night. 

"Last  night,  for  instance,  he  started 
reminiscing  about  the  old  musical 
comedy  halls.  That's  the  kind  of  talk 
people  pay  money  to  hear.  And  there 
I  had  it  all  to  myself,  for  nothing.  Then 
we  got  into  a  wonderful  argument  about 
the  acting  technique  of  Hayes  and 
Bankhead.  Which  reminds  me  of  an- 
other thing.  People  always  treat  John's 
acting  with  reverence — the  great  John 
Barrymore.  He  hates  hero  worship. 
Being  on  a  pedestal  makes  for  no  fun  in 
his  life.  His  acting  isn't  sacred  to  him. 
He's  human  and  makes  slips.  I  may  be 
brash,  but  I'm  also  an  average  playgoer, 
so  I  criticize  him  as  such.  He  likes  hav- 
ing someone  around  who'll  see  him 
honestly  and  give  him  an  honest  reac- 
tion. 

"My  husband  will  clamor  for  food  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  It's  never  any- 
thing casual  he  wants,  like  scrambled 


eggs,  that  I  could  throw  together  myself. 
No,  it  has  to  be  oysters  or  game  out  of 
season,  so  I  start  phoning  restaurants. 
Sooner  or  later  we're  bound  to  track  it 
down,  so  that  occasionally  you'll  find  the 
Barrymores  breakfasting  at  the  normal 
hour — but  on  lobster  thermidor,  not 
bacon  and  eggs. 

"The  other  Sunday  night  John  was 
reading  the  paper.  Dinner  was  about  to 
be  served,  when  he  leaped  up.  'Look, 
here  are  two  pictures  we've  been  per- 
ishing to  see.'  We  hunted  up  the  sched- 
ule and  found  that  by  dashing  right  out, 
we  could  catch  them  both.  We  saw 
'Mr.  Smith  Goes  to  Washington'  first, 
grabbed  a  bar  of  chocolate  to  eat  in  the 
movies,  hopped  into  a  taxi,  and  saw 
'Goodbye,  Mr.  Chips.'  We  had  a  won- 
derful time  and  ate  at  twelve. 

JOHN  has  some  cute  tricks  around 
the  house,  too.  He  fancies  himself  a  cook 
and  tosses  little  masterpieces  together, 
the  point  being  to  use  every  condiment 
in  the  kitchen.  The  stuff's  so  hot,  it's 
as  much  as  your  life's  worth  to  taste  it, 
but  you  can't  hurt  his  feelings  by  turn- 
ing it  down.  Then,  periodically,  he'll  get 
ideas — that  the  coffee  should  be  made 
with  eggshells,  for  instance.  He  gen- 
erally pulls  that  one  the  day  we  get  a 
new  cook. 

"He  loves  to  go  shopping  with  me.  We 
agree  mostly  on  dresses,  but  never  on 
hats.  They'll  bring  out  an  import  worth 
hundreds  of  dollars,  I'll  catch  that  cer- 
tain gleam  in  my  husband's  eye,  and 
shudder.  It  takes  more  than  a  shudder, 
however,  to  stop  John.    He'll  go  into  a 


FANS 
GOES 


Rumba.  .  white,  or  black  patent  seamless  pump  with  self 
adjusting  throat.  Korea. .  white  or  beige  elasticized  crushed 
kid,  turftan  trim,  also  white  with  black.  Marquette . .  side  gore 
white  or  black  patent  open  toe  pump.  Grove .  .  white  or  beige 
crushed  kid  elasticized  saddle,  pyramid  heel. 


5*'6 

SLIGHTLY  HIGHER  DISTANT  POIHTS 


You'll  Always  Be  Admired 
in  Fashionable 


Of  course,  your  heart  gives  a  tiny  flutter  of 
delight  as  approving  glances  affirm  your  choice 
in  fashion- right  footwear.  You'll  be  attractive 
when  you  step  out  in  Heel  Latch  Shoes  . . . 
always-modish,  always-youthful,  with  hidden 
features  that  emphasize  the  alluring  lines  of  a 
dainty  foot  and  a  slender  ankle.  You'll  thrill 
to  the  way  Heel  Latch  Shoes  firmly  support 
your  arch  .  .  .  lock  your  heel  in  place  .  .  . 
lend  a  decidedly  youthful  air  to  every  step. 

ROBERTS,  JOHNSON  &  RAND,  Branch 
of  International  Shoe  Co.,  ST.  LOUIS,  MO. 


84 


PHOTOPLAY 


lengthy  and  picturesque  discourse  on 
the  subject  of  women's  hats  in  general 
and  this  horror,  quotes,  in  particular. 
"It  takes  a  stick  of  dynamite  to  get 
him  to  the  tailor's,  but  once  he's  there, 
his  imagination  soars,  and  he  orders  by 
the  dozen.  Oh  yes,  and  he  has  his  own 
peculiar  way  of  acquiring  shoes.  Theo- 
retically, they're  made-to-order.  Then 
he  gets  annoyed  by  the  idea  of  fittings, 
and  phones  his  measurements  in.  They're 
always  wrong.  The  shoes  are  made  up 
at  some  outrageous  price,  they  arrive, 
they  don't  fit,  he  slings  them  into  the 
closet  and  goes  out  and  buys  ready- 
made  shoes." 

LLAINE  was  enjoying  herself.  I  was 
afraid  to  inject  a  word,  lest  she  stop. 
She  went  on.  "There  is  also  the  matter 
of  animals.  John's  insane  about  them — 
from  dinosaurs  on  down.  I  have  visions 
of  his  bringing  home  a  baby  elephant 
some  day.  He  would  see  nothing  extra- 
ordinary in  it.  'It's  a  cute  thing  I  picked 
up,'  he'd  say.  I  remember  a  certain  seal 
named  Flipper  who  was  in  a  picture 
with  him.  I'd  wake  every  morning  not 
at  all  sure  that  I  wouldn't  find  Flipper 
draped  over  the  bed  like  that  seal  of 
Thurber's. 

"As  for  dogs,  there's  something  un- 
canny about  it.  We  have  three  in  Calif- 
ornia and  two  here.  We  had  to  find  a 
place  with  a  terrace  for  the  Great  Dane. 
That  was  as  important  to  John  as  his 
bedroom.  He  seems  to  have  a  certain 
language  with  them.  I'm  not  in  on  it, 
because  he  whispers  to  them  mostly." 

She  likes  New  York  better  than  Cali- 
fornia. "For  one  thing,  my  friends  are 
here.  For  another,  John  worked  all  day 
in  Hollywood  and  I  was  left  pretty  much 
to  myself.  You  can  see  just  so  many 
movies,  you  can  read  just  so  many 
books,  and  I  don't  like  driving  to  no- 
where. If  you're  the  outdoors  type,  you 
can  go  forth  briskly,  play  thirty-six 
holes  of  golf  in  the  morning,  and  tennis 
after  lunch.  I'm  not  the  outdoors  type. 
I  ferried  between  Magnin's  and  Bullocks 
Wilshire,  looking  at  the  clothes." 

In  New  York  she  and  John  are  ap- 
pearing in  the  same  play — a  comedy 
success  called  "My  Dear  Children." 
Even  before  she  knew  him,  she  had 
dreamed  of  his  returning  to  the  stage. 
She  felt  it  was  a  pity  that  neither  she 
nor  any  of  her  generation  had  seen  him 
in  the  theater.  He  was  willing,  pro- 
vided a  suitable  script  could  be  found. 
They  decided  that  "My  Dear  Children," 
with  changes,  would  do. 

Elaine's  opening  night  was  a  night- 
mare. Now  the  play's  an  established 
routine  which  she  loves.  She  and  John 
have  a  light  meal  at  home  and  reach  the 
theater  a  little  after  eight.  They  gen- 
erally go  home  between  matinee  and 
evening  performances  because  she  feels 
that  John  can  rest  better  there.  His 
birthday  was  an  exception.  As  a  birth- 
day gift,  she'd  had  his  dressing  room 
redecorated,  and  spent  the  devil's  own 
time  trying  to  keep  him  out.  She  told 
him  the  pipes  had  burst  and  the  room 
was  flooded.    He  was  bent  on  a  prompt 


investigation,  and  she  had  to  hold  him 
back  by  the  coattails..  Somehow  she 
managed.  They  had  dinner  that  eve- 
ning in  a  beautiful  blue  and  gold  dress- 
ing room — John's  favorite  colors. 

They  usually  go  home  directly  after 
the  show,  " — and  then  we  really  eat.  Oh, 
what  a  blessed  feeling — to  get  into  a 
housecoat,  sit  down  at  a  table  in  front 
of  the  fire  and  smoke  and  lounge  and 
talk.  And  there  you  have  us  up-to- 
date — except  for  a  couple  of  interludes," 
she  added,  with  a  gamin's  grin. 

Which  emboldened  us  to  inquire  about 
the  interludes.  She  explained  them 
with  the  same  candor  that  had  dis- 
tinguished her  throughout. 

"No  two  people,  unless  they're  both 
endowed  with  angelic  dispositions,  can 
adjust  themselves  to  marriage  within  six 
months  or  a  year.  Our  case  may  have 
been  aggravated  by  the  fact  that  we 
both  have  definite  minds  and  no  hesita- 
tion about  speaking  them.  But  the  point 
is,  we  weren't  left  to  ourselves  to  make 
that  necessary  adjustment.  If  you  have 
a  difference  of  opinion  with  your  hus- 
band, you  make  up  and  no  one's  the 
wiser.  Our  differences  became  a  matter 
of  public  interest.  Everyone  interfered. 
The  newspapers  raised  such  a  howl  that 
the  whole  thing  fell  out  of  perspective. 

"We're  wiser  now.  We  know  what 
the  papers  can  do  and  we're  not  going  to 
let  them  do  it  again.  We  know  how 
miserable  we  are  apart.  We're  not  so 
foolish  as  to  believe  that  we'll  never 
again  argue  about  anything.  Differ- 
ences stimulate,  and  make  for  variety. 
But  I've  reached  the  conclusion  that  my 
life  with  John  is  more  important  to  me 
than  anything  else,  and  I'm  ready  to  do 
my  best  to  keep  it.  He's  twenty  men  in 
one,"  she  added  on  a  lighter  note. 
"Where  could  I  find  another  like  him?" 

UNE  fact  seems  to  have  been  lost  sight 
of  in  the  melee.  Barrymore  has  con- 
sorted with  the  great  of  the  earth,  and 
could  still  take  his  pick  of  them.  He's 
a  man  of  wit  and  charm  and  sophistica- 
tion. "I've  been  married  four  times," 
he  said  once,  "and  this  is  the  first  time 
I've  known  what  it's  all  about."  Since 
he  chose  Elaine,  it's  reasonable  to  sup- 
pose that  he,  too,  would  have  had  to  go 
far  afield  to  find  another  like  her. 

Her  maid  is  a  quiet,  self-effacing, 
middle-aged  woman — the  kind  you'd 
expect  to  find  in  an  English  country 
house,  if  you  read  English  novels.  She 
spoke  to  me  while  Elaine  was  phoning 
to  John.  I  could  hardly  have  been  more 
astonished  if  the  table  had  spoken.  Her 
voice  was  soft,  but  its  tone  was  scathing. 
"You  know,"  she  said,  "sometimes  I  feel 
like  taking  these  newspaper  people  and 
knocking  their  heads  together.  The 
things  they  say  about  Mrs.  Barrymore! 
She's  not  like  that  at  all." 

What  she  is  like,  you  may  have 
gathered.  Blunders  of  youth  and  in- 
experience she  may  have  made.  They're 
of  no  consequence,  stacked  up  against 
her  basic  honesty,  courage  and  kindness. 
She  carries  her  head  high,  because  that's 
the  way  it  comes  natural  to  her. 


PHOTOPLAY'S  STORE  WINDOW 

Many  of  the  costumes  featured 

on  the  fashion  pages  will 

be   found   in   the   following    stores   throughout   the   country. 

B.  Altman,  New  York 

Famous  Barr  Co.,  St.  Louis 

Broadway-Hollywood,  Hollywood 

Frederick  &  Nelson,  Seattle 

Carson  Pirie  Scott,  Chicago 

LaSalle  &  Koch,  Toledo 

G.  Forrester,  Waterbury 

Mary  Lewis,  New  York 

A.  Harris,  Dallas 

Shillito's,  Cincinnati 

Harzfeld's,  Kansas  City 

H.  P.  Wasson,  Indianapolis 

Himmelhoch's,  Detroit 

Neiman  Marcus,  Dallas 

Jos.  Home,  Pittsburgh 

Younker  Bros.,  Des  Moines 

Higbee  Company,  Cleveland 

Denver  Dry  Goods,  Denver 

The  White  House, 

San  Francisco 

Prices  on  this  merchandise  may  vary  in 

different  sections  of  the  country. 

~r%£%£ 


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85 


If  you  want  to  keep 
your  hair  DRY,  you'll 
insist  on  one  of  these 
unique,  patented  caps 
(the  only  kind  used  by 
Billy  Rose's  Aquacade 
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THESE    X 
'RINGS"  KEEP 
HAIR  IN-KEEP  WATER 

•  In  and  out  of  the  pool  twelve  times 
a  day — seven  days  a  week — all  sum- 
mer long.  That's  the  routine  of  the 
"Aquabelles.'  No  wonder  they  insist 
on  bathing  caps  that  really  keep  their 
hair  dry  .  .  .  Seamless  Caps,  with  the 
ingenious  patented  "inner  rings" 
which  seal  the  water  out.  But  that's 
not  all.  Like  these  professionals,  you'll 
enjoy  the  all-day  comfort  of  caps  that 
fit  snugly  without  binding  .  .  .  and  the 
patented  lining  that  keeps  your  hair 
from  sticking  to  the  inside.  Style?  Of 
course  .  .  .  loads  of  it!  And  a  wide 
selection  of  colors  to  top  off  1940's 
smartest  beach  wear. 


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Never  have  I  seen  so  proud  a  father 
as  Ray,  nor  a  home  where  a  baby  was 
wanted  with  such  desperate  longing. 
For  both  Ray  and  Muriel  it  was  a  dream 
of  eight  years  miraculously  come  true, 
for  in  all  those  years,  since  their  mar- 
riage in  1931,  a  child  was  the  one  thing 
they  wanted  and  the  one  thing  which 
seemed  destined  to  be  denied  them. 

"How  could  I  help  but  have  faith  in 
the  future?"  Ray  asked.  "We  ourselves 
can  give  our  son  everything  of  love  and 
comforts.  We  have  insured  his  financial 
security  insofar  as  it  is  humanly  pos- 
sible by  planning  and  saving  for  the  to- 
morrow in  which  he  will  live.  And,  as 
for  his  liberty  and  freedom,  his  inherent 
right  to  build  a  life  of  his  own  making, 
American  liberty  will  guarantee  it  to- 
morrow as  surely  as  it  does  today.  That 
is  the  great  heritage  I  am  giving  my 
child." 

Ray  and  Muriel  used  to  live  in  Cold- 
water  Canyon,  but  when  they  learned  of 
the  baby's  coming  they  immediately 
called  in  architects  to  start  work  on  a 
new  house  with  emphasis  on  the  nur- 
sery. A  lovely  room  it  is,  too,  in  dainty 
pinks  and  blues  and  equipped  with 
every  comfort  and  convenience.  Crisp 
white  curtains  hang  at  the  six  windows 
of  the  room,  tied  back  with  bows  of  blue 
and  in  one  corner  stands  the  old-fash- 
ioned crib  in  which  Muriel's  own 
grandmother  slept  as  a  baby. 

Close  on  the  tiny  heels  of  the  Milland 
baby  came  the  first  child  of  Douglas 
Fairbanks  and  his  lovely  wife,  Mary  Lee 
Epling.  Unlike  Ray  Milland,  Doug  was 
on  hand  to  welcome  his  little  one,  having 
reserved  a  room  for  himself  in  the  hos- 
pital before  the  arrival  of  daughter 
Daphne,  who  weighed  in  at  seven  and 
a  half  pounds. 

Her  coming  was  the  signal  for  the 
gathering  of  members  of  both  Mary's 
and  Doug's  family — Mary's  mother  and 
sister;  and  Doug's  mother  and  step- 
father, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jack  Whiting,  and 
his  grandmother,  Mrs.  Sully.  As  an- 
other family  link  with  the  past,  little 
Daphne  was  carried  home  from  the  hos- 
pital wrapped  in  the  same  quilted 
blanket  in  which  her  mother  was 
wrapped  twenty-six  years  ago. 

A  spankin'  new  home  awaited  the 
baby  in  Pacific  Palisades.  The  house 
was  bought  several  months  ago  and  re- 
decorated from  top  to  bottom,  but  Doug 
and  Mary  refused  to  move  in  until  they 
could  take  possession  of  it  as  a  family. 

NOT  all  homes  of  Hollywood  babies 
are  as  lavish  or  complete  as  the  Mil- 
lands'  and  Fairbanks'  babies  will  oc- 
cupy. When  the  baby  of  Bill  and  Grace 
Durkin  Henry  arrived  home  a  few  days 
after  the  Fairbanks',  it  was  to  find  a 
nursery  in  readiness  but  a  living  room 
and  dining  room  strangely  bare. 

Bill  frankly  admitted,  "We're  on  a 
strict  budget.  We've  got  the  house  all 
paid  for,  but  we're  doing  the  rooms  one 
by  one." 

"But  you  could  afford  the  baby?"  I 
asked. 

Bill  and  Grace  beamed.  "You  bet!" 
they  said.  "What  are  a  few  sticks  of  fur- 
niture compared  to  our  baby!" 

They  have  level  heads  on  them,  those 
two.  They  know  that  contentment  fills 
those  two  rooms  bare  of  furniture,  while 
the  breakfast  room  and  small  library, 
complete  with  books,  easy  chairs  and 
lamps,  meantime  gives  all  the  creature 
comforts  two  young  people  in  love  need. 
They  are  building  for  the  future  in  the 
realest  sense  of  the  word. 

Each  was  twenty-one  when  they  mar- 


( Continued  from  page  17) 

ried  four  years  ago.  That  means  they 
were  born  in  1914,  the  year  of  the  out- 
break of  the  World  War. 

"People  were  making  the  same  pre- 
diction of  a  disastrous  future  then  as 
they  are  now,"  Bill  said.  "Yet  look  at 
the  fine  lives  we  have  had,  lives  that 
would  have  been  denied  us  if  our  par- 
ents had  paid  any  attention  to  the  cater- 
wauling of  the  pessimists  of  that  day. 
As  I  see  it,  the  boy  of  today  will  have 
no  graver  issues  to  face  in  the  future 
than  any  other  generation  before  him. 
And  the  girl  of  today  will  have  oppor- 
tunities in  her  future  far  greater  than 
any  her  mother  or  grandmother  before 
her  possibly  could  have  known." 

While  Grace  and  the  baby  still  were 
in  the  hospital,  Bill  gave  himself  the 
added  thrill  of  picking  out  the  nursery 
furniture,  simple  pieces  in  washable 
cream-colored  wood,  and  personally  su- 
pervised the  installation.  Grace  already 
had  prepared  the  room  with  wallpaper 
in  fine  pink  and  blue  stripes,  crisscross 
curtains  of  white  and  blue  and  white 
linoleum  on  the  floor.  Place  of  honor 
in  the  room  was  reserved  for  the  ma- 
hogany cradle  with  its  old-fashioned 
foot  pedal  for  rocking  in  which  Bill's 
grandmother  once  was  cradled. 

Almost  duplicating  the  Henry  nursery 
was  the  one  into  which  the  baby  of 
Jimmy  Ellison  and  Gertrude  Durkin 
was  carried  two  weeks  after  the  Henry 
baby  arrived.  It's  not  surprising,  for 
Gertrude  and  Grace  are  sisters  and  had 
a  great  time  comparing  notes  and  mak- 
ing plans  together  in  the  months  of 
waiting  for  their  babies. 

MAY  flowers  will  be  blooming  along 
the  Hudson  when  the  eagerly  awaited 
child  of  Geraldine  Fitzgerald  and  the 
Hon.  Edward  Lindsay-Hogg  is  born. 

Geraldine  wanted  the  baby  born  in 
their  house  in  Ireland.  Chaotic  condi- 
tions abroad  making  that  impractical, 
she  has  chosen  to  join  her  husband  in 
New  York  where  his  work  with  the  Irish 
Emergency  Fund  keeps  him  busy. 

No  name  will  be  given  the  baby  until 
after  the  traditional  family  conference; 
such  an  event  is  not  treated  lightly  in 
either  Geraldine's  or  her  husband's 
family  for  it  involves  the  bestowal  of 
an  ancestral  name  as  well  as  one  of  her 
own  choice. 

Radiant  with  happiness  and  com- 
pletely indifferent  to  the  physical  dis- 
comforts of  prospective  motherhood, 
Geraldine  is  almost  militant  in  her  an- 
tipathy towards  women  who  can  have 
children  and  do  not  do  so. 

"A  woman  always  can  find  a  dozen 
excuses  if  she  doesn't  want  to  have 
children,"  she  charged.  "Actually  there 
is  but  one  valid  excuse,  when  the  par- 
ents are  not  mentally  or  morally 
equipped  to  be  parents.  Blaming  it  on 
fear  of  the  future  and  world  conditions 
is  so  much  bosh.  It  is  the  handy  alibi 
of  the  defeatist." 

Actually  it  takes  less  physical  courage 
to  have  a  baby  today  than  in  our  moth- 
ers' time,  she  added.  Science  today 
offers  both  mother  and  child  so  much 
greater  protection  and  care  and  can  do 
so  much  to  alleviate  pain  and  suffering 
which  heretofore  had  to  be  borne  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Even  that  retreat  for 
the  escapist  no  longer  is  open. 

New  York  also  will  be  the  birthplace 
of  the  second  child  of  John  and  Robbie 
Garfield  which  is  due  in  July.  John 
currently  is  appearing  in  the  stage  play, 
"Heavenly  Express,"  and  does  not  plan 
to  return  to  Hollywood  until  some  time 
in  the  fall.   Although  young  by  modern 


standards  to  be  the  parents  of  a  two- 
year-old  daughter — he  is  twenty-six 
and  she  twenty-four — both  view  world 
conditions  today  through  coldly  analyt- 
ical eyes.  Before  leaving  Hollywood 
recently,  John  said  to  a  friend: 

"In  all  honesty,  I  cannot  see  where  the 
world  or  humanity  is  any  worse  off  to- 
day than  it  has  been  in  the  past  and 
why  bringing  children  into  it  should 
raise  any  new  problems  or  fears.  Both 
Robbie  and  I  grew  up  among  poverty 
and  trouble  on  the  East  Side.  We  had 
only  those  advantages  we  made  for  our- 
selves. Why,  then,  should  we  have 
fear  for  our  children  when  they  have 
the  same  heritage  we  had,  plus  the  ad- 
vantages of  added  comfort,  education 
and  security  we  now  can  give  them  in 
America?  How  great  that  heritage  is 
you  never  realize  or  appreciate  until 
you  compare  it  with  the  virtual  slavery 
that  exists  in  other  lands  today." 

JULY  will  be  a  busy  month  for  the  Hol- 
lywood stork.  Three  other  stellar  babies 
are  due  in  that  period,  including  those 
of  Janet  Gaynor  and  Gilbert  Adrian, 
Anne  Shirley  and  John  Payne,  and 
Russell  Hayden  and  Jane  Clayton. 

While  happy  beyond  words  at  the 
prospect,  Janet  and  Adrian  steadfastly 
have  refused  to  make  any  plans  about 
the  event;  both  entertain  a  nameless  su- 
perstition, not  uncommon  among  par- 
ents-to-be, that  plans  of  any  kind  may 
rob  them  of  later  joy.  Naturally  they 
are  entitled  to  respect  for  that  feeling. 

It  will  be  Master  Clayton  Michael 
Hayden  or  Miss  Sandra  Ann  (Sandy 
Ann)  Hayden  who  arrives  late  in  July 
for  the  Russell  Haydens.  He  is  Lucky 
of  the  "Hopalong  Cassidy"  series.  She 
is  the  former  "heart  interest"  in  the 
same  series.  They  were  married  in 
October  of  1938  and  are  the  two  most 
excited  youngsters  in  town  about  their 
coming  baby. 

Everything  down  to  the  last  detail  of 
godfather  (Russell  Harlan,  cameraman 
on  the  "Hopalong"  pictures)  has  been 
settled.  The  nursery  in  their  new  home 
in  Cheviot  Hills  will  be  done  next 
month.  Already  Jane  has  completed 
half  of  the  layette  which  she  is  making 
by  hand  and  the  christening  dress  which 
her  grandmother  wore  is  freshly  laun- 
dered and  ready. 

Youngest  of  the  prospective  Holly- 
wood mothers  is  twenty-one-year-old 
Anne  Shirley  who  will  bear  twenty- 
eight-year-old  John  Payne's  son  or 
daughter  late  in  July.  Serenity  seems 
to  envelop  them  and  gratitude  for  the 
happiness  which  has  been  given  them. 

The  name  for  the  new  baby  will  be  a 
"brand  new  name."  Oddly  enough,  they 
are  reserving  the  name  of  John  Payne, 
Jr.  for  their  second  child  to  come  some 
time  in  the  future.  The  nursery  will  be 
the  transformed  guest  room  of  the  house, 
done  in  delicate  pink  and  cream.  They 
plan  to  build  a  new  home  in  the  next 
few  years  when  there  will  be  need  for 
more  room. 

Latest  baby  thus  far  scheduled  on  the 
1940  Hollywood  calendar  is  the  Weiss- 
muller  child  due  in  September.  Both 
Johnny  and  Beryl  Scott  feel  it  is  too 
soon  to  begin  concrete  plans,  but  in  sev- 
eral weeks  they  too  will  be  chin  deep  in 
talk  of  nurseries,  names  and  layettes. 

There  will  be  others  to  follow  them 
before  the  year  is  out.  Hints  of  it  leak 
out  every  day  to  be  confirmed  as  news 
as  the  months  wear  on.  Having  babies 
definitely  is  in  style.  A  heartwarming 
style  Hollywood  has  needed  —  and 
wanted — for  a  long,  long  time. 


86 


PHOTOPLAY 


Boos  and  Bouquets 


(Continued  from  page  10) 


ular  screen  drama,  beautiful  from  an 
artistic  standpoint,  that  made  a  farce  of 
the  "Old  Guard,"  whitewashed  the  civil 
conflict  between  the  states,  and  gave  us 
a  pretty  ingenue  whose  fragility  could 
never  have  stood  up  against  the  harsh, 
heinous  reality;  who  supposedly  did 
withstand  it  and  conquer  it  almost  un- 
scathed, after  twelve  years  of  endur- 
ance; who  was  an  amusing,  unconvinc- 
ing little  girl,  dressed  up  in  her  mama's 
clothes — after  she  had  torn  to  bits  the 
conventions  of  a  sweet  aristocracy, 
trampled  men's  hearts,  bearded  cruelest 
realities  and  sold  her  soul  for  a  mercen- 
ary god! 

The  book  will  remain  with  me  always. 
The  picture  leaves  me  untouched. 

It's  just  as  well;  we  certainly  don't 
need  another  Civil  War. 

Louise  Porter, 
Apalachicola,  Fla. 

NO  MORE  "CONQUESTS" 

I  AM  writing  you  because  I  am  sure 
you  have  influence  in  Hollywood  and, 
if  you  tell  the  movie  producers  what  we 
fans  desire  in  the  way  of  movie  enter- 
tainment, they  might  listen  to  you. 

I  am  referring  in  particular  to  my  fav- 
orite of  favorites — Greta  Garbo.  After 
"Ninotchka,"  please  can't  something  be 
done  about  keeping  Garbo  out  of  an- 
other "Conquest"?  That  was  such  a  ter- 
rible picture  (not  Garbo  but  the  picture 
— her  acting  was  flawless,  as  always) 
that  I  fully  expected  it  to  win  the 
Academy  Award.  And  now  I  hear  that 
she  is  to  make  "Madame  Curie."  I 
want  to  enter  a  great  big  protest!  There 
is  no  one  else  in  the  movies  who  can 
wear  modern  clothes  like  Garbo,  no  one 
else  who  is  quite  as  modern  as  she,  and 
all  these  heavy,  old-fashioned  dramas 
are  killing  her  popularity.  "Ninotchka" 
was  delightful,  funny  without  being 
silly,  the  most  entertaining  picture  I've 
seen  in  a  long,  long  time — and  I  see 
them  all.  All  of  which  means  that  I 
want  to  see  Garbo  in  more  "Ninotchkas" 
and  in  no  more  "Conquests." 


I  suppose  this  is  asking  too  much,  bu* 
I  would  like  to  see  Spencer  Tracy  and 
Greta  Garbo  in  a  modern  love  story 
with  a  happy  ending. 

Louise  Norell, 
Salem,  Ore. 

CHECKING  UP  ON  US 

OEVERAL  years  ago,  in  your  "Close 
Ups  and  Long  Shots"  department  of 
Photoplay — the  issue  of  January,  1933, 
I  believe — it  was  stated  that  Photoplay 
could  conceive  of  Boris  Karloff  still  be- 
ing a  star  ten  years  from  then,  when 
many  of  the  outstanding  stars  of  that 
time  would  be  forgotten. 

Here  it  is  1940  and  Mr.  Karloff  has 
just  finished  "Black  Friday,"  his  twenty- 
third  starring  vehicle,  his  first  being 
"The  Mummy."  I  believe  it's  about  time 
for  a  story  with  pictures  on  Mr.  Karloff 
in  Photoplay.    How  about  it? 

Fredric  Healey, 
Charlestown,  Mass. 

IT'S  A  FAMILY  TRADITION 

I  HIS  snapshot  (below)  might  well  be 
entitled,  "When  Mother  Was  a  Girl."  It 
was  taken  about  twenty-five  years  ago, 
and  should  prove  to  movie  fans  that 
even  in  those  days  a  young  lady  who 
wanted  to  be  "in  the  swim"  perused 
Photoplay  diligently  for  news  of  her 
favorites. 

I  have  no  inkling  of  who  the  siren  of 
the  silver  screen  decorating  the  cover  of 
Photoplay  that  month  was,  and  prob- 
ably couldn't  have  identified  her  any- 
way, since  I  have  but  recently  celebrated 
my  twenty-first  birthday. 

But  the  other  beauties  in  the  picture 
are  my  Aunt  Helen,  now  Mrs.  F.  G. 
Roth,  holding  that  precious  copy  of 
Photoplay;  my  mother,  Mrs.  J.  A.  Hoff- 
man, standing  beside  her;  and  a  girl 
friend,  who  is  now  Mrs.  J.  Drwall, 
seated  on  the  arm  of  the  wicker  chair 
beside  the  owner  of  the  magazine. 
Miss  B.  R.  Hoffman, 

Winona,  Minn. 


They  read  Photoplay  just  as  avidly 
twenty-five  years  ago!  Miss  Hoff- 
man's letter  identifies  the  eager 
readers  of  this  June,  1915,  issue; 
siren  on  the  cover  is  Mary  Fuller 


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SHOPPING  FOR  YOU 
AND  THE  STARS 


11.  A  SILENT  BUTLER 

The  very  thing  to  give  to  every  home-loving 
friend  you  have.  To  every  June  bride  cs 
well — and  to  yourself,  of  course.  Actions 
speak  louder  than  words,  and  in  a  twink 
the  chromium  silent  butler  empties  the  over- 
loaded ash  trays,  storing  the  debris  till  the 
evening's  over.  $1.19  wins  you  great  grati- 
tude from   your   friends. 


12.  BEDTIME  BEAUTY  BOOK 

Du  Barry's  "Bedtime  Beauty  Story"  will  send 
you  to  sleep  in  the  pink  .  .  .  your  skin  really 
cleansed  of  the  grime  of  the  day  .  .  .  ex- 
hilarated with  Skin  Freshener  and  lubricated 
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happy  ending  for  your  skin. 


Remember— for  the  name  of  the 
store  nearest  you  that  carries  the 
items  you  want,  please  write  to: 
Fashion    Secretary,    Photoplay 
122  East  42nd  St.,  New  York  City 


13.  FLOWER  FRESHNESS 

Yardley  brings  you  the  loveliness  of  "Lotus 
Lavender,"  of  "Fragrance"  and  of  "April 
Violets"  in  three  sweet  new  bottles  housed 
in  a  handsome  flower-sprinkled  hexagon. 
Every  bottle  wears  a  bright  new  plastic 
cover,  and  the  three  together  add  up  to 
nearly  four  fragrant  ounces  at  the  trifling  sum 
of  $1.50  for  the  trio. 


14.  HOW'RE  YOUR  HANDS? 

Don't  blush  for  your  hands.  Make  a  ritual, 
instead,  of  using  Campana's  Hand  Cream. 
It's  new  .  .  .  smack  out  of  the  laboratories 
where  they  brew  Italian  Balm,  the  Campana 
lotion  you  love  so  well.  Rub  in  the  cream, 
then  watch  your  hand  grow  white,  smooth 
and  sweet-smelling — a  hand  you're  proud  to 
extend  to  friends.    In  10c,  25c  and  50c  jars. 


15.  SOMETHING  THE  BRIDE  WILL  KEEP! 

You  know  the  fate  of  most  wedding  presents! 
The  blushing  bride  exchanges  them  for  some- 
thing she  can  really  use.  But  not  this  little 
treasure!  Oneida  has  something  here!  A 
four-piece  coffee  service  with  table,  that  con- 
verts itself  into  a  tray  at  the  flick  of  a  wrist. 
$30  complete — believe  it  or  not! — in  Tudor 
Plate's  Haddon  design. 


16.  NEW!  THE  DRAWSTRING  SHOE 

Can  you  think  of  a  cuter  trick  than  to  borrow 
the  drawstring-neck  of  this  season's  smartest 
sports  dresses  for  this  season's  smartest 
sports  shoes?  Grinnel  did  it — adding  tassels 
to  "Leona" — a  walled-last  moccasin  in 
white  or  beige  Nurocco  Kid  (it  looks  like  pig) 
with  a  contrasting  crepe  rubber  platform  and 
sole.     $4  to  $5. 


PHOTOPLAY 


One-Man  Studio 


(Continued  jrom  page  49) 


"I  remember  the  day  I  took  it,"  he 
says  pensively.  "It  rained  all  morning 
and  we  were  sitting  and  waiting  for  the 
sun  to  come  out.  There  was  no  such 
thing  as  floodlights  or  klieg  lights,  at 
least  not  in  my  studio,  so  we  had  to 
hope  that  the  sun  would  come  out, 
sooner  or  later.  Nowadays,  when  some 
of  the  models  get  as  much  as  ten  dol- 
lars per  hour,  I  would  go  broke  in  no 
time  at  all  if  I  had  to  wait  for  the  sun, 
but  in  those  days  the  very  best  models 
were  satisfied  with  earning  from  three 
to  five  dollars  a  day. 

When  Brownie  says  "the  very  best 
models,"  he  means  men  and  women  like 
Norma  Shearer,  Joan  Blondell,  Paulette 
Goddard,  Jack  Mulhall,  Henry  Fonda, 
the  self-same  Fredric  March,  Neil 
Hamilton  and  many,  many  others  who 
are  known  today,  not  as  models,  but  as 
motion  picture  stars.  No  other  illus- 
trator in  the  world  feels  as  much  at 
home  in  Hollywood  as  that  quiet,  soft- 
spoken  man  who  used  to  wait  for  the 
sun  to  come  out.  He  refers  to  Joan 
Blondell  as  "Rose"  because  when  he 
spotted  her  in  an  Atlantic  City  beauty 
contest  her  name  was  still  "Rose." 

"Never  saw  such  an  ambitious  kid  in 
all  my  life,"  he  adds.  "The  other  girls 
thought  of  dates  and  clothes  and  boy- 
friends but  she  was  always  trying  to 
learn  something.  Reading  books  .  .  . 
Taking  a  secretarial  course  .  .  .  Study- 
ing French  and  German  .  .  .  Small 
wonder  she  succeeded.  .  .  ." 

Norma  Shearer?  He  certainly  re- 
members her.  To  him  she  will  always 
remain  a  frightened  Canadian  who  was 
badly  scared  by  New  York.  .  .  . 

Jack  Mulhall?  "About  the  nicest  kid 
that  ever  came  from  Brooklyn.  .  .  ." 

Florence  "Rice?  "She  was  six  when 
she  first  posed  for  me.  I  was  illustrat- 
ing Tarkington's  'Seventeen'  and  I 
thought  she  was  a  natural  for  Jane.  .  .  ." 

June  Collyer?  "I  nearly  dropped  my 
camera  when  I  heard  that  kid  say,  'Some 
day  I  am  going  to  Hollywood;  then 
watch  them  mistake  me  for  Garbo!'  .  .  ." 

IS  Arthur  William  Brown  the  only 
illustrator  in  America  whose  models 
try  to  "make"  Hollywood?  Not  quite. 
But  he  is  the  only  illustrator  in  America 
who  employs  an  out-and-out  motion 
picture  technique  while  illustrating  se- 
rials, novels,  novelettes  and  short  stories. 
He  talks  about  his  "camera"  because  he 
was  the  first  artist  in  America — prob- 
ably in  the  world — who  understood  that 
he  would  spare  himself  lots  of  grief  if 
he  would  follow  in  the  steps  of  the  mo- 
tion picture  directors.  Instead  of  mak- 
ing his  models  stand  in  the  same  pose 
for  hours  and  hours  while  he  was  paint- 
ing a  picture,  he  decided  to  rehearse 
them  in  a  scene — just  as  a  motion  pic- 


ture director  does— to  photograph  them, 
then  to  paint  a  picture  from  the  "still." 
That  is  why  the  people  in  his  illustra- 
tions look  so  real  and  that  is  why  a 
"good"  Arthur  William  Brown  model  is 
more  likely  to  have  the  makings  of  a 
motion  picture  player  than  any  other 
illustrator's  model.  The  following  is  a 
play-by-play  description  of  the  way  he 
works: 

Assigned  a  story  by  an  art  editor, 
Brownie  reads  it  carefully.  Then  he 
begins  "casting."  He  does  his  best  to 
find  models  who  look  and  act  like  the 
story's  characters.  He  calls  up  one  of 
the  large  agencies,  such  as  John  Powers, 
that  represents  them  and  makes  an  ap- 
pointment. When  they  arrive,  he  ex- 
plains to  them  what  the  story  is  about. 

"And  now,"  he  says,  "let's  rehearse 
the  first  scene.  You,  my  dear,  are  sup- 
posed to  be  Mary  White,  a  girl  whose 
husband  does  not  love  her.  He  is  drink- 
ing heavily.    You  plead  with  him.  .  .  ." 

The  girl  and  the  boy  go  through  a 
regular  rehearsal.  Brownie  watches 
them  critically.  Rehearsal  over,  he  fixes 
his  camera,  arranges  the  lights  and 
says,  "Attention,  now  .  .  ."  Resume 
your  positions.   ..." 

He  does  not  yell — "Camera,  cut  .  .  ." 
since  he  is  his  own  cameraman  but — 
let's  repeat  once  more — he  follows  the 
motion  picture  technique  from  "A"  to 
"Z."  It  goes  without  saying  that  he 
supplies  the  clothes  required  by  the 
story.  All  in  all,  he  is  a  one-man  pic- 
ture studio. 

The  photographs  taken,  developed  and 
printed,  Brownie  selects  what  he  con- 
siders the  best  "still"  and  then  he  ceases 
to  be  a  motion  picture  studio  and  be- 
comes an  illustrator. 

On  page  15,  is  Photoplay's  presenta- 
tion of  the  Arthur  William  Brown 
method.  For  the  beautiful  drawing  of 
Vivien  Leigh  as  a  bride,  our  fashion 
editor,  Gwen  Walters,  found  a  wedding 
dress  of  the  type  she  thought  Miss 
Leigh  might  wear  on  her  Day  of  Days 
and  a  model  who  was  a  double  for  the 
future  Mrs.  Olivier — and  very  much  of 
a  bridal  atmosphere  was  created  for 
artist  Brown  to  work  with. 

It  naturally  pleases  him  tremendously 
when  one  of  his  models  gets  signed  by 
Hollywood,  but  at  the  same  time  it 
causes  him  many  a  headache.  Nine 
times  out  of  ten,  his  proteges  leave 
him  while  he  is  in  the  middle  of  a  serial. 
Then  he  has  to  find  a  girl  or  a  boy  who 
looks  and  acts  and  photographs  more 
or  less  like  the  one  who  left  for  Holly- 
wood.   His  philosophy  is  a  simple  one: 

"If  Clarence  Budington  Kelland,"  he 
remarks  stoically,  "does  not  mind  hav- 
ing his  hero  change  his  face  and  figure 
somewhere  around  the  fourth  instal- 
ment, why  should  I?" 


HOW  WELL  DO  YOU  KNOW  YOUR  HOLLYWOOD? 

Check  your  answers  to  the  statements  on  page  9  with  these  correct  ones: 


1 .  Carole  Lombard 

2.  Bing  Crosby 

3.  Brian  Aherne  (Six  feet  two-and- 

a-half  inches  tall) 

4.  James  Cagney,  Spencer  Tracy 

5.  William  Powell,  Clark  Gable 

6.  Myrna  Loy 

7.  Kay  Francis 

8.  Eddie  Albert 

9.  Jean  Arthur 
10.  Colin  Clive 


20.   Edward  Arnold 


II.   Hedy  Lamarr  (to  Gene  Markey); 

Merle  Oberon  (to  Alexander 

Korda) 
I  2.  Adolphe  Menjou 

13.  Anne      Shirley      (from      Dawn 

O'Day);  Mickey  Rooney  (from 
Mickey  McGuire) 

14.  Horse  racing 

15.  M-G-M   (Broadway  Melody) 

16.  Chained,  Love  on  the  Run 

17.  George  Murphy 

18.  Ann  Sheridan 

19.  Ken  Maynard 


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Ask  your  dealer  to  show  you  his 
special  group  display  of  the  beauti- 
ful new  MASTERS  tables  that 
Hollywood  star's  adore!  Like  Penny 
Singleton,  appearing  in  Columbia's 
"Blondie  on  a  Budget,"  you'll 
agree  these  12  creations  are  the 
smartest  you  have  ever  seen. 
Fashioned  of  choice  mahogany, 
superbly  styled  and  crafted,  the 
new  MASTERS  tables  are  priced 
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My  name 

Address 

City State 


JUNE,         I   940 


89 


I  shall  begin  by  entering  my  beauty  salon.  There,  trained  eyes  will  in- 
spect my  dull  brown  hair,  note  every  streak  of  gray.  Soon,  a  shower 
of  foam  will  bubble  around  my  head,  and  I  shall  shut  my  eyes,  relax 
every  tired  nerve  in  my  body.  When  I  open  my  eyes  again,  it  will  be 
to  see  what  appears  to  be  a  new  face  in  the  mirror — my  face,  framed 
by  sparkling,  lustrous  hair  that  has  the  soft  appearance  of  youth.  I  will 
straighten  my  body.  My  eyes  will  come  alive.  I  shall  walk  out,  feeling 
15  years  younger.  1  shall  have  had  an  Eternol  Treatment. 

"YOUR  BEAUTY  OPERATOR  KNOWS  BEST" 


TINT   OIL   SHAMPOO 

RECONDITIONS,    TINTS,    CLEANSES 
IN  ONE  SINGLE  SIMPLE  OPERATION 


PARAGON  DIST.  CORP..  8  WEST  32nd  STREET.  NEW  YORK.  N.  Y. 


CARTER'S  ALL  EXPENSE  PLAN  Mf£f/> 


KILL  THE  HAIR  ROOT 


33IESMJS5SIMK 

Dept.PM,   IS?  Union  Ave.  MEMPH 


MEMPHIS.  TENN. 


-  Method  1m.siIiv.1v  | 
om  tt.ewintt  ..tt..in  hv  I.ill 
Tin-    (lclittlitf.il    relief    wil 


stamps   TO- 


MAHLER  D.J.  Mahler  Co., 


one  of  the  season's 
style  treats 


e LEONA 

SHOE  OF  THE  MONTH 

Let  the  Leona  carry  you  into  a 
season  of  outdoor  fun.  From  its  fetch- 
ing drawstring  tie  that  snuggles  to 
your  ankles,  to  its  high-walled  crepe 
soles,  the  Leona  is  a  happy  begin- 
ning for  anklets  or  sun-tanned  legs. 
See  for  yourself,  at  your  dealer's, 
how  gayly  this  Shoe  of  the  Monlh 
reflects  the  mood — and  the  mode — 
of    the    season. 


For 


of  local  dealer, 


GRINNEll    SHOE    COMPANY,    GRINNELL,    IOWA 


SPORT  SHOES 


<& 


Animal  Crackers 


(Continued  from  page  59) 


can't  change  his  spots.  We  can,  by 
keeping  our  skins  scrupulously  clean, 
inside  and  out.  Massage  with  cleansing 
cream  will  do  both,  by  stimulating  cir- 
culation and  by  removing  every  trace  of 
surface  soil.  Keep  away  from  your 
eyes,  though,  for  those  delicate,  easily- 
broken-down  tissues  should  never  be 
rubbed  or  pulled. 

At  this  season,  that  drying  summer 
sun  robs  your  skin  of  natural  oils  and 
lays  a  foundation  for  future  wrinkles. 
Here's  where  we  females  literally  "get 
it  in  the  neck" — and  there's  nothing  like 
a  crepy  neck  to  make  a  girl  feel  as  con- 
spicuous as  the  Giraffe!  It's  never  too 
late  (or  too  early)  for  you  to  start  tak- 
ing care  of  that  troublesome  area  with 
a  special  cream  and  gentle,  invigorating 
massage.  Upward,  ever  upward,  of 
course,  as  with  all  facial  manipulations, 
for  those  muscles  simply  mustn't  be  en- 
couraged in  their  tendency  to  droop. 

Alas  for  the  careless  Camel!  He  can't 
even  keep  himself  clean,  since  what  little 
water  he  meets  up  with  in  his  life  has  to 
be  stored  up  in  his  special,  patented 
contrivance  to  sustain  him  in  the  desert. 
Fortunately,  we  human  beings  have 
plenty  of  water  and  cleansing  agents, 
but  we  do  need  to  do  something  about 
perspiration  odors,  particularly  during 
increased  summer  activity.  The  stars, 
working  under  the  hot  studio  lights, 
have  always  taken  special  care.  Today, 
there  are  so  many  excellent  deodorants 
for  all  types  of  skins  that  nobody  has 
an  excuse  for  carelessness  any  more. 

The  same  thing's  true  about  depilato- 
ries. Frankly,  we  think  the  Monkey 
would  look  rather  weird,  to  say  the 
least,  without  his  blanket  of  hair.  But 
womankind  looks  almost  as  weird  with 
any  suggestion  of  such  a  thing,  particu- 
larly when  summer  exposes  us  so  mer- 
cilessly in  our  cute  new  play  suits  and 
swimming  togs,  even  though  we  don't 
have  to  face  the  all-seeing  eye  of  the 
camera.  If  you've  been  shaving,  shame 
on  you — especially  when  you  have  such 
a  choice  of  products  designed  to  do  the 
job  gently,  as  well  as  effectively. 

We  sympathize  particularly  with  the 
huge  Hippopotamus,  whose  overwhelm- 
ing lack  of  contour  has  made  her  very 
name  the  antonym  of  shapeliness!  All 
excess  fat  cries  for  attention  to  diet,  but 
flabby  waistlines  call  for  rigorous  acro- 
batics, too.  The  new  theory,  inspired  by 
and  adapted  to  the  ultrafeminine  form 
so  fashionable  today,  is  that  all  anti- 
waistline  exercises  should  be  designed 


to  keep  the  ribs  and  pelvic  girdle  as  far 
apart  as  possible.  Remember  that,  in 
choosing  from  among  your  repertory  of 
exercises.  Select  the  ones  that  make 
you  stretch,  and  concentrate  on  those 
with  a  backward  pull. 

nRE  you  a  Xiion?  With  an  untidy 
mane  of  hair  which  simply  doesn't  have 
the  sheen  you  crave?  Or  are  you  be- 
ing a  little  lamb  and  following  a  regular 
system  of  brushing  every  day?  You 
should  give  your  mane  at  least  a  hun- 
dred licks  daily — and  double  that  if  you 
have  long  hair  like  Dorothy  Lcmour's — 
to  awaken  that  tired  scalp  and  distrib- 
ute the  natural  oils  evenly  from  roots  to 
tips.  Again,  as  with  massage,  the  move- 
ment is  upward,  away  from  your  scalp, 
never  down  toward  your  shoulders.  It's 
one  of  the  most  refreshing  beauty  treat- 
ments you  can  give  yourself,  and  so 
effective  if  you  use  the  right  brush — one 
with  bristles  long  enough  to  reach  every 
millimeter  of  your  scalp. 

No  girl  likes  to  be  told  that  she  looks 
like  a  clown.  It's  an  accusation  you'll 
never  have  to  face,  if  you  take  advan- 
tage of  the  color-harmonized  cosmetics 
you  can  get  today,  now  that  Technicolor 
has  thrown  such  emphasis  on  matched 
make-up.  By  keeping  all  your  cosmetic 
tones  in  the  same  key,  you  can  avoid 
that  startling  contrast  of  shades  which 
makes  the  Clown's  make-up  so  gaudy. 
And  by  testing  the  texture  of  face  pow- 
der on  the  smooth  back  of  your  hand 
before  you  buy,  you  can  guarantee  that 
you'll  never  have  that  flour-barrel  look. 

We  even  have  a  trick  or  two  to  show 
the  Magician,  who  must  keep  his  fin- 
gers as  smooth  and  supple  as  a  beauti- 
ful woman's.  However,  beautiful  women 
themselves  don't  have  too  easy  a  time 
keeping  their  hands  that  way.  Summer 
simply  adds  to  the  problem,  because  it 
means  you'll  have  your  hands  in  water 
so  much.  Whether  you  swim  or  not, 
you  wash  even  more  frequently  than  at 
other  times  of  the  year — which  means 
more  drying.  So  don't  forget  that  hand 
creams  and  lotions  are  just  as  essential 
as  using  a  towel. 

Aren't  we  the  lucky  ones,  though? 
The  beauty  problems  that  looked  so  in- 
surmountable to  the  animals  in  our  lit- 
tle fantasy  are  no  problems  at  all  to 
human  beings — not  so  long  as  we  have 
the  Hollywood  stars  to  point  out  the 
road  to  charm,  and  so  many  easy-to-use 
preparations  to  open  up  that  highway 
to  happiness  for  us  all! 


(If  you   wish    to   know   the   names   of   the   products   referred   to  in   i 
write  to  the  Beauty  Editor,  Photoplay,  122  East  42nd  St.,  New  Yo 


article 

N.  Y.) 


Look   (as  the    Robert  Youngs   are   doing)   at  the   beard   Joe    E.   Brown   raised 
in    the    hospital!     It    was    on    display    at    the    Turf    Ball    at    the    Ambassador 


90 


PHOTOPLAY 


Categorically  Speaking 

Nelson  as  Seen  by  Jeanette  MacDonald 


(Continued  from  page  23) 


Jewel? 

A  little  boy's  pet  marble — the  kind 
they  call  an  "aggie." 

Window  Display? 

Military  boots,  shiny  and  new,  with 
spurs  on  them;  sheet  music  in  the  oack- 
ground;  a  wing  fireside  chair  with  an 
open  book  left  on  the  cushion. 

Painting,  or  Picture? 

A  Currier  and  Ives  print. 

Bird? 

An  albatross  with  a  nightingale's 
voice.  Contrary  to  the  opinion  of  most 
people   who   have   never   lived   in   the 


South,  the  nightingale  is  a  baritone. 
And  the  albatross  is  large  and  blond 
and  deliberate  on  the  wing. 

I  dislike  summaries  of  any  sort — it's 
like  pointing  a  mora! — but  Nelson  Kddy 
is  difficult  to  describe  in  any  fashion 
because  his  personality  is  so  integrated, 
his  character  is  so  particularly  normal, 
his  abilities  so  defined  that  any  flights 
of  fancy  ill  become  his  portrait.  Nelson 
has  arrived.  He  has  what  he  wants 
from  life,  and  his  future  is  settled  for 
him.  I  count  him  one  of  my  favorite 
people  almost  without  reservation — one 
of  the  reasons  being  the  fact  that  I  don't 
have  to  worry  about  him,  as  I  do  about 
so  many  of  my  friends. 


Jeanette  as  Seen  by  Nelson  Eddy 


(Continued  from  page  22) 


which  you  guess  things.  Post  office, 
maybe,  should  be  added  here;  and  a 
delicate  feminine  type  of  horseshoes, 
where  the  players  sit  and  toss  light 
cardboard  shoes  at  stakes  not  very  far 
away.  Jeanette  likes  to  win  at  games. 
So  it  should  be  something  that's  quickly 
won  and  over  with. 

Jeanette  is  a  Viennese  Waltz  with 
just  an  occasional  fox-trot  step  worked 
in,  slyly;  she's  a  tall  glass  of  very  cold 
lemonade  under  a  shade  tree — and  the 
lemonade  would  have  three  or  four 
maraschino  cherries  in  it,  instead  of 
one,  and  a  double  portion  of  sugar. 

She  is  a  nosegay  set  in  a  lace  paper 
ruffle,  with  Bouvardia — you  know,  that 
strong  little  white  flower — and  with  a 
rare  gold  and  flame  orchid  in  the  cen- 
ter. So  far  as  books  are  concerned, 
Jeanette  MacDonald  cannot  be  de- 
scribed in  the  title  of  just  one  book. 
She's  an  entire  case  of  them.  Let's  say 
the  Jeanette  Bookshelf  (only  one  edi- 
tion, very  rare)  would  start  with  a 
Prayer  Book  in  a  white  satin  cover,  and 
contain  an  album  of  music,  "Etiquette" 
by  Emily  Post,  "The  Five  Little  Peppers 
and  How  They  Grew,"  "Joe  Miller's 
Joke  Book,"  "The  Wizard  of  Oz,"  a  col- 
lection of  Peter  Arno  cartoons,  "Ma- 
dame Bovary"  and  "Alice  in  Wonder- 
land." And  perhaps  a  copy  of  Voltaire. 
We  must  not  ignore  that  somewhat  sur- 
prising sophistication,  always  bound  by 
good  taste,  which  is  an  angle  of  Jean- 
ette's  nature;  nor  her  deep  religious 
sense,  nor  her  insistence  on  convention, 
nor  her  love  of  a  good  anecdote.  But 
no  heavy  reading,  ever,  may  find  room 
on  that  shelf. 

If  Jeanette  were  a  mechanical  device 
she  would  be  a  metronome  in  rare  teak, 
tuned  to  tempo  by  a  special  committee 
composed  of  Caruso,  Toscanini  and 
Elizabeth  Arden. 

Jeanette,  as  a  jewel,  is  a  cameo;  as 
a  metal,  gold,  yellow,  24-carat,  in  the 
shape  of  an  old-fashioned  wedding  ring. 
As  a  perfume,  cologne,  and  heather.  I 
say  cologne  rather  than  perfume  be- 
cause the  personality  here  is  a  more 
fragile  thing  than  any  essence  of  musk 
and  myrrh. 

Don't  strain  your  eyebrows  over  this, 
but  in  terms  of  clothes  Jeanette  is  a 
handmade  princess  slip,  without  em- 
broidery. And  an  ostrich-feather  bed 
jacket,  in  case  the  doorbell  rings.  She 
is  a  music  box  playing  "Here  Comes  the 
Bride"  in  swing  tempo;  and  if  she  were 
a  sport  it  would  be  jumping  rope — very 
brisk  action  for  a  moment,  then  a 
period  of  rest. 


Suppose  she  were  a  car.  It  would  be 
one  she  could  drive  herself  occasionally, 
but  by  dint  of  mild  effort  a  window 
would  roll  up  between  the  driver's  seat 
and  the  tonneau,  whereupon  the  ma- 
chine would  become  a  limousine  with 
a  chauffeur  and  possibly  a  footman. 

Metamorphose  the  girl  into  an  ani- 
mal and  I  think  you'd  find  a  deer — sus- 
picious, distrustful,  gentle,  lovely;  but 
capable  of  being  tamed.  Make  her  a 
song  and  she'd  be  any  coloratura  aria, 
"The  Star  Spangled  Banner,"  "Coming 
Through  the  Rye,"  a  potential  lullaby, 
and  any  popular  song. 

Jeanette  is  a  formal  miniature  in  a 
jeweled  frame,  suspended  by  a  velvet 
ribbon.  She  is  a  combination  of  a 
Cathedral  thrush  and  a  young  eagle — 
you  know  what  I  mean  by  the  Cathe- 
dral thrush,  and  the  young  eagle  signi- 
fies strength,  an  unsuspected  fortitude. 
Eagles  put  branches  and  rocks  in  their 
nests,  instead  of  down,  so  when  the 
youngsters  once  start  to  fly  they  won't 
have  any  impulse  to  come  back.  Jean- 
ette doesn't  try  for  a  soft  life;  she  gets 
a  kick  out  of  forcing  her  way  past  ob- 
stacles. There  is  also  a  Redheaded 
hummingbird.    How  about  that? 

You  see?  I  warned  you.  My  por- 
trait of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Gene  Ray- 
mond, in  all  probability,  does  not  ap- 
proach the  one  you  had  in  mind.  But 
I  must  say  this  about  Jeanette:  She  is 
an  amazing  woman,  possessed  of  un- 
believable personal  strength — a  feeling 
for  living  life  smoothly,  like  a  silver 
spoon  cutting  into  frozen  custard — a 
determination  which  surpasseth  all  un- 
derstanding— a  canny  Scotch  money 
sense,  in  the  tradition  of  those  gentle 
American  Capitalists  who  pride  them- 
selves on  their  ability  to  live  on  the  in- 
come from  an  income — an  intense 
sophistication  which  breeds  a  subtle  but 
distinct  form  of  delicate  cynicism — a 
driving  ambition  which  is  not  matched 
by  her  physical  capacity  for  hardship, 
so  that  she  drives  herself  further  than 
'she  should  to  get  what  she  wants — a 
fine,  genuine  sense  of  music,  and  a  tal- 
ent (shall  we  say  genius?)  for  translat- 
ing it  in  terms  of  her  own  magnificent 
voice — a  hoydenish  strain  of  happy- 
chappy  humor,  never  too  old-lavender- 
and-lace  to  snub  a  laugh  even  if  it's 
bred  in  lower  minds  than  hers — a 
kind  of  beauty — a  heigh-ho-little-girl- 
does  -your-mother-know  -  you're  -  out?  - 
thing  that's  hard  to  describe. 

And  a  capacity  for  making  friends 
which,  thank  heaven,  has  seen  fit  to  in- 
clude me  among  them. 


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Cal  York's  Gossip  of  Hollywood 


(Continued  from  page  67) 


1 


U 


Wardrobe  variety:  Freddie  March  in  country  loafing  clothes,  Joan 
Crawford  in  a  smartly  quilted  robe — in  "Susan  and  God" — and  Flor- 
ence Eldridqe  March,  in  the  perfect  "casual"  suit,  visiting  them  both 


It  may  be  of  the  puppy-love  variety, 
but  it's  the  staunchest  and  cutest  ro- 
mance in  town — naturally  we  refer  to 
the  crush  Billy  Halop  has  on  Georgi- 
anna  Young,  Loretta's  youngest  sister. 
Such  ice-cream  soda-ing — mercy  on  us. 

Cal,  the  Bearer  of  Good  Tidings: 

WE  think  Bette  Davis  is  a  young  lady 
who  heeds  her  fan  mail.  Or  maybe 
Bette  has  been  snooping  into  Cal's  par- 
ticular little  pile  of  letters  that  decry 
the  actress'  plunging  headlong  into  so 
many  character  roles. 

At  any  rate  we  grabbed  an  opportu- 
nity on  the  "All  This,  and  Heaven,  Too" 
set  to  bring  up  the  subject. 

"They're  right,"  Bette  said,  in  her 
positive,  forthright  manner  of  speaking. 
"I  feel  too  many  heavy  characteriza- 
tions, such  as  the  ones  in  'The  Old 
Maid'  and  'Elizabeth  and  Essex,'  are  not 
good  for  me.  While  I'm  young,  I  want 
to  be  young,"  she  said,  her  arms  flinging 
wide  to  express  the  vim  and  joy  of 
youth.  "I  intend,  and  you  can  tell 
everyone  I  said  so,  to  play  only  young 
parts  in  the  future  like  Judy  in  'Dark 
Victory.'  I've  proved  to  myself  I  can 
play  those  other  heavier  roles.  My  in- 
ner self  is  satisfied,  but  now  I  see  no  rea- 
son to  disfigure  myself  for  more  such 
roles.  So  I'm  going  to  stay  young  on  the 
screen." 

And  somehow,  the  way  she  said  it, 
had  us  stepping  two  feet  high  and  twit- 
tering to  the  birdies. 

Rumor  Refuted 

I  HEY  really  should  change  the  name  of 
movietown  to  "rumordom,"  the  way  the 
whispers  fly  thick  and  fast.  For  in- 
stance, after  the  Dolores  Del  Rio-Cedric 
Gibbons  separation  (after  ten  years  of 
marriage),  rumors  had  it  Gene  Markey 
and  his  bride,  Hedy  Lamarr,  were  on 
the  verge  of  parting;  the  "rumorers" 
basing  their  supposition  on  the  fact  that 
if  one  beauty,  Dolores,  left  her  husband, 
another  great  beauty,  meaning  Miss  La- 
marr, may  very  well  leave  hers. 

All  this  has  been  most  distressing  to 
Gene  and  Hedy  who  have  recently 
adopted  a  baby  whom  they  love  devot- 
edly, and  who  may  find  itself  minus  a 
home,  if  too  many  false  rumors  bring 


unfavorable  attention  to  the  Home  from 
which  he  was  adopted. 

Let  Cal  say  here  and  now,  that  while 
Dolores  and  Cedric  have  reached  an 
amiable  agreement  of  separation,  Hedy 
and  Gene  are  extremely  content  and 
happy  together. 

Glamour  Pets? 

lOU'D  rather  expect  a  real  glamour 
girl  to  have  glamorous  pets,  if  any.  Per- 
haps most  of  them  do,  but  we  know  one 
whose  pets  include — three  Texas  terra- 
pins and  a  rooster!  Meaning  Miss  Linda 
Darnell,  Twentieth  Century-Fox's  gor- 
geous young  starlet,  acclaimed  by  many 
connoisseurs  as  the  most  beautiful  girl 
in  Hollywood. 

But  she's  also  the  most  loyal.  These 
pets  were  given  her  when  she  was  a 
child  (of  course,  she's  not  much  more 
than  that,  now)  and  she  loves  'em.  In 
fact,  she  loves  them  so  much  that  she 
brought  them  to  Hollywood  with  her 
and  the  quartette  occupies  an  honored 
place  in  the  Darnell  menage. 

The  terrapins  are  Red  Leg,  Shellback 


Just  a  candid  camera  shot  at  Ciro's 
— but  it  proves  that  Claire  Windsor 
is  every  bit  as  beautiful  today  as 
when  she  was  a  "silent  movie"  queen 


and  Terrapin  Tommy.  They're  about 
eight  inches  in  diameter  and  look  ex- 
actly alike  to  us.  But  not  to  Linda.  She 
knows  them  apart  and  insists  they  have 
distinct  personalities.  They  have  one 
thing  in  common,  though.  Although 
they  are  land  turtles,  born  and  bred  on 
the  Texas  desert,  each  can  swim.  Linda 
taught  them  to — in  the  family  bathtub. 

As  for  the  rooster,  his  name  is 
Weedy  and  he  was  an  Easter  gift  to 
Linda  from  a  Dallas  newspaper  man. 
He  is  a  white  leghorn,  really,  but  when 
Linda  got  him  (in  his  extreme  youth) 
he  was  dyed  Nile  green. 

Linda  has  taught  him  to  curb  his  nat- 
ural urge  to  crow  at  the  crack  o'  dawn, 
to  eat  from  her  hand,  to  ride  compla- 
cently in  the  family  automobile,  to  come 
when  called.  She  spends  a  lot  of  time 
on  his  grooming,  trims  his  tail  feathers 
regularly  and — it's  the  gospel  truth — 
paints  his  toe  nails  red! 

Recently  the  terrapins  helped  with  the 
tail-feather  trimming.  They  pulled  out 
nearly  all  of  them  and  Weedy  was  so 
disgruntled  he  stayed  under  the  front 
porch  for  three  days. 

True  Love's  Course 

DOB  TAYLOR  seems  jinxed.  when  it 
comes  to  his  screen  love-making.  In 
"Camille,"  for  instance,  he  was  pouring 
forth  his  soul  to  Greta  Garbo  when  a 
light  fuse  blew  out  and  caught  Greta's 
dress  on  fire — which,  as  you  might 
guess,  kind  of  spoiled  things.  While  he 
was  in  the  middle  of  his  screen  wooing 
of  Joan  Crawford  in  "The  Gorgeous 
Hussy,"  they  found  themselves  ankle 
deep  (more  or  less)  in  water  because 
some  one  had  left  the  tap  on  in  Joan's 
dressing  room,  and  a  small  flood  had  re- 
sulted. During  a  love  scene  with  Greer 
Garson  in  "Remember?",  played  (of  all 
things)  in  a  ditch,  he  caught  cold  and 
began  sneezing  at  the  tenderest  moment. 
And  in  "Waterloo  Bridge,"  just  as  he 
was  making  ardent  love  to  Vivien 
Leigh,  a  couple  of  lights  fell  down  from 
the  rafters  with  a  crash  resembling 
Judgment  Day! 

An  Academy  Award  Winner  Speaks  Her 
Piece: 

I'M  not  ready  for  Juliet." 

Miss  Vivien  Scarlett  Leigh  sat  on 
the  "Waterloo  Bridge"  set,  her  knitting 
needles  clicking,  and  Shakespeare's 
"Romeo  and  Juliet"  open  on  her  lap. 

"No,  I'm  really  not,"  she  said,  in 
answer  to  our  look  of  surprised  amaze- 
ment. "I  feel  I  shouldn't  play  Juliet  for 
at  least  another  six  years.  I  have  so 
much  to  learn  yet.  But  I  promised  I'd 
go  on  this  tour  with  Mr.  Olivier  and  I'll 
have  to  go.  But  oh,  there's  so  much  to 
learn  first." 

And  this  is  the  young  lady  who  just 
won  the  Academy  Award  for  the  best 
actress  of  1939  for  her  work  in  "Gone 
with  the  Wind!" 

Til  We  Meet  Again 

llE  walked  into  the  commissary  of 
Twentieth  Century-Fox  for  the  last 
time  after  twelve  years  of  trouping  for 
that  studio,  and  not  a  man  or  woman 
there  but  failed  to  call  out,  "Warner, 
you  will  come  back  to  see  us?" 

And  Warner  Baxter  smiled,  a  bit 
misty-eyed,  at  these  men  and  women 
who  had  been  so  closely  associated  with 
him  through  the  years — before  the  cam- 
era, behind  it  in  executive,  writers'  and 
producers'  offices,  script  girls,  camera- 


92 


PHOTOPLAY 


men,  make-up  men,  all  whom  he  knew 
so  well  and  was  now  leaving  behind. 

When  Warner  left  Twentieth  and 
movies  behind  him  (although  he  may 
be  lured  back  for  an  occasional  film  in 
the  far  future),  he  set  out  on  a  small 
boy's  dream  come  true — a  pirate  cruise 
for  buried  treasure.  With  him  and  his 
wife  will  go  Frank  McGrath,  his  stand- 
in,  and  Mrs.  McGrath,  three  sailors  and 
a  cook.  The  cruise  is  Warner's  idea,  the 
buried  gold,  the  stand-in's  dream.  With 
three  maps  in  his  possession,  Frank  is 
sure  he'll  strike  gold.  Warner  is  just 
going  along  for  the  ride. 

Hollywood  and  movies  will  sorely 
miss  Baxter,  who  hit  the  top  of  his  ca- 
reer, stayed  there,  and  is  leaving  there 
with  many  true  friends  and  fans  always 
to  wish  him  well. 

Who  Has  Red  Faces  Now? 

ATTENTION,  all  you  young  things  who 
have  been  writing  those  reams  of  ad- 
miring lines  to  William  Holden!  We 
have  made  a  discovery,  and  we  feel  it 
only  our  duty  to  tell  you  of  it.  Bill's 
mother  took  over  his  fan  mail  job  and 
(here  it  comes),  reads  all  the  letters. 
Awful,  isn't  it? 

But  don't  fret  too  much.  Bill's  all  on 
your  side.  He  says,  "When  Mother 
looks  down  her  nose  too  much  at  some 
of  the — er — more  familiar  letters,  why 
we  have  a  good  heart-to-heart  talk 
about  it.  I  have  to  lecture  her  about  it 
and  for  berating  fans  who  criticize  my 
performances.  Gee,  the  letters  Mother 
wrote  back  to  them  before  I  discovered 
it,  were  pips." 

Now  don't  get  the  idea  curly-headed 
Bill  is  a  mama's  boy,  but  Mother  wanted 
the  job  and  Bill  doesn't  feel  he  can  hire 
a  secretary  to  help. 

Anyway,  kids,  we  thought  we'd  warn 
you,  before  Bill  creates  new  havoc  in 
feminine  hearts,  after  his  starring  role 
in  "Arizona."  Maybe  you'll  want  to  re- 
word those  fervent  ideas  before  writing 
again,  eh? 

Yes  Girl 

OONJA  HENIE'S  romance  with  Dan 
Topping,  ex-husband  of  Arline  Judge, 
has  so  changed  the  little  blonde  skating 
star  that  her  friends  can  talk  of  nothing 
else.  "Did  you  notice  how  Sonja  lis- 
tened and  loved  it?"  they  say,  knowing 
full  well  that  hard-working  Sonja, 
smart  business  woman  that  she  is,  never 
allowed  anyone  to  tell  her  what  to  do 
and  what  not  to  do. 

But  now  the  change  is  startling. 
Sonja  listens,  while  Dan,  who  is  defi- 
nitely head  man  in  her  heart,  does  all 
the  bossing — and — Sonja  loves  it. 

On  the  Record 

ADDING  to  the  brightness  of  the  mus- 
ical situation  is  "Road  to  Singapore." 
Bing  Crosby,  the  hero  himself,  does 
what  is  known  as  a  very  showmanly 
record  job  on  three  of  the  songs  he 
features  in  the  film.  For  the  love  in- 
terest, there's  "I'm  Too  Romantic,"  and 
"The  Moon  and  the  Willow  Tree";  for 
novelty:  "Sweet  Potato  Piper"  (Decca 
2998-9).  Dorothy  Lamour  shows  what 
she  can  do  with  the  aforementioned  pair 
of  romantic  ditties  (Bluebird  10608). 
Ray  Noble  has  whipped  up  four  tanta- 
lizing waxes  in  dance-time  which  in- 
clude Bing's  and  Dottie's  three  melodies 
plus  the  ultracute  "Captain  Custard" 
(Columbia  35385,  35392) . 

With  La  Lamour  wandering  from  one 
lot  to  another,  it  is  no  surprise  to  hear 
her  pop  up  with  "This  Is  the  Beginning 
of  the  End,"  from  "Johnny  Apollo,"  the 
20th  Century-Fox  opus  wherein  she  col- 
laborates with  Ty  Power.  "Your  Kiss" 
is  her  other  offering    (Bluebird  10630). 

RKO's    "Irene"    is    another    musical 


"My  son-in-law" — Brian  Aherne  with 
Mrs.  Fontaine,  mother  of  Joan,  his 
wife,  and  of  Olivia  de  Havilland,  as 
well!    Supper-snapped    at   Ciro's 


which  shows  great  promise.  The  title 
song  has  been  recorded  by  Johnny 
Green  and  for  "Irene's"  partner,  Johnny 
has  recorded  "I  Walk  With  Music,"  an 
attraction  of  the  stage's  "Three  After 
Three"  (Royale  1848).  Trumpet-play- 
ing Harry  James  sets  the  gates  a-swing- 
in'  with  "You've  Got  Me  Out  On  a 
Limb" — also  from  "Irene" — and  "How 
High  the  Moon"  (Varsity  8221). 

Glenn  Miller  has  put  his  boys  to  work 
on  "My!  My!"  and  "Say  It"  from  the  new 
Jack  Benny  starring  venture,  "Buck 
Benny  Rides  Again."    (Bluebird  10631). 

Emergency  Call 

DOB  HOPE'S  wife,  Dolores,  still  doesn't 
know  what  the  taxi  driver  thinks  about 
it  all,  but  anyhow  she  heard  Bob's  pro- 
gram, which  was  the  important  thing  to 
her.  The  Hopes  have  just  moved  into 
their  new  home,  and  while  they  have 
various  and  assorted  radios,  for  some 
reason  or  another  they  were  all 
jiggled  out  of  kilter  in  the  move — 
and,  came  time  for  Bob's  program, 
Dolores  couldn't  find  one  that  would 
work.  So  what?  Well,  after  discover- 
ing that  Bob  had  taken  the  car  with  the 
radio,  she  phoned  the  cab  company  to 
rush  a  taxi  over — and  then  had  the  as- 
tonished driver  go  around  the  block 
once  and  pull  up  to  the  curb  while  she 
listened  in  on  the  broadcast! 

For  the  Honor  of  the  Series 


bREDIT  the  funniest  wisecrack  of  the 
month  to  Laraine  Day — the  gal  who 
plays  Nurse  Mary  Lamont  to  Lew 
Ayres'  Dr.  Kildare  in  that  series. 
This    is   the   fourth   picture   they   have 


made  together  and  when  Laraine  went 
into  the  office  of  Harry  Bucquet,  the  di- 
rector, she  grabbed  for  the  script  in  a 
breathless  sort  of  fashion.  "Let  me  see 
it  quickly,"  said  Laraine  excitedly,  "I've 
got  to  find  out  if  I  marry  Lew  in  this 
one — and  I  better  had,  because  Mother 
is  beginning  to  ask  questions  already!" 

Girls,  Quick,  to  the  Vocal  Teacher 

DlANA  LEWIS,  the  so-youthful  bride 
of  William  Powell,  claims  she  won  her 
handsome  husband  with  a  song.  "We 
were  having  dinner  at  a  local  restaurant 
and  suddenly  I  began  singing  to  Bill. 
I  didn't  sing  the  new  Hit  Parade  tunes 
at  all.  I  sang  the  old  numbers,  the 
sweet  and  sentimental  tunes.  And  when 
I  had  finished,  Bill  said,  'I  love  you, 
Diana.' " 

So  there's  how  you  do  it,  my  beauties. 
One  quick,  easy  lesson  on  how  to  win  a 
husband,  and  not  a  red  cent  does  Cal 
ask  for  the  tip. 

Hollywood  Says: 

I  HAT  boat  trip  (a  freighter,  if  you 
please)  through  the  canal  made  by  Cary 
Grant  was  not  so  much  a  trip  for  rest 
as  Mr.  Grant  gave  out,  as  a  chance  to 
untangle  the  meshes  of  his  heart  and 
definitely  ascertain  just  where  Miss 
Brooks  stands  in  the  picture.  It  seems 
the  two  just  can't  stay  apart,  despite  the 
bitterness  that  lay  between  them  when 
they  parted,  for  at  parties  they  just  nat- 
urally gravitate  toward  each  other  and 
to  the  surprise  of  worried  hostesses,  who 
fretted  over  asking  both  Cary  and 
Phyllis,  there  they  are  dancing  together, 
his  very  dark  head  bent  over  her  very 
blonde  one. 

Whatever  it  is  that  stands  between 
these  two,  we  hope  it  will  be  ironed  out 
satisfactorily,  and  Cary  can  see  through 
the  tangled  mesh  of  his  emotions  to  a 
newer  clearer  path. 

Anyway,  they  say  there's  nothing  like 
a  boat  trip  to  stir  the  old  heart — so  don't 
be  surprised  at  whatever  happens  be- 
tween these  two  swell  people. 

Honeymoon  in  China 

rAY  BAINTER  has  made  up  her  mind! 
Rocking  back  and  forth  in  her  special 
rocker  on  the  set  of  "Our  Town"  (Earl 
McKee,  the  Sol  Lesser  prop  man, 
worked  with  Fay  two  years  ago  and  re- 
membered her  partiality  to  rockers), 
she  told  us  that  Hollywood  is  just  going 
to  have  to  get  along  without  her  for 
about  six  months  in  1941.  In  answer  to 
our  upraised  eyebrows,  she  explained 
that  1941  marks  her  china  anniversary 
and  that  she  and  her  husband  and  son 
are  going  to  do  the  thing  right  by  pack- 
ing up  and  having  their  celebration  of 
the  event  in  CHINA! 


Be  Active... 
Be  Secure 


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No  longer  need  you  spend 
worried  moments  looking 
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Removes  intact. 


Two  highlights  in  a  scene  at  Ciro's:  The  ingenious  way  Loretta  Young 
uses  a  flower  pin  and  narrow  ribbon  to  form  a  necklace — and  the  fact 
that  her  partner  is  Phil  Plant,  Connie  Bennett's  "ex"  from  "way  back 


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Every  comfort  cleverly  contrived 
to  make  your  visit  to  New  York  a 
success.  Overlooking  Central  Park 
the  Savoy-Plaza  is  in  the  heart  of 
the  city.  Fine  shops  and  theatres 
nearby  .  .  .  subway  direct  to 
World's  Fair  at  the  door. 

Special  Summer  Rates 
during  the  World's  Fair 

Single  from  $5  ■  Double  from  $7 

Henry  A.  Rost,  Managing  Director 
George  Sg'er,   Resideni   Manager 

SAVOY-PLAZA 

FIFTH  AVE..  58tr-  to  59th  STS.,  NEW  YORK 


Glamour  Girls  Off  Their  Diet 


everybody  in  the  joint.  From  the  mo- 
ment she  picks  up  her  first  fork  until 
the  moment  Gene  Markey  picks  up  the 
check,  she  is  really  a  sight  to  see. 

Lunching  at  the  St.  Regis,  she  prefaces 
a  full-course  table  d'hote  with  an  order 
of  caviar  large  enough  to  feed  a  Russian 
battalion.  At  "21,"  she  follows  oysters 
with  two  portions  of  ham  a  la  king,  a 
salad,  and  dessert.  At  the  Stork,  three 
nights  in  a  row,  she  downs  breast  of 
pheasant  Lucullus.  If  you  don't  think 
this  is  substantial  eating,  get  plump  try- 
ing it  seme  time. 

Joan  Crawford,  whose  reputation  and 
waistline  indicate  that  her  food  is  meas- 
ured out  daily  on  a  jeweler's  scales,  is 
my  choice  for  runner-up  in  the  table- 
cloth sweepstakes.  Once  she  gets  off  the 
train,  Joan  is  a  pushover  for  a  menu, 
and  I  have  seen  her  nibbling  frogs  legs 
Provencale  at  Colbert's,  minute  steak  at 
"21,"  and  blinis,  one  after  the  other,  at 
Fefe's  Monte  Carlo. 

In  case  you  think  blinis  are  something 
to  reduce  with,  here  is  the  recipe- 
wheedled  along  with  some  others  from 
the  elegant,  worldly,  and  so-wise  chefs 
of  Manhattan's  best  known  hangouts  for 
Hollywood's  hungry: 

BLINIS 

Use  prepared  buckwheat  flour.  Add 
a  little  milk  and  cream,  and  make  the 
batter  as  you  would  for  griddle  cakes, 
but  make  the  cakes  a  little  bigger  than 
a  silver  dollar. 

When  ready  to  serve,  heat  the  cakes 
in  a  pan  with  butter.  Top  with  butter, 
caviar,  and  sour  cream. 

DOROTHY  LAMOUR  is  another  flicker 
siren  whose  teeth  are  used  for  more 
than  smiling.  She  usually  washes  down 
a  thick  "21"  steak  with  two  glasses  of 
milk.  Her  interest  in  fattening  food  is 
so  acute  that  she  often  passes  up  dinner 
at  one  of  the  more  platinum  goldfish 
bowls  to  put  away  a  meal  at  the  Villa- 
nova,  an  unpretentious  Italian  restau- 
rant in  the  west  Forties,  where  her  idea 


(Continued  jrom  page  21) 

of  a  snack  is  Italian  spaghetti  with 
plenty  of  sauce  (no  grated  cheese), 
ravioli,  breadsticks,  and  a  healthy  por- 
tion of  spumoni. 

Anita  Louise  would  send  any  calorie 
expert  howling  into  the  night.  At  the 
St.  Regis,  where  she  usually  stays  in 
New  York,  her  room-service  order 
included  either  French  croissants  or 
brioche  at  breakfast  time,  chicken  with 
cream  sauce  or  crabmeat  a  la  Newburg 
at  night.  She  achieves  that  under- 
weight look  by  ordering  for  dessert 
little  whipped  cream  whimsies  most 
girls  haven't  tasted  since  they  realized 
you  can't  have  your  cake  and  a  size 
twelve  figure,  too.  Anita  has  been 
known  to  eat,  for  example,  this  anti- 
slimming  dish,  just  as  the  chef  whis- 
pered it  to  me: 

FROZEN  MACAROON  CAKE  WITH 
EGGNOG  SAUCE 

One  sponge  cake  about  nine  inches  in 
diameter,  cut  in  three  layers. 

Place  one  layer  in  bottom  of  cake 
ring.  Make  a  mixture  of  one  pint  of 
vanilla  ice  cream  and  one-half  pint  of 
whipped  cream.  Cover  the  layer  with 
half  of  this  mixture  and  add  a  few  mac- 
aroons. Sprinkle  with  rum  and  cover 
with  second  layer.  Cover  second  layer 
with  remaining  mixture  and  put  third 
layer  on  top. 

Place  cake  in  refrigerator  and  let  re- 
main until  well  frozen.  Take  out  of 
cake  ring  and  mast  with  sweetened  va- 
nilla-flavored whipped  cream.  Sprinkle 
crushed  macaroons  on  top  and  sides. 
Serve  with  eggnog  sauce. 

EGGNOG  SAUCE 
1  pint  light  cream 
6  yolks  of  eggs 
4  oz.  sugar 
Vanilla 
Cream  sugar  with  yolks  of  eggs,  boil 
the  cream  and  add  to  above.    Bring  to- 
gether  on  fire   to   thicken   but   do   not 
boil.    Put  aside  to  cool  and  add  rum  to 
taste.   Strain  through  sieve.   Serve  cold. 


Barbara  Stanwyck,  at  Leon  and  Ed- 
die's, let  go  of  Robert  Taylor's  hand  long 
enough  to  do  away  with  an  order  of 
Chicken  Mexicaine.  (Chicken  with 
vegetables,  condiments,  and  rice.)  Bar- 
bara usually  waits  until  Bob  has  decided 
what  he  will  have,  then  orders  the  same 
thing,  which  means  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  she  annihilates  many  a 
steak,  for  Bob  is  strictly  a  chop-house 
man. 

Paulette  Goddard  has  the  kind  of  a 
figure  that  looks  as  if  it  could  be 
achieved  only  by  torture,  but  I  know 
better.  Maybe  she  suffers  in  Hollywood, 
maybe  she  eats  carrots  every  day  of  the 
week  and  spinach  on  Sunday,  but  in 
Manhattan  she  lunches  at  the  Colony 
on  the  famous  Chicken  Encore.  This, 
friends,  is  no  diet  dish,  as  the  chef 
proudly  stated. 

CHICKEN  ENCORE 
Cut  a  very  thick  slice  of  bread,  and 
trim  it  to  the  shape  of  a  box.  Brown  in 
a  hot  oven  until  golden  brown,  then 
scoop  the  inside  out.  Fill  this  toasted 
bread  box  with  creamed  chicken  hash, 
put  a  little  cream  sauce  and  grated 
cheese  on  the  top.    Brown  top  slightly. 

WHEN  Annabella  came  to  the  Algon- 
quin Supper  Club  with  Tyrone  Power, 
she  ate,  not  orange  peel,  not  lemon- 
soaked  lettuce,  not  devitalized  sole,  but 
a  huge  plate  of  macaroni  cooked  with 
ground  beef,  butter,  onions,  mineral  oil, 
chili,  eggplant,  bread  crumbs,  and  green 
peppers! 

So  from  now  on,  until  I  see  a  doc- 
tor's certificate  of  pernicious  anemia,  I 
will  not  believe  that  Shirley  Temple  is 
starving  herself,  or  that  Marlene  Die- 
trich is  subsisting  on  ice  water  until  she 
gets  down  to  102. 

From  now  on,  I  will  only  believe  my 
eyes,  and  the  girls'  dinner  plates.  And 
so  far  as  I  am  concerned  Hollywood  is 
wasting  its  precious  time  promoting  the 
Legend  of  Hollow  Tummy. 


Close  Ups  and  Long  Shots 


delicious  figure  and  the  lightsome  smile 
...  so  you  go  to  the  theater  and  you  get 
Missy  Lombard  in  "Vigil  in  the  Night," 
an  oh,  so-worthy  film  that  is  about  as 
warm  and  friendly  as  a  buzzard  resting 
in  a  dead  tree  .  .  .  it's  true  that  Carole's 
performance  is  a  triumph  of  acting  .  .  . 
every  word  Carole  said  in  her  correct 
English  accent  was  sincerely  rendered 
.  .  .  but  jeepers  creepers,  what  fun  is 
it  to  see  Carole  suffering,  loveless,  with- 
out one  crumb  of  powder  on  her  aris- 
tocratic little  nose?  .  .  . 

Comes  Miss  Ginger  Rogers  in  "Prim- 
rose Path"  .  .  .  you  remember  Miss 
Rogers  of  the  dancing  feet,  the  enchant- 
ing husky  voice,  the  saucy  comedy  .  .  . 
remember  her,  and  sigh,  for  you'll  not 
find  her  in  the  "Primrose  Path"  .  .  . 
herein  you  will  see  another  "artis- 
tic" performance  .  .  .  Ginger  hides  her 
glamour  behind  a  sweat  shirt,  a  shape- 
less skirt,  dirty  sneakers  and  tight  dark 
pigtails  .  .  .  even  as  Carole,  she  does 
her  role  magnificently  and  even  as 
Carole,  she  does  it  powderless  .  .  .  but 
I  do  wonder  why  she  prefers  being 
morbid  to  being  merry.  .  .  . 

Then     there's     Joan     Crawford      in 


(Continued  from  page  13) 

"Strange  Cargo"  .  .  .  another  non-pow- 
der role  ...  if  Joanie,  as  I  suspect, 
wanted  to  show  versatility  by  doing 
such  a  character,  she  succeeds  .  .  .  she 
is  very  sincere  as  the  water-front  no- 
account  who  gets  religion  .  .  .  but  still, 
and  for  why,  dirty  Crawford  up?  .  .  . 
what  are  these  beautiful  girls  up  to? 
.  .  .  are  they  trying  to  persuade  the 
world  that  a  well-groomed  exterior  de- 
notes a  low  moral  character  and  that 
souls    are   found   only   beneath    dowdy 


I  HE  month  was  made  happy  for  me, 
however,  by  the  "comeback  with  a 
bang"  of  Kay  Francis,  an  ex-glamour 
girl,  in  Deanna  Durbin's  "It's  a  Date" 
.  .  .  give  this  Francis  woman  a  hand 
.  .  .  she's  the  most  charming  example 
I've  ever  been  privileged  to  see  of  an 
actress  who  beat  Hollywood  at  its  own 
cruel  game  ...  a  year  ago,  she  was 
taking  a  terrible  beating  .  .  .  she  was 
supposedly  through  in  movies  ...  so 
what  did  she  do  .  .  .  she  did  that  most 
difficult  of  all  things  when  the  breaks 
are  going  against  you  .  .  .  she  re- 
mained a  lady  .  .  .  she  didn't  pull  hard 


cracks  at  any  one  or  alibi  either  .  .  . 
and  she  did  the  best  she  could  .  .  .  she 
did  a  supporting  role  in  Carole  Lom- 
bard's "In  Name  Only,"  and  now  the 
mother  to  a  very  grown-up  (and  very 
endearing)  Deanna  Durbin  .  .  .  she  is 
beautiful,  humorous  and  alluring  .  .  . 
and  a  most  exquisite  object  lesson  in 
what  the  word  "dignity"  means.  .  .  . 

And  the  case  of  Kay,  and  all  these 
others,  too,  also  illustrate  what  Holly- 
wood is  .  .  .  and  why  it  always  retains 
its  charm  ...  in  "Rebecca,"  little  Joan 
Fontaine  renders  a  performance  that 
makes  her  a  star  ...  in  "It's  a  Date," 
you  behold  Deanna  Durbin  moving  with 
as  much  surety  toward  her  maturity  as 
she  moved  through  the  shoals  of  ado- 
lescence .  .  .  while  in  "Rebecca,"  the 
brilliant  Laurence  Olivier  seems  a  little 
disappointing  .  .  .  one  can  never  be 
sure,  you  see,  until  one  goes  to  see  the 
finished  picture  just  what  will  be  in  it 
.  .  .  and  that's  why  for  us  out  here, 
when  the  preview  searchlights  flash  out 
against  the  sky,  nothing  can  keep  us  at 
home  ...  in  a  town  of  unending 
drama,  it  is  impossible  ever  to  be 
bored.  .  .  . 


94 


PHOTOPLAY 


The  Shadow  Stage 


FRENCH  WITHOUT  TEARS-Paramount-British 

nHEN  this  was  a  play  it  had  rather 
good  success  both  in  London  and  New 
York;  now  it's  a  movie  and  all  right  en- 
tertainment. Ray  Milland  and  Ellen 
Drew  head  the  cast.  The  story  concerns 
a  school  in  France  where  aspiring  Eng- 
lish diplomats  study  French.  Then  El- 
len comes  into  the  picture;  she  is  pred- 
atory in  a  nice  way,  holding  staunchly  to 
the  viewpoint  that  all  men  were  created 
to  be  her  playthings.  One  of  her  catches 
is  a  Commander,  another  is  Milland. 
The  latter  has  never  done  better  work, 
Miss  Drew  plays  her  assignment  with 
assurance  and  the  others — Roland  Cul- 
ver, Jim  Gerald  and  sundry  unpubli- 
cized  English  names — are  good. 

*  IT'S  A  DATE-Universal 

WlEMO  to  Photoplay  Audiences:  Here- 
with top  Hollywood  product  of  month. 

Memo  to  Producer  Joe  -Pasternak: 
This  makes  seven  Deanna  Durbin  hits  in 
a  row.    Can  this  be  genius? 

Memo  to  Deanna  Durbin:  How  do 
you  do  it? 

Memo  to  Kay  Francis:  This  is  what  is 
called  a  comeback  de  luxe. 

.  .  .  and  we  mean  it.  This  is  a  great 
picture.  It  is  full  of  charm,  good  mu- 
sic and  superb  performances.  Deanna 
has  grown  up.  She  plays  the  young 
but  precocious  daughter  of  a  famous 
actress;  both  are  approached  by  a  pro- 
ducer to  star  in  a  play.  To  the  mother, 
Miss  Francis,  the  role  means  the 
triumph  of  her  fading  career.  To 
Deanna  it  means  the  beginning  of 
everything.  There  is  also  a  man, 
Walter  Pidgeon.  Deanna  thinks  she  is 
in  love  with  him,  but  he  is  in  love 
with  her  mother.  The  unraveling  of  this 
mess  is  done  in  the  most  entertaining 
fashion  imaginable.  In  sum,  there  just 
doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  the  matter 
with  this  picture. 

*  STAR  DUST-20th  Century-Fox 

I  HEY  say  that  this  movie  was  taken 
from  a  portion  of  its  star's  own  career. 
Linda  Darnell  gets  a  better  chance  than 
before  to  display  the  charm  which 
captivated  you  in  "Hotel  for  Women," 
and  John  Payne  has  a  role  worthy  of 
his  talents.  Hollywood  stories  have  a 
tendency  to  seem  unreal  and  exagger- 
ated, but  this  one  appears  authentic. 
Linda,  of  course,  plays  a  girl  trying  to 
get  a  break  at  the  studios.  Roland 
Young  is  very  amusing  as  an  ex- 
star  and  Charlotte  (Legs)  Greenwood 
emerges  from  long  obscurity  to  bring 
you  hearty  laughter. 

•k  VIRGINIA  CITY-Warners 

I  HE  Warner  Brothers'  annual  histor- 
ical-western is  out  again,  called  "Vir- 
ginia City"  this  time,  instead  of  "Dodge." 
The  film  is  a  darn  good,  expensive,  ad- 
venture movie,  with  Errol  Flynn  the 
hero  in  the  traditional  manner.  There 
is  a  chase,  an  attack  on  a  wagon  train, 
a  hairbreadth  rescue  by  the  U.  S.  Cav- 
alry; there  is  a  Suhthuhn  gal,  played  by 
Miriam  Hopkins,  who  falls  in  love  with 
Errol,  and  there  is  a  Confederate  cap- 
tain, Randy  Scott.  The  photography  is 
fine.  The  direction  is  capable.  Take  a 
bag  of  peanuts  with  you:  They  just 
seem   to  go   with  this  sort  of   thing. 

FLORIAN— M-G-M 

IT'S  hard  to  find  a  basis  for  any  clear- 
cut   criticism   of   "Florian."     It  has   so 


(Continued  from  page  69) 

many  elements  of  entertainment,  such 
lavish  and  professional  production,  such 
sweep  and  color.  .  .  On  the  other  hand, 
it  is  curiously  mixed  up;  the  story 
starts,  stops;  the  cutting  is  bad,  the  dia- 
logue indifferent.  Florian  is  a  stallion, 
champion  of  the  Lippizans,  Austrian 
animals  bred  for  the  Royal  house. 
Robert  Young  is  his  trainer,  and  is 
in  love  with  a  Duchess,  played  by  Helen 
Gilbert.  The  magnificent  horse's  life 
and  his  influence  on  the  lives  of  people, 
forms  the  theme  of  the  film.  So  long  as 
Florian  is  on  the  screen,  any  audience 
must  be  enchanted.  There  is  a  side  in- 
trigue between  Lee  Bowman,  an  Arch- 
duke, and  Irina  Baronova,  a  ballet 
dancer.  This  is  La  Baronova's  Amer- 
ican debut:  She  is  a  beautiful  dancer. 
Charles  Coburn  is  cast  as  a  philosoph- 
ical veterinarian,  and  Reginald  Owen 
plays  Franz  Josef.  Young  performs 
well,  as  do  the  others — however,  Miss 
Gilbert  seems  to  be  remembering  inces- 
santly that  she  must  act  like  a  Duchess, 
even  in  the  most  emotional  moments. 


•  IT  ALL  CAME  TRUE-Warners 

Photoplay's  March  Movie  Book,  the 
fine  novel  by  Louis  Bromfield,  makes  a 
good  movie.  In  the  beginning  you'll 
think  it's  another  gangster  melodrama, 
but  then  the  pace  picks  up  and  it  all 
ends  on  a  gay  musical  note.  Ann  Sher- 
idan contributes  oomph  and  also  a  good 
performance.  She  is  the  stage-struck 
roomer  at  an  old  and  very  shabby  board- 
inghouse,  run  by  old  and  very  shabby 
women.  Another  roomer,  with  musical 
ambitions,  is  Jeffrey  Lynn.  Into  the 
scene  comes  gangster  Humphrey  Bogart. 
He  knows  something  or  other  about 
Ann  and  Jeffrey  and  buys  sanctuary 
with  his  silence.  The  idea  is  that  the 
boardinghouse  can  be  turned  into  a 
night  club  if  they  all  work  very  hard. 
All  the  performances  are  nicely  turned, 
with  Lynn  looking  particularly  clean- 
cut  beside  the  menacing  Bogart.  How- 
ever depressing  the  piece  gets  in  spots, 
it  is  saved  by  a  recurrent  touch  of 
humor.  ZaSu  Pitts,  Una  O'Connor,  Jes- 
sie Busley  and  others  fill  out  the  cast. 

•  DOUBLE  ALIBI-Universal 

TOR  once  a  film  dealing  with  murder 
and  newshawks  is  not  tiresomely  botch- 
ed. Wayne  Morris,  number  one  suspect, 
poses  as  a  crime  reporter  in  order  to 
hunt  down  who-did-it.  Against  City- 
editor  William  Gargan's  wishes,  Mar- 
garet Lindsay  starts  snooping  around, 
teaming  up  with  Morris.  The  story 
moves  swiftly  and  directly  to  an  un- 
usual terminus.  Gargan  is  well-cast 
but  his  new  mustache  isn't.  Miss  Lind- 
say was  probably  meant  to  benefit  from 
co-starring  with  Morris;  at  least  both 
are  very  good,  which  is  all  that  matters. 
Roscoe  Karns  is  in  there,  and  the  direc- 
tion is  superb.  You'll  have  a  fine  time 
trying  to  dissect  the  plot  and  should 
duly  appreciate  that  it  does  not  insult 
your   intelligence. 

■k  HUMAN  BEAST-Juno  Films 

I  HIS  is  screen  fare  not  designed  for  the 
pleasure  of  six-year-olds;  and  there  will 
be  grownups,  too,  who  will  find  it  too 
grim  for  their  tastes.  There  is  nothing 
to  relieve  the  steadily  mounting  mood 
of  tragedy  in  Director  Jean  Renoir's 
mature  treatment  of  pathological  ten- 
dencies.    A   family    of   drunkards    has 


produced  Jean  Gabin,  who  is  powerless 
to  conquer  an  insane  lust  to  kill.  A 
warped  childhood  gives  the  woman  he 
loves,  Simone  Simon,  no  strength  to  help 
him  overcome  the  curse  of  his  ancestry. 
A  brutal  climax  is  inevitable.  Jean 
Gabin,  superb  French  actor,  creates  a 
powerful  study  of  a  tortured  human 
mind,  while — Hollywood,  please  note 
— Mile.  Simon  proves  that  she  can  act. 
A  third  star  performance  is  given  by 
Ledoux,  the  jealousy-maddened  hus- 
band of  Simone  Simon.  Here  is  stark 
realism  that  will  grip  you  from  the 
opening  scene  to  the  final  reel. 

THE  STARS  LOOK  DOWN-M-G-M-British 

I  HIS  forceful  story,  written  by  A.  J. 
Cronin,  and  produced  in  England,  ex- 
hibits all  the  British  production  nice- 
ties and  faults.  The  photography  out- 
does any  recent  American  efforts;  the 
individual  cast  members  are  fine;  the 
trouble  is  in  the  development  of  plot. 
It  is  not  lucid.  True,  the  subject  mat- 
ter of  this  grim  tale — coal  mines  and 
miners — has  ever  been  packed  with 
confusion;  but  Hollywood  would  have 
given  the  piece  a  fluency  which  would 
have  made  its  import  more  powerful. 
Michael  Redgrave  plays  the  idealistic 
schoolteacher  who  tries  to  combat  all 
the  social  injustice.  A  counter  theme  is 
the  sordid  marriage  of  Redgrave  to 
Margaret  Lockwood.  The  film  con- 
cludes without  heroic  rescues,  moral 
victories,  or  any  promise  of  govern- 
ment action. 

AND  ONE  WAS  BEAUTIFUL-M-G-M 

POSSIBLY  you  read  Alice  Duer  Miller's 
story,  with  the  above  title,  some  months 
ago  and  thought  at  the  time  that  it 
would  make  a  swell  movie.  Well, 
here's  the  movie,  and  it's  pretty  good. 
Laraine  Day,  the  prettiest  newcomer 
in  Hollywood  ("My  Son,  My  Son!") 
plays  the  younger  sister  who  suffers 
and  suffers.  Jean  Muir  surprisingly 
enough  is  cast  as  the  glamour  gal,  who 
lets  playboy  Robert  Cummings  take  a 
prison  rap  for  a  manslaughter  she  her- 
self committed.  Laraine  it  is  who, 
beauty  shining  through  without  benefit 
of  make-up,  sticks  by  Robert  and  works 
for  his  release.  Billie  Burke  is  the 
mother. 

THE  COURAGEOUS  DR.  CHRISTIAN-RKO- 
Radio 

OECOND  in  this  newest  series,  "The 
Courageous  Dr.  Christian"  presents  its 
main  personality,  Jean  Hersholt,  in  the 
role  of  small-town  philanthropist.  He 
tries  for  better  housing  in  the  shanty 
district  and  meets  opposition  from  civic 
leaders.  Undaunted,  he  carries  on,  sup- 
ported by  Dorothy  Lovett,  Robert  Bald- 
win, Tom  Neal  and  others.  The  picture 
obviously  was  prepared  with  attention 
to  detail  and  sincerity. 

VIVA  CISCO  KID— 20th  Century-Fox 

OINCE  the  Cisco  Kid  series  apparently 
has  been  doing  well,  the  producers  are 
relaxing — and  you'll  see  the  results  in 
this  one.  Cesar  Romero,  sideburns  and 
all,  spends  most  of  the  footage  rescuing 
Jean  Rogers,  who's  very  pretty  and  ex- 
tremely good  in  her  role.  She  seems  to 
have  a  lot  of  trouble  with  her  Pa,  Minor 
Watson,  who  isn't  all  he  ought  to  be; 
still,  the  Kid's  honorable  Robin  Hood 
attitude  remains  staunchly  the  same. 


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WRITERS  Attention! 


Have  you  a  story,  script  or  idea  that  you  think 
would  be  good  for  a  movie  scenario?  Major  Holly- 
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Many  an  unknown  writer  has  suddenly  become 
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that  reached  the  proper  parties  in  Hollywood.  An 
unlimited  and  profitable  field.  Write  at  once  for 
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245 


Brief  Reviews 


at  least  three  murders,  and  George  Sanders  in  a 
dual  T..l<-  ihir.ni-i'  a  diamond-smuggler  goes  around 
impri-onating  him).  Hclene  Whitney  is  the  girl 
in  the  case.    [Apr.) 

SEVENTEEN-Paramount 

Tarkington's  famous  story  of  teen-age  love,  with 
all  the  troubles  left  in— tuxedo,  the  horrid  little 
sister  (Norma  Nelson),  etc. —gives  Jackie  Cooper 
an  opportunity  to  strut  his  ^tuff.  Hetty  Field  is  per- 
fect as  the  siren  from  Chicago.  (.May) 

•  SHOP  AROUND  THE  CORNER,  THE  - 

M-G-M 

This  is  a  gem,  packed  with  the  inimitable 
I.ubitsch  touch.  It's  a  simple  story — about  a  boy 
and  girl  (Jimmy  Stewart  and  Margaret  Sullavan) 
who  are  working  in  a  gift  shop  and  find  romance  by 
writing  to  an  unknown  sweetheart  through  a  cor- 
respondence agency.  Of  course  they  discover  they 
are  writing  to  each  other.  Frank  Morgan  is  superb 
in  a  straight  role.  (March) 

•  SIDEWALKS  OF  LONDON-Mayflower-Par- 

amount 

Vivien  Leigh  is  a  Scarlett  O'Hara  character  (to 
Charles  Laughton  this  time)  in  the  story  of  a  girl 
who,  by  ruthless  determination,  succeeds  in  rising 
above  the  lowly  "busking"  (those  London  sidewalk 
entertainers)  profession.  There  are  fine  scenes  be- 
tween Leigh  and  Laughton.  (March) 

•  SLIGHTLY  HONORABLE-Wanger-U.A. 

Murder  and  comedy  all  mixed  up,  this  has  Pat 
O'Brien  as  the  attorney  plotting  the  downfall  of 
political  boss  Edward  Arnold.  When  Arnold's 
sweetheart,   and   then    Pat's   secretary   are   killed, 


(Continued  from  page  8) 


things  look  bad  for  Pat.  You'll  be  mad  about  Ruth 
Terry,  the  little  singer  who  pursues  Pat.  (March) 

SOUTH  OF  THE  BORDER-Republic 

Popular  -inging  cowboy  Gene  Autry  breaks  into 
the  Big  Time  as  a  F'ederal  agent  who  sets  out  to  foil 
a  foreign-inspired  revolution  in  South  America.  It's 
the  best  picture  Gene  has  ever  made.  (Apr.) 

STRANGE  CARGO-M-G-M 

This  weird,  allegorical  preachment  has  to  do  with 
escaping  convicts  in  the  jungles  surrounding  a 
tropical  prison  camp.  A  deglamorized  Joan  Craw- 
ford turns  in  a  superb  dramatic  performance  as  a 
brothel  gal  who  is  kicked  off  the  island.  Clark  Gable 
seems  a  little  embarrassed  with  his  role,  but  Ian 
Hunter  is  praiseworthy  as  a  Christlike  figure  who 
brings  regeneration  to  these  unfortunates.  (May) 

it  SWANEE  RIVER-20th  Century-Fox 

Here's  the  life  of  Stephen  Foster,  song  writer, 
with  Don  Ameche  playing  the  role  of  composer, 
Andrea  Leeds  contributing  to  romance  and  Al 
Jolson  doing  a  grand  minstrel  man.  (March) 

•  SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON-RKO-Radio 

Towne-and- Baker's  first  production  adds  a  new 
opening  theme  to  the  childhood  classic,  with  Thom- 
as Mitchell  packing  up  his  family  (Edna  Best, 
Freddie  Bartholomew,  et  al.)  and  moving  them  out 
of  the  London  of  Napoleonic  days.  But  their  famous 
adventures  on  the  desert  island  on  which  they're 
shipwrecked  are  here  in  lolo.  (Apr.) 

THOU  SHALT  NOT  KILL— Republic 


THREE  CHEERS  FOR  THE  IRISH— Warners 

Thomas  Mitchell  plays  the  blustering  Irish  cop, 
ready  to  fight  at  the  drop  of  a  pin.  His  beat  is  taken 
over  by  a  young  Scotchman,  who  falls  for  one  of 
Casey's  lovely  daughters.  A  good  homey  comedy 
with  plenty  of  laughs  and  a  dig  or  two  at  the  poli- 
ticians Dennis  Morgan  as  the  Scotty,  Priscilla  Lane 
as  the  daughter,  and  Alan  Hale  as  Casey's  right- 
hand  man  take  the  other  acting  honors. 

•  TOO  MANY  HUSBANDS-Columbia 

Jean  Arthur,  Fred  MacMurray  and  Melvyn  Dou- 
glas worry  over  the  problem  of  bigamy  when  Jean 
remarries,  thinking  her  first  husband  has  been 
drowned.  But  the  fun  begins  when  he  returns  and 
Jean  can't  make  up  her  mind  which  she  wants  to 
keep.  Full  of  fairly  suggestive  slap-happy  scenes, 
played  with  flair.  Dorothy  Peterson  is  swell  as  the 
secretary.  (May) 

WOMEN  WITHOUT  NAMES-Paramount 

Plot  revolves  around  a  boy  and  girl  convicted  of  a 
murder  on  circumstantial  evidence.  Robert  Paige 
and  Ellen  Drew  have  top  roles  and  Judith  Barrett's 
a  heavy.  Plenty  of  suspense.  (May) 

*  YOUNG  TOM  EDISON-M-G-M 

A  biographical  film — the  story  of  Thomas  Edison 
during  his  early  youth,  up  to  the  time  he  left  home 
to  become  a  telegraph  operator,  but  with  Mickey 
Rooney  playing  the  role,  the  character  could  have 
been  named  John  Smith,  so  warm,  so  sympathetic 
and  completely  entertaining  is  his  interpretation  of 
the  great  inventor.  Fay  Bainter,  Virginia  Weidler 
and  George  Bancroft  are  excellent.  (May) 


Casts  of  Current  Pictures 


"AND  6NE  WAS  BEAUTIFUL"— M-G-M  — 
Screen  play  by  Harry  Clork.  Based  on  the  story 
by  Alice  Duer  Miller.  Directed  by  Robert  B. 
Sinclair.  Cast:  Ridley  Crane,  Robert  Cummings; 
Kale  Laltimer,  Laraine  Day;  Helen  Latlimer,  Jean 
Muir;  Mrs.  Laltimer,  Billie  Burke;  Gertrude  Hunter, 
Ann  Morriss;  Margaret,  Esther  Dale;  Stephen 
Harridge,  Charles  Waldron;  George  Olcott,  Frank 
Milan;  Joe  Havens,  Rand  Brooks;  Arthur  Prince, 
Paul  Stanton;  Zillah  Torringlon,  Ruth  To"by. 

"BEYOND  TOMORROW"  —  RKO-Radio.  — 

Screen  play  by  Adele  Comandini.  From  an  original 
story  by  Mildred  Cram  and  Adele  Comandini. 
Directed  by  A.  Edward  Sutherland.  Cast:  Michael 
O'Brien,  Charles  Winninger;  James  Houston,  Rich- 
ard Carlson;  Madame  Tanya,  Maria  Ouspenskaya; 
Jean  Lawrence,  Jean  Parker;  Arlene  Terry,  Helen 
Vinson;  Allan  Chadwick,  C.  Aubrey  Smith;  George 
Mellon,  Harry  Carey;  Josef,  Alex  Melesh;  Phil 
Hubert,  Rod  LaRocque;  Officer  Johnson,  J.  An- 
thony Hughes;  Sergeant,  Robert  Homans;  Radio 
Station  Secretary,  Virginia  McMullen;  Jace  Taylor, 
James  Bush;   David  Chadwick,  William   Bakewell. 

"BILL  OF  DIVORCEMENT,  A' —RKO- 
Radio. — Screen  play  by  Dalton  Trumbo.  Based 
on  the  stage  success  of  the  same  name  by  Clemence 
Dane.  Directed  by  John  Farrow.  Cast:  Sydney 
Fairfield,  Maureen  O'Hara;  Hilary  Fairfield, 
Adolphe  Menjou;  Margaret  Fairfield,  Fay  Bainter; 
Gray  Meredith,  Herbert  Marshall;  Hester  Fairfield, 
May  Whitty;  John  Storm,  Patric  Knowles; 


Lauri  Beatty;  Abbie,  Louise  Cabo. 

"BISCUIT  EATER,  THE"— Paramount.— 
Screen  play  by  Stuart  Anthony  and  Lillie  Hayward. 
Based  on  a  story  by  James  Street.  Directed  by 
Stuart  Heisler.  Cast:  Lonnie  McNeil,  Billy  Lee; 
Text,  Cordell  Hickman;  Mrs.  McNeil,  Helene 
Millard;  Harve  McNeil,  Richard  Lane;  Mr.  Ames, 
Lester  Matthews;  1st  and  2nd  Thessalonians, 
Snowflake. 

"BUCK  BENNY  RIDES  AGAIN"— Par- 
amount.— Screen  play  by  William  Morrow  and 
Edmund  Beloin.  Based  on  an  adaptation  by  Zion 
Myers  of  a  story  by  Arthur  Stringer.  Directed  by 
Mark  Sandrich.  Cast:  Buck  Benny,  Jack  Benny; 
Rochester,  Eddie  Anderson;  Joan  Cameron,  Ellen 
Drew;  Phil,  Phil  Harris;  Andy,  Andy  Devine; 
Virginia,  Virginia  Dale;  Peggy,  Lillian  Cornell. 

"COURAGEOUS  DR.  CHRISTIAN,  THE"— 
RKO-Radio. — Original  screen  play  by  Ring  Lard- 
ner,  Jr.  and  Ian  McLellan  Hunter.  Directed  by 
Bernard  Vorhaus.  Cast:  Dr.  Paul  Christian,  Jean 
Hersholt;  Judy  Price,  Dorothy  Lovett;  Roy  Davis, 
Robert  Baldwin;  Dave  Williams,  Tom  Neal;  Mrs. 
Hastings,  Maude  Eburne;  Mrs.  Stewart,  Vera 
Lewis;  Harry  Johnson,  George  Meader;  Jack 
Williams,  Bobby  Larson;  Ruth  Williams,  Bobette 
Bentley;  Sam,  Reginald  Barlow;  Martha,  Jac- 
queline de  River;  Tommy  Wood,  Edmund  Glover. 

"DARK  COMMAND,  THE"— Republic— 
Screen  play  by  Grover  Jones,  Lionel  Houser  and  F. 
Hugh  Herbert.  Based  on  the  novel  by  W.  R. 
Burnett.  Directed  by  Raoul  Walsh.  Cast:  Mary 
Mc(  l<md,  Claire  Trevor;  Bob  Selon,  John  Wayne; 
William  Canlrell,  Walter  Pidgeon;  Fletch  McCloud, 
Roy  Rogers;  Doc  Crunch,  George  Hayes;  Angus 
M,i  laud,  Porter  Hall;  Mrs.  Canlrell,  Marjorie 
Main;  Buckner,  Raymond  Walburn;  Bushropp, 
Joseph  Sawyer;  Mrs.  Hale,  Helen  MacKellar;  Dave, 
J.  Farrell  MacDonald;  Hale,  Trevor  Bardette. 

"DOCTOR  TAKES  A  WIFE,  THE"  — 
Columbia. — Screen  play  by  George  Seaton  and 
Ken  Englund.  From  the  story  by  Aleen  Leslie. 
Directed  by  Alexander  Hall.  Cast:  June  Cameron, 
Loretta  Young;  Dr.  Timothy  Sterling,  Ray  Milland, 
John  Pierce,  Reginald  Gardiner;  Marilyn  Thomas, 
Gail  Patrick;  Dr.  Lionel  Sterling,  Edmund  Gwenn; 


Slapcovilch,  Frank  Sully;  O'Brien,  Gordon  Jones; 
Jean  Rovere,  Georges  Metaxa;  Dr.  Slreeler,  Charles 
Halton;  Dr.  Neilson,  Joseph  Eggenton;  Dean 
Lawlon,  Paul  McAllister;  Johnson,  Chester  Clute; 
Charlie,  Hal  K.  Dawson;  Burkhardl,  Edward  Van 
Sloan. 

"DOUBLE  ALIBI" — Universal.— Screen  play 
by  Harold  Buchman  and  Roy  Chanslor.  Based  on 
a  novel  by  Frederick  P.  Davis.  Directed  by  Phil 
Rosen.  Cast:  Stephen  Wayne,  Wayne  Morris;  Sue 
Carey,  Margaret  Lindsay;  Walter .Gifford,  William 
Gargan;  Jerry  Jenkins,  Roscoe  Karns;  Chick 
Lester,  Robert  Emmett  Keane;  Captain  Orr, 
James  Burke;  Dan  Kraley,  William  Pawley;  In- 
spector Early,  Cliff  Clark;  Lennie  Nolan,  Frank 
Mitchell. 

"FLORIAN"— M-G-M.— Screen  play  by  Noel 
Langley,  Geza  Herczeg  and  James  Kevin  McGuin- 
ness.  Based  on  the  novel  "Florian"  by  Felix 
Salten.  Directed  by  Edwin  L.  Marin.  Cast:  Anton, 
Robert  Young;  Diana,  Helen  Gilbert;  Hofer, 
Charles  Coburn;  Oliver,  Lee  Bowman;  Emperor 
Franz  Josef,  Reginald  Owen;  Countess,  Lucile 
Watson;  Trina,  Irina  Baronova;  Victor,  Rand 
Brooks;  Max,  Soke  Sakall;  Archduke  Franz  Ferd- 
inand, William  B.  Davidson;  Borelli,  George  Lloyd; 
Banlry,  George  Irving;  Editor,  Charles  Judels; 
Auctioneer,  Dick  Elliott;  Ernst,  Adrian  Morris; 
Ring  Master,  Jack  Joyce. 

"FORTY  LITTLE  MOTHERS"— M-G-M.— 
Screen  play  by  Dorothy  Yost  and  Ernest  Pagano. 
Based  on  a  story  by  Jean  Guitton.  Directed  by 
Busby  Berkeley.  Cast:  Gilbert  Jordan  Thompson, 
Eddie  Cantor;  Madame  Granville,  Judith  Anderson; 
Marian  Edwards,  Rita  Johnson;  Doris,  Bonita 
Granville;  Judge  Joseph  M.  Williams,  Ralph 
Morgan;  Marcia,  Diana  Lewis;  Mademoiselle  Cliche, 
Nydia  Westman;  Eleanor,  Margaret  Early;  Janetle, 
Martha  O'DriscolI;  Lois,  Charlotte  Munier;  Betty, 
Louise  Seidel;   "Chum,"   Baby  Quintanilla. 

"FRENCH  WITHOUT  TEARS"  —  Par- 
amount.— Screen  play  by  A.  DeGrunwald  and  Ian 
Dalrymple.  From  the  stage  play  by  Terence  Ratti- 
gan.  Directed  by  Anthony  Asquith.  Cast:  Alan, 
Ray  Milland;  Diana,  Ellen  Drew;  Jacqueline, 
Janine  Darcey;  Chris,  David  Tree;  The  Com- 
mander, Roland  Culver;  Brian,  Guy  Middleton; 
Kenneth,  Kenneth  Morgan;  Marianne,  Margaret 
Yarde;  Chi-Chi,  Tony  Gable;  Professor  Maingot, 
Jim  Gerald. 

"HUMAN  BEAST"— Juno  Films.— Based  on 
the  novel  "La  Bete  Humaine"  by  Emile  Zola. 
Directed  by  Jean  Renoir.  Cast:  Jacques  Lantier, 
Jean  Gabin;  Severine,  Simone  Simon;  Roubaud, 
Ledoux;  Pecqueux,  Carette;  Flore,  Blanchette 
Brunoy;  Dauvergne,  Gerard  Landry;  Philomene, 
Jenny  Helia;  Mme.  Misard,  Germaine  Clasis; 
Grandmorin,  Berlioz;  Cabuche,  Jean  Renoir. 

"IRENE"— RKO-Radio.— Screen  play  by  Alice 
Duer  Miller.  From  the  musical  comedy,  "Irene." 
Based  on  the  book  by  James  H.  Montgomery. 
Directed  by  Herbert  Wilcox.  Cast:  Irene  O'Dare, 
Anna  Neagle;  Don  Marshall,  Ray  Milland;  Mr. 
Smith,  Roland  Young;  Bob  Vincent,  Alan  Marshal; 
Granny  O'Dare,  May  Robson;  Mrs.  Vincent,  Billie 
Burke;  Betherton,  Arthur  Treacher;  Eleanor  Worth, 
Marsha  Hunt;  Jane,  Isabel  Jewell;  Lillian,  Doris 
Nolan;  Freddie,  Stuart  Robertson;  Princess  Min- 
elli,  Ethel  Griffies. 

"IT  ALL  CAME  TRUE"— Warners.— Screen 
play  by  Michael  Fessier  and  Lawrence  Kimble. 
From  the  novel  by  Louis  Bromfield.  Directed  by 
Lewis  Seiler.  Cast:  Sarah  Jane  Ryan,  Ann  Sheridan; 
Tommy  Taylor,  Jeffrey  Lynn;  Grasselli  (Chips) 
Maguire,  Humphrey  Bogart;  Miss  Flint,  ZaSu 
Pitts;  Maggie  Ryan,  Una  O'Connor;  Mrs.  Taylor, 


Jessie  Busley;  Mr.  Roberts,  John  Litel;  Rene  Sal- 
mon, Grant  Mitchell;  The  Great  Boldini,  Felix 
Bressart;  Henri  Pepi  de  Bordeaux,  Charles  Judels; 
Mr.  Van  Diver,  Brandon  Tynan;  Mr.  Pendergast, 
Howard  Hickman;  Monks,  Herbert  Vigran. 

"IT'S  A  DATE"— Universal.— Screen  play  by 
Norman  Krasna.  Directed  by  William  Seiter.  Cast: 
Pamela  Drake,  Deanna  Durbin;  Georgia  Drake,  Kay 
Francis;  John  Arlen,  Walter  Pidgeon;  The  Gover- 
nor, Eugene  Pallette;  Freddie  Miller,  Lewis 
Howard;  Sidney  Simpson,  Samuel  S.  Hinds;  Sara, 
Cecilia  Loftus;  Oscar,  Fritz  Feld;  Carl  Ober,  S.  Z. 
Sakall. 

"STAR  DUST" — 20th  Century-Fox. — Screen 
play  by  Robert  Ellis  and  Helen  Logan.  Based  on  a 
story  by  Jesse  Malo,  Kenneth  Earl  and  Ivan 
Kahn.  Directed  by  Walter  Lang.  Cast:  Carolyn 
Sayres,  Linda  Darnell;  Bud  Borden,  John  Payne; 
Thomas  Brooke,  Roland  Young;  Lola  Langdon, 
Charlotte  Greenwood;  Dane  Wharton,  William 
Gargan;  June  Lawrence,  Mary  Beth  Hughes;  Mary 
Andrews,  Mary  Healy;  Sam  Wellman,  Donald 
Meek;  Miss  Parker,  Jessie  Ralph;  Napoleon, 
Walter  Kingsford;  Ronnie,  George  Montgomery; 
Bell  Boy,  Robert  Lowery;  Wellman's  Assistant, 
Hal  K.  Dawson;  Maid,  Jody  Gilbert;  Announcer, 
Gary  Breckner;  Lab  Man,  Paul  Hurst;  Clerk, 
Irving  Bacon;  Cameraman,  Billy  Wayne;  Secretary, 
Fern  Emmett;  Girl,  Lynne  Roberts. 

*"TIL  WE  MEET  AGAIN"— Warners.— 
Screen  play  by  Warren  Duff.  From  an  original 
story  by  Robert  Lord.  Directed  by  Edmund 
Goulding.  Cast:  Joan  Ames,  Merle  Oberon;  Don 
Hardesty,  George  Brent;  Steve  Burke,  Pat  O'Brien; 
Bonny  Coburn,  Geraldine  Fitzgerald;  Countess 
Capricci,  Binnie  Barnes;  Achilles,  Frank  McHugh; 
Sir  Harold,  Eric  Blore;  Jimmy  Coburn,  George 
Reeves;  Herb  McGillis,  Victor  Kilian;  Captain 
Stoddard,  Cy  Kendall;  Mrs.  Hester,  Marjorie 
Gateson;  Dr.  Cameron,  Henry  O'Neill;  Assistant 
Purser,  Frank  Wilcox;  Tommy,  Herbert  Anderson; 
Bartender,  Frank  Orth;  Policeman,  Chester  Gan; 
Junior  Officer,  Jack  Mower;  Louise,  Doris  Lloyd; 
Boat  Bartender,  William  Halligan;  Juan's  Friends, 
Maris  Wrixon.  Jane  Gilbert  and  DeWolf  Hopper; 
Sailor,  John  Ridgely. 

"TWO  GIRLS  ON  BROADWAY"— M-G-M. 
— Screen  play  by  Joseph  Fields  and  Jerome 
Chodorov.  Based  on  a  story  by  Edmund  Goulding. 
Directed  by  S.  Sylvan  Simon.  Cast:  Pal  Mahoney, 
Lana  Turner;  Molly  Mahoney,  Joan  Blondeli; 
Eddie  Kerns,  George  Murphy;  "Chat"  Chalsworth, 
Kent  Taylor;  Buddy  Bartell,  Richard  Lane;  Jed 
Marlowe,  Wallace  Ford;  Ho,  Otto  Hahn;  Judge, 
Lloyd  Corrigan;  Announcer,  Don  Wilson;  Bar- 
tell's  Assistant,  Charles  Wagonheim. 

"VIRGINIA  CITY"  —  Warners.  —  Original 
screen  play  by  Robert  Buckner.  Directed  by 
Michael  Curtiz.  Cast:  Kerry  Bradord,  Errol  Flynn; 
Julia  Hayne,  Miriam  Hopkins;  Vance  Irby, 
Randolph  Scott;  John  Murrcll,  Humphrey  Bogart; 
Mr.  Upjohn,  Frank  McHugh;  Olaf  Swenson,  Alan 
Hale;  Marblehead,  Guinn  Williams;  Marshall,  John 
Litel;  Major  Drewery,  Douglas  Dumbrille;  Cam- 
eron, Moroni  Olsen;  Armislead,  Russell  Hicks; 
Cobby,  Dickie  Jones;  Union  Soldier,  Frank  Wilcox; 
Gaylord,  Russell  Simpson;  Abraham  Lincoln,  Victor 
Kilian;  Jefferson  Davis,  Charles  Middleton. 

"VIVA  CISCO  KID"— 20th  Century-Fox.— 
Screen  play  by  Samuel  G.  Engel  and  Hal  Long. 
Suggested  by  the  character  "The  Cisco  Kid" 
created  by  O.  Henry.  Directed  by  Norman  Foster. 
Cast:  Cisco  Kid,  Cesar  Romero;  Joan  Allen,  Jean 
Rogers;  Gordito,  Chris-Pin  Martin;  Jesse  Allen, 
Minor  Watson;  Boss,  Stanley  Fields;  Moses,  Nigel 
de  Brulier;  Gunther,  Harold  Goodwin;  Proprietor, 
Francis  Ford;  Pancho,  Charles  Judels. 

PHOTOPLAY 


AMAZING  NEW  SAMSONITE  LUGGAGE 


YET,  WITH  ALL  ITS  BEAUTY  AND  QUALITY,  SAMSONITE 
IS  SENSATIONALLY  LOW  PRICED  AT  ONLY  *6  to  M5! 

Now,  you  can  travel  with  luggage  that's  the  choice  of  Holly- 
wood stars!  And  no  wonder,  for  here's  gorgeous  regal  beauty 
and  style  that  makes  Samsonite  a  "fashion-first"!  Take  your 
choice  of  the  3  new  captivating  colors.  Distinguished  Ivory 
.  .  .  rich  Brown  .  .  .  and  spirited  Blue.  They  fairly  breathe 
style.  Yes,  and  their  sparkling  beauty  will  stay  new-looking 
because  Samsonite  is  a  phenomenal  new  kind  of  luggage 
covering  that's  practically  scuff-proof  .  .  .  stands  the  strain 
and  terrific  abuse  of  auto  travel  to  an  extraordinary  degree! 
Eye-catching,  smart  new  Streamlite  shape  is  specially  de- 
signed to  fit  the  luggage  compartment  of  your  auto  .  .  . 
sturdily  constructed  to  last  for  years.  Just  imagine  such  de- 
uxe  quality  at  these  amazing  low  prices.  See  Samsonite  today ! 

THRILLING  NEW  COLORS! 


A  complete  matched  luggage  set  available 
color.  Note  the  rich  mottled  effect. 

GIFT  HIT  OF  THE  YEAR 

for  June  Brides  and  Graduates 

Smart  beautiful  Samsonite  luggage  is  the 
most  practical  gift  for  both  giving  and  get- 
ting! For  the  June  bride  and  graduate  . 
for  birthdays  and  anniversaries.  Buy 
Samsonite  at  the  better  dealers  everywhere! 


Dust-proof  Tongue  and  GrooveCon- 
struction!  Here's  dramatic  prooi  how 
this  sturdy  light-weight 
construction  insures  seal- 
ed, perfect  fit,  makes 
nite  practically 
dust,  moisture,  and  ver- 
min proof.  By  placing  a 
sheet  of  paper  between  the  opened 
then  dosing,  you 
can  easily  see  for  yourself  the  perfect 
fit  you  get  with  every  piece  of  Samsonite 
luggage  you  buy. 


SAMSONITE  32-INCH  WARDROBE  SK 

Has  the   carrying   capacity   of  a   small 
trunk   with   convenience  and   appearance  of 
smart  hand  luggage.  Keeps  clothes  on  hangers 
neat   and   pressed.    Matches  other  pieces  on 
this  page.  In  choice  of  3  colors. 


MEN'S  21-INCH  OVERNIGHT  CASE  .  .     SA 

Ideal  for  short   trips  .  .  .  indispensable   for 
supplementing  larger  luggage  for  extended  travel. 
Convenient  pocket  and  straps  for  easy  packing. 
This  smart  Samsonite  case  in  three  colors. 


SAMSON  LUGGAGE 


II     ;|   /*      I  r'll    J   'f  y°ur  J^alcr  isn't  supplied!  We  pay  shipping  anywhere  in  the  U.  S.  A.  Specify 

/fluff    xJiQGrS    §11160    cxaa  models  and  colors,  enclose  check  or  money  order.  Satisfaction  guaranteed. 

■*■*■■■    vimvw   iiiivw    sHWAYDERBROTHJ  R.S,Inc.,Dept.H-263,Denver,Colorado;Detroit.Michigan. 


Just  make  your  next  pack  Chesterfields,  that's  all,  and 
as  quick  as  you  can  light  up,  you'll  learn  the  meaning  of  real 
mildness  .  .  .  and  you  will  learn  this  too,  Chesterfields  are 
cooler  and  definitely  better -tasting.  You  get  all  of  the  right 
answers  to  your  smoking  pleasure  with  Chesterfields  .  .  .  the 
busiest  cigarette  in  America. 


Copyright  1940,  LIGGETT  &  Myers  Tobacco  Co 


THEY  SATISFY